Page 84 of Concealed

I’m fighting my way to my feet, ready to argue. Now that I know I’m okay and don’t have bullet fragments floating around inside me, there isn’t any time to waste.

Grant holds me down when I get to a sitting position. I give him my best scowl, but it doesn’t work to make him release me, and I’m too weak and exhausted to push his hand away.

“Harrison. Listen to me.”

I stop struggling and let out a loud sigh because I know damn well where this conversation is going.

I don’t want any part of it.

“Wang Yong can’t know you’re okay just yet,” Grant explains. “We’ll use you as leverage to get more information out of him. He knows well enough what happens to cop killers and will be extra cooperative.”

“In that case, my deepest apologies that I survived. You could always shoot me again, make sure it sticks, and then pretend he did it.”

Grant chuckles, and I can’t help but smile through the pain. Only cops understand our specific brand of dark humor.

But the boss is still benching me whether I like it or not.

And I don’t like it.

Not one little bit.

After getting checked out by the paramedics, Grant starts to drive us back to the station. I call Rebecca instead of defaulting to our usual texting. Tonight demands breaking standard protocol.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m going to be later than I thought,” I explain when she answers. “We’ll have to start our day together tomorrow a bit later than planned.”

“That’s okay,” she says, but her voice is shaking. “What’s up?”

“What’s wrong?” I didn’t even look at the time, and catching sight of it on the dashboard has me cursing. “I’m sorry. Again. I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep. I’m really glad to hear your voice.”

“I got shot and–”

“Excuse me? What? You gotwhat?” She’s shouting so loud, that I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

“No, babe, it’s okay, I’m fine. The bullet didn’t go through my vest.”

But she’s still crying, and even though I hate to hear it, I’m also secretly pleased that she cares about me so much.

We aren’t friends.

We aren’t roommates.

And it’s about damn time that I get this girl on lock.

“Fuck,” she says.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard that word from her pretty mouth, and I bark out a laugh.

“Are you really okay?” she demands. “You’re sure? When will you be home?”

For a second, I imagine that I’m going home to her as my girlfriend and a woman who is choosing to live with me rather than someone on the run without other viable options.

And it feels good.

Really good.

Need to make it happen, stat.

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