Page 78 of Beautiful Revenge
“I’ve got to go, Chrissie. If I don’t die from embarrassment, I’ll call you back. I need an update on my dad.”
“And I need to hear the rest about the wall sex—” she starts.
I don’t let her finish and hang up.
Here I am yammering on to my friend about my sex life and someone was shot.
Devon narrows his eyes and takes a step into the office. “How are you feeling?”
“Horrible,” I spit. “I’m hallucinating. I can’t be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth.”
The lawman wears more than a smirk. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his handsome face. “From what it sounds like, Donnelly is totally responsible for what just came out of your mouth.”
“For fuck’s sake, Dean, is that necessary? She’s had a rough week.” Devon stalks around the desk, swivels the perfect leather chair to face him, and captures my chin to tip my face to his. “What hurts worse, where the tennis ball struck or where you hit the ground?”
“Everything hurts,” I tell him the truth. “My skull, everything in it, and my pride.”
The stallion steps toward the desk and plops his gun and badge between us before falling into a chair unceremoniously. “Dean Moretti, Police Chief, carpenter, and Little League Director of this whopping metropolis we call Winslet.”
I narrow my eyes, because my head hurts and I don’t feel bad for my lack of manners. “Impressive. I’ll call you Mr. Bigshot.”
“Wait ‘til that gets around.” The EMT joins our group. He drops his big orange bag on the floor and unzips it. “For what it’s worth, I’ll never call you anything other than Mr. Bigshot from here on out.”
Dean shrugs like a mild spring breeze is more bothersome to him than my lame attempt at deflection.
“I’m Payne Deacon. I’m a volunteer firefighter and medic. When bullets aren’t flying ... well, I’ve got too many logs in the fire to get into that.” Payne pulls a tiny flashlight from his huge bag. “Devon said you hit your head. Are you injured anywhere else?”
I decide not to mention my pride again so we can get this over with. “No. I’m fine. And my head will be too. Give me a couple of aspirin—I’ll be good to go.”
“That would be a big, fat no, unless you want a brain bleed,” he says matter of fact. He looks up at Devon and orders, “Acetaminophen—that’s it.”
“Got it,” Devon answers, as if I’m not able to remember these details myself.
Payne flashes the light quickly in one eye, then the other, then he repeats the process. He stands up straight and crosses his muscled arms causing his T-shirt to tighten over his biceps. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. You ready?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “It depends. Are they SAT-type questions or more like what’s my favorite pizza?”
His lips tip up on the side. “What’s your name?”
Easy. “Harlow Madison.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“Are you nauseated?”
“No.”
“Are your ears ringing?”
“No.”
“Are you tired?”
I roll my eyes. “Exhausted.”
He frowns. “But are you drowsy?”
