Page 9 of SINS & Riley
Yes, I took a test. Many, many tests. But considering my history with hair dye—and my disastrous tenth-grade green-and-calico locks—I wouldn’t put it past myself to have fucked every single one of them up.
I need a second opinion. From an actual professional.
“Fill this out.” Nurse Peroxide taps the clipboard in my hands.
My gaze darts down the form. Name, address, insurance.
Can’t give it, don’t know it, and sure as hell don’t have it.
Abort! Abort!
Somehow, through the pulse hammering against my brain, a voice breaks through.
Dante’s.
All hard edges and broody impatience, reminding me how he tried to knock some sense into, as he put it, my “stubborn-ass skull.”
Well, screw it. Time to weaponize that stubborn streak.
Calmly, I plaster on a smile and flutter my lashes, voice smooth and innocent. “Sure thing.” My gaze sweeps the lobby dramatically, chewing my lip. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She taps bright neon-pink nails impatiently against the passive-aggressive sign next to her desk.
No Public Restrooms
“I’m filling out the form.”
“You’re not a client yet.”
My Scottish, take-no-shit DNA flares to life. Fuck playing Mr. Nice Guy.
I sway, pressing my hand to my forehead. “I feel faint.”
The nurse arches a skeptical, perfectly penciled brow. “Nice try. I’m not falling for that.”
I hunch over, moaning like I’m gonna hurl. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“What?”
“Oh, and I’m guessing your janitor swings by once a week, tops. So when they’re not around, you’re the janitor.”
When she doesn’t budge, I add, “Ever seen projectile vomit? It’s like abstract art.”
She calls my bluff. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I clutch harder. “I had a gas-station burrito for lunch.”
Her face blanches, clearly picturing the horror of regurgitated bean-and-cheese sludge splattered across every immaculate inch.
That’s right, lady. I’ve been imprisoned by a Russian butcher, might be carrying a dead mob king’s heir, and I’m strapped to a million-dollar geo-tag.
Do not fuck with me.
“Down the hall,” she grinds out. “Last door on the left.”
I murmur a weak, mockingly grateful, “Thank you.”
I storm down the hall, flying past the bathroom and the abandoned exam rooms—all six of them. Yes, clearly, the doctor couldn’t spare ten minutes from his packed schedule.
