And my briefs, unless she took those off.
Fuck, did she take them off? Is she naked under my shirt?
Looking up into my face, she says, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Then she stands on her toes and kisses me.
13
Sloane
It’s like kissing a brick wall.
No, that’s not right. Let me rephrase.
It’s like kissing a frozen, angry brick wall that hated you and everything you stood for, had been nursing a lifelong grudge against you, and had made a vow of honor that it was going to kill you to avenge the murder of its father.
Declan’s mouth is hard, cold, and unyielding. Somehow, his lips transmit that they’d rather be injected with the Ebola virus than suffer the absolute disgust of meeting mine.
He curls his hands around my shoulders and pushes me away. Holding me at arm’s length, he glares at me like I’m a puppy who just shit on his favorite pair of shoes.
Thunderclouds gathered over his head, he says darkly, “Don’t. Ever. Do that. Again.”
“I won’t. Apologies.” My laugh is small and embarrassed. “Sometimes my self-confidence goes a little overboard.”
“You think?”
“Um. Yes. It’s not my fault, though.”
“Don’t elaborate. For the love of god, don’t say another word.”
“It’s just that most men are sort of…easy. I guess you’re not.”
“No,” he snarls, lip curled. “I’m not.”
He’s holding me away from him like I’m contagious. Like he’s wishing there were an open window right behind me. Or a bottomless pit.
Needless to say, it’s deflating. I’m obviously losing my edge. Or maybe it’s my mind I’m losing. I could’ve sworn he looked at me with longing.
I turn away and sit on the edge of the bed, folding my hands between my knees and avoiding his eyes.
Without another word, Declan spins on his heel and walks out.
When he returns many hours later, he brings another man with him.
“The doctor,” he announces, then leaves the two of us alone.
After the door slams shut behind Declan, the small man in the blue suit removes his hat and sets it on the coffee table. He sets his black bag beside the hat and removes a stethoscope.
“There’s nothing wrong with my heart or lungs. It’s my head we need to be worried about.”
The doctor straightens and looks at me. He’s about sixty, with white hair and a kind smile. “Just following orders to be thorough, dear. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh. Right. Where do you want me?”
He gestures to a chair, which I sit in. “So you’re a mafia doctor? That must be an interesting line of work. How many gunshot wounds have you stitched up?”
The doctor turns and gazes at me, looking like he’s enjoying some private joke.
“What?”
He says warmly, “Mr. O’Donnell warned me that you were chatty. There’s nothing worse than a quiet woman, I told him, because it only means they’re up to no good. He seemed to think you were up to no good regardless.”
He puts the buds of the stethoscope in his ears. “Careful about getting on his bad side, miss. He’s got a bit of a temper.”
“His bad side?” My laugh is dry. “You say that like he has a good one.”
“Draw a deep breath, please.”
The doctor presses the end of the stethoscope against my back. I inhale, he listens, then moves it to the opposite side of my spine. I draw another breath, and he listens again.
“He does. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.”
I say drily, “You must not get out much.”
He moves to my chest and listens to my heart. Then he produces a blood pressure cuff from his bag and wraps it around my arm.
As it’s inflating, he asks me about my periods.
“They’re regular. Like I said, it’s my head that’s the problem.” Though my ovaries have been acting strange lately, I’m not about to tell Declan’s doctor that.
When he’s satisfied my blood pressure is normal, he shines a light into both my eyes.
“Ow. That’s really bright.”
“Your pupil response is normal. Where is this lump Mr. O’Donnell mentioned?”
“Here.” I show him. When he touches it, I wince.
He makes a soft sound of sympathy. “Yes, I’d imagine that hurts. You’ve got quite a lot of swelling. Have you had any headaches?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“No. Actually, I take that back. I felt sick on the plane when I woke up. But I figured it was from the ketamine Declan gave me.”
If the doctor thinks it’s strange that Declan administered me a drug that made me pass out, he doesn’t mention it. That’s probably the least strange thing he’s seen treating one of Declan’s patients.
“Are you seeing flashing lights? Any problems with your hearing?”
“No and no.”
“Recent memory loss?”
“Yes…and apparently, I fainted. But I don’t remember that.”
“Ringing ears or double vision?”
“No to both. Am I dying or what?”
“You are, but it will take four or five more decades.”
At least he has a sense of humor.
He packs up and puts his hat back on, preparing to leave.
“Seriously, though, what’s the verdict?”
“A mild concussion. Nothing to worry about, but make sure you rest for a few days. If you experience any more symptoms, or if your headaches get worse, we’ll need to get you a CT scan to ensure there’s no bleeding on the brain. In the meantime, ice that lump. It will help the swelling and discomfort.”
“Bleeding on the brain? That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t. So please tell Mr. O’Donnell immediately if you continue to feel unwell.”
“I will. Thank you.”
When he leaves, I feel restless and unsettled. So of course, I have to send Declan a text.
The doctor said I’m dying.
I pace until his response comes back.
So my luck has finally changed.
Jerk. Will you please come in here and talk to me?
Why?
I’m bored.
If only that were lethal.
Stop being mean to me!
Give me one good reason why.
I chew my lip before answering, I think I’m scared.
He doesn’t answer. I don’t know why I was expecting he would. I pace around the room, chewing my lip and imagining what death by brain bleed would look like, until the door opens and Declan walks in.
With his hand still on the knob, he says, “If that was a lie, I’ll open that window and push you out.”
Why does he have to be such an asshole? Such a handsome asshole, which is somehow even worse.
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life, and now my brain is bleeding, and my memory is going, and I’m fainting like one of those stupid goats, and my head hurts like someone’s been jackhammering it, and I’m probably going to die with only you for company. Can you blame me for being upset?”