There was smear of blood on Ink’s arm. He’d washed his hands but he hadn’t done a very good job, hadn’t washed high enough to reach all the evidence of his “operation.”
“Great. Thanks,” L.J. said drily. “So…will you untie me?”
Ink stared at him for so long, L.J. was afraid he’d refuse. But then he grinned and shrugged and got a knife that was still stained with blood to cut the strips of sheet anchoring his hands to two different objects that wouldn’t budge. When he sat up and rubbed his wrists, L.J. saw that Ink had used the wooden captain’s chairs, one on each side of his head, which shouldn’t have been all that heavy. He was just weak. Weak and sick and confused.
“How do you feel?” Ink asked again.
“Okay, I guess.” L.J.’s hand went to his head as if that might help sort out his thoughts. “What’d…you give me?”
“The last of my pills. That’s friendship for you, huh?”
Friendship? L.J. didn’t even want to be here. He would’ve left if he could have. Ink was crazier than anyone L.J. had ever met. “What were they?”
“Maxidone. Or so I was told.”
“Which is?”
Ink tossed the knife onto the table. “Who knows? And who the hell cares? They work, don’t they?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t feel any pain; they must’ve done their job. Ink had obviously taken some, too—more than usual, because he was in a better mood than he’d been in so far. Odd, considering their situation had fallen to shit. “And you got them from…where again?”
“Quit being stupid, huh? I got ’em from Wiley Coyote, and you know that because you were there. Jeez,” he added with a chuckle.
Jeez? Ink was high, all right. He’d probably smoked the joint that’d been on the coffee table, too. Or mixed drugs and alcohol.
“You remember Wiley, don’t you?”
Dimly, L.J. recalled The Crew member who’d helped them get away from the prison and provided Ink with a container of tablets for his back. “Yeah.”
“Time to get you off this table.” Ink motioned for him to get up. “I’ll take you to the bed. You need to rest.”
L.J. had no idea how he’d walk from point A to point B. When he slid off the table, he had to bend over and take several deep breaths just to keep from throwing up or falling over. “Yeah, bed,” he said when he could finally straighten.
Ink supported his weight as they made their way slowly up the stairs; Ink even helped him lie down and covered him with blankets. But the sickness L.J. had felt a few minutes earlier came back, worse than ever, and kept him from falling asleep.
Was he having an allergic reaction to Ink’s pills?
He was about to call out, let Ink know something serious had to be wrong, when he began to doubt everything Ink had told him. Maybe it wasn’t an allergic reaction. Maybe he’d lost track of time and Ink had kept him shut up in this cabin for days. It could be an infection…?.
He racked his brain to determine whether or not that could be possible. But due to whatever drug he’d been given, he couldn’t arrange his thoughts, had no concept of time. Had he been tied to the table just for a few hours? Or had he been there for several days?
The last thing he remembered was getting out of the truck…?.
Rolling gingerly to one side, he tried to feel his lower back, which ached terribly. Was it from the hardness of the dining room table? Or had Ink stolen his kidney?
He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t reach all the way around without tearing open the wound on his shoulder.
“Ink?” he called. But it was a halfhearted, feeble effort to rouse him. One Ink didn’t hear.
A second later the front door slammed and the truck’s engine roared to life.
It should’ve felt worse to get shot. The bullet entering his leg had been bad. The hospital visit wasn’t much of an improvement. And losing out on capturing Ink and Lloyd had been a real bitch. But Myles could certainly think of worse things than lying in bed tucked up against Vivian’s soft, warm body.
He slipped his hand up under her shirt to cup her bare breast—he’d been aching to do that ever since she’d lain down with him—and his body hardened. He liked her just as much as he’d feared he would. He could feel himself falling into that emotional abyss called love, knew he might slide in so deep he’d never get out. And yet, somehow, that was okay. Caring risked loss, but not caring guaranteed a lukewarm life, devoid of any great passion. Why he’d believed that kind of existence would satisfy him he suddenly didn’t know. He wouldn’t take back the years he’d had with Amber Rose despite how they ended, would he? No. So why wouldn’t he embrace a second chance to feel the same way about someone else?
Vivian stirred and turned to face him. When her eyes opened, she smiled sleepily. “How you doin’?”
“Fine. You?”
“Better now that I’ve had a chance to rest. What time is it? Do we need to get up?”
He caressed the rim of her ear. “Not yet. It’s only been a couple hours.”
“Then what are you doing awake?”
Her eyes looked so big with her hair that short. “Thinking.”
“About…”
“You,” he said simply.
“And?”
“I’m glad you moved in next door.”
She hesitated, obviously considering his words. “You’re kidding. What about your wounds?”
He offered her a lazy grin. “Mere scratches.”
Although she smiled at his response, her manner remained serious. “I’m very different from Amber Rose. You realize that, don’t you?”
How could he miss it? But he found it interesting that she’d come to the same conclusion, since she’d never known his late wife. “In what way?”
“I have my business, for one.”
Having a business created a difficulty? “I admire what you’ve accomplished. And I’m willing to support you in it. How is that a drawback?”
“I’m used to being independent.”
“Understood. I can work with that.”
“But…Claire said Amber Rose has a brother who’s a doctor.”
He couldn’t help chuckling. What did Amber Rose’s brother have to do with this? “I’m not following you.”
“My brother is an ex-con.”
“Oh, right.” He nodded to let her know it was all clear to him now. “But exonerated means he didn’t do it.”