Page 29 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

I dug through his clothes, finally settling on a pair of gray sweat shorts with a drawstring waist and a navy blue sweatshirt and tank top. The sweatshirt wasn’t needed now, but I really didn’t want to dig through all of his belongings again. As it was, I couldn’t help lifting them to my nose and taking a long sniff. They smelled of generic detergent but beyond that, I could still catch a hint of that woodsmoke and forest scent of his. I was tempted to curl up with his clothes on the bed and cuddle them close like a giant-sized security blanket, but that was the last way I wanted him to find me.

If he even came back. But if he did, at least I would be presentable.

I carried the clothes into the utilitarian bathroom and checked out the shower more closely than I had while doing my business. I was pleasantly surprised that the shower was indeed bigger than the one in Ever’s apartment. Inside it, he had blue and green bottles of combo body wash and shampoo that matched his scents. I’d just use those. They couldn’t be any worse than my current straw-like hair, still crinkly with yesterday’s products.

A quick glance in the mirror revealed my shiner was a bit bigger than I’d thought. Ever would think I’d gotten mugged.

Ever. I needed my phone. I needed a shower.

Personal vanity won out. I slipped into the stall, letting out a low moan as the prickles of hot water hit my scalp, quickly followed by a douse from Oz’s outdoorsy body wash combo. I soaped and shampooed quickly, hitting all the important spots, my ears trained outside the room for any sound of him returning. Any telltale squeaks or screeches from that noisy screen door opening—

And then came that creak. Hurriedly, I shut off the water and realized I didn’t have a towel handy. Who didn’t keep towels by the shower?

A man not expecting company who lived as he pleased.

I grabbed for the clothes I’d stacked on the sink, dragging on the sweat shorts and tank. They were huge, as I’d expected, so I tightened the drawstring waistband as much as possible and did a quick knot along my ribcage with the tails of the tank. My hair fell in my face so I tied it up in a quick knot with the band on my wrist. I didn’t look at my face again. More than anything, I wished I could hide the evidence of what had happened, even though my cheek was currently throbbing. But I had been the one who’d climbed in bed with him. I’d been the one willing to do anything to wake him up.

I was the one who’d tagged along on a trip not meant for me. And I’d do it again.

Taking a deep breath, I crossed the bathroom, stepped into the hallway, and stumbled to a stop. A thin, lanky man stood in the living room, but it wasn’t Oz—and when he turned to face me, I glimpsed the silvery sheen of the knife he gripped.

I didn’t think. Didn’t make a sound.

Whirling around, I lurched back into the bathroom to slam the door shut, but I wasn’t fast enough. The guy was there before I could get it closed, sliding the hand with the knife through the gap in the door. I put all my strength into closing it, but I couldn’t combat his strength. Too many hours in dance classes, not enough in strength training.

His arm swung out as he wedged the door open, and the knife jaggedly sliced down my arm.

I cried out in shock and surprise. And terror. So much terror as my blood dripped down my arm and onto Oz’s cracked blue and white Mediterranean tiled floor.

He was going to be mad. I hadn’t even been invited, and now I was bleeding all over his floor…

The roar outside the door had me stumbling backward. I bumped my hip hard on the corner of the sink, but the pain didn’t stop me from reaching for the small bucket beside the faucet that held a fancy toothbrush, toothpaste, and a washcloth. I couldn’t make sense of the commotion outside until Oz’s shout spurred me to move.

&n

bsp; I yanked the door open with only my makeshift weapon in hand. The two men were a blur of fists and legs, but Oz was clearly on top. He hit the intruder again and again, and my head reeled at the blood pouring out of the other man’s mouth.

Somehow I marshaled the forces to run past them—practically leaping over them—to grab the knife that had slid across the hardwood floor. As I turned back to them with the weapon outstretched, the other man managed to scramble up and run for the still wide open door, leaving a few drops of blood in his wake.

He didn’t look back, and Oz didn’t give chase. He was too busy staring at me holding a knife and bleeding on my bare feet.

“Oh, baby.” His voice was a rumble of emotion as he picked me up off my feet and cradled me against him. I might as well have been weightless for all the effort he’d shown in lifting me. His thundering heartbeat beat clear through the walls of my chest and restarted my own.

“You’re hurt.” He cupped my sore cheek for a moment before he gently pried the knife out of my grip and tossed it onto the couch. It stuck straight up, handle first, between the cushions, which struck me as strangely funny.

And now I was bleeding on his gray thermal shirt.

“Sorry,” I gasped, pushing against him until he let me go.

He shifted toward the small dining table where a large paper grocery bag was tipped on its side, with a package of cold cuts and a pint of ice cream peeking out. My stomach grumbled, but neither of us acknowledged the sound while he grabbed a sheaf of napkins and pressed them to the wound. He kept the pressure steady, his brown eyes searching mine.

For what, I didn’t know. I was still dizzy and probably in shock and I really wanted that ice cream, even without knowing what flavor it was. I didn’t care. I’d sit down and eat the whole thing.

“Your cheek,” he murmured, tipping his head down until our foreheads touched.

In my head, I wanted to question his priorities. I’d been stabbed. I was bleeding. And the dude was worried about a pesky bruise?

That hurt like a bitch, I acknowledged. Just like the shallow slice in my arm. I was now the walking wounded on multiple levels.

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