Page 30 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

“Not gonna steal any more trucks,” I muttered, and he shocked the hell out of me by laughing.

Until he drew back, and I glimpsed a sheen to his eyes that froze me straight to the core.

“Oz, don’t. I’m fine. I handled myself.” I frowned down at my arm. “All right, not well. I need more strength classes. I hate the stupid machines, but I’ll use them. But I wouldn’t have stopped fighting. I would have hit him with the pail.”

“What pail?”

I frowned again. “The one in the bathroom. Think I dropped it when I saw you two rolling on the floor and you pounding the shit out of him. You probably broke half his bones.”

“Not nearly enough,” he growled, removing the napkin and cursing at the amount of blood—my blood—staining the white material.

Even in my woozy state, I could tell it was slowing down. Finally.

“We should get you to the hospital.”

“I don’t need a hospital.”

“Daisy—”

“Don’t ‘Daisy’ me. I’ve done almost as bad to myself on a hot curling iron. I mean, that’s a burn, but whatever. We should call the police. Call someone.”

“We’re going to do both. I need to tell Lila what happened here.”

“What? Why? She’s going to think we’re—that something is up, us being out here alone.”

The look he gave me was two parts annoyed and one part frustrated. “What she thinks is irrelevant. You were stabbed. And you also have a nice shiner from some asshole clocking you.”

“Wanna talk about irrelevant? That definitely qualifies. It was an accident. Completely. You know it. I know it. And you brought me sandwich fixings and ice cream, and I could probably marry you. So, don’t be a dick about it, all right?”

His lips twitched and the pressure on my arm faded as he gently turned it toward the sunshine streaming in the window. Already the bleeding was down to a trickle. “You might need stitches. You need your arm.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I’ll be okay. If I start to get gangrene, I’ll make you drive me to the ER, okay?”

“You aren’t funny.”

“Not trying to be. Just we need to get the cops out here and call Lila, I guess.” I made a face. “If you insist. I gotta call my sister too. Is my phone—where’s my purse?”

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the couch. “I brought it in last night, but you can’t use it in here.”

“What? Why?”

“No service. I have a satellite phone for emergencies.” He tugged it out of his jeans. Before I could take the phone, he pulled it back. “Let’s get a bandage on you first. I have a first aid kit.”

I nodded. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do it.” I glanced back over my shoulder at the groceries. “Can we put that stuff away first? If that ice cream melts, someone may get hurt.”

Again, his lips twitched, a minor miracle considering the events of the day so far. He grabbed the bag and motioned ahead of him to the kitchen. “Go on in and I’ll fix you up quick after I take care of these.”

His idea of a quick dressing was far different than mine. He washed the cut with warm water and soap for about ten minutes, or so it felt like. Then came the round of antibacterial cream and the actual bandage application. When that wasn’t adequate to his liking, he removed it and put another on before nodding in satisfaction and finally producing his phone—once he’d called the cops and they were on their way.

“Keep it brief,” he instructed before leaving me alone in the tiny kitchen. Not that his leaving offered any privacy. The entire cabin was the size of a large box.

“Don’t go in the bathroom yet,” I called out. “I made a mess.”

Then it occurred to me he’d likely gotten the first aid kit from there and shook my head. Someday I’d replace the brain cells I’d lost on his tile floor. Maybe.

Quickly, I called my sister’s number. She answered on the second ring.

“Ever, it’s me.”

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