other, we ran back to see what was happening now.
Chapter 8
Max
Ho.Ly. Fuck.
Something was wrong. Really really wrong. I felt like shit.
When I was a kid, I’d had the mumps. Or Dylan had had the mumps. One of us had had the mumps. I can’t remember because I’m so fucking hot. But the mumps…the mumps were bad. I remember Mom and Dad fighting about it on the other side of our bedroom door. Dad was mad because we were supposed to have gotten shots that prevented this shit from happening.
And she had spent the money instead of taking us to the clinic.
Classic Mom.
“Dylan?” I cried. Because that was Dylan saying that. Dylan was in this room. I lifted my head and peered into the shadowy corners. There was a low dresser right across from me. One of those double deals, like a his and hers kind of thing. Behind it was a sliding glass door covered with blinds.
Was Dylan out there?
I pushed up to get to my feet, but my hand was caught on something.
I glanced back at it and I couldn’t lift my hand away from the headboard. It was made out of iron and painted white.
I lifted my hand and the handcuffs rattled.
Handcuffs.
“Dylan!” I yelled. “This isn’t funny!”
God. There was something raging in my leg just under the surface of my skin.
I glanced down at my feet half-expecting there to be an actual fire burning in the bed. No fire, but there was a gigantic white bandage on my leg.
Fuck my ribs hurt. So did my head.
“Dylan!” I yelled. Because this was probably his fault. “Dylan!”
Two women came rushing in, and I jerked back away from them. One of them…the brunette with the tits…My gut said watch out for her. Be careful. She was trouble.
There were memories—important ones, things I needed to remember…but Jesus. It was too hot.
“Fever,” said the redhead. She was older. Stacked. She wore reading glasses and an expression I recognized because I’d seen it on on my own face.
I am the boss, her expression said. And you do not fuck with the boss.
The redhead—she might be trouble, too.
“Max,” Tits said. “You’re awake.”
“Where’s Dylan?” I asked and Tits and Boss-lady shared a long look. “He was just here. I heard him.”
“Dylan’s not here,” Tits said. “You’ve been shot. You have a fever…an infection.” She reached for me and I grabbed her wrist before she could touch me.
Her eyes—wide and green met mine. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t hiss and try to tug away.
I squeezed her wrist harder, the bones rubbing beneath my grip. I was hurting her. Trying to hurt her but she didn’t seem to care. Something about that face—so still despite what I was doing to her. It rattled my cage.
“Do you remember who I am?” she asked.
“Joan,” I said. The name bobbed up from the murk in my head. The strip club. But was that right? Joan? Seemed wrong. “I wanted to fuck you.”
She smiled, or at least she gave the appearance of smiling. “Likewise.”
“You’re a dancer.”
I had a rule about the girls. I didn’t touch them. Not even a little. Just to keep a lid on the drama. But I’d wanted this woman. Bad. I almost broke my rule for her. There’d been a night. A dance?
I couldn’t remember.
“Yeah, well, you’re a violent criminal,” she said. “We were not meant to be.”
She had a chip on her shoulder so big and so hard it was like armor, hiding something so hot, so fucking needy, I could barely stand to look at her and not bend her over something.
Her wrist was still in my grip. It had to hurt. But she gave me nothing. Not one sign that my touch—brutal and mean—did shit to her.
Kudos to her.
“Dylan’s not here, is he?” I asked. She shook her head.
If Dylan wasn’t here, someone else had to be. One of the boys. BLJ. Clock. I blinked, something was rising up out of the dark that I really didn’t want to look at.
Rabbit.
Jesus.
He shot me.
I tried to sit up but my body felt like it had the weight of a bike on
Chapter 8
Max
Ho.Ly. Fuck.
Something was wrong. Really really wrong. I felt like shit.
When I was a kid, I’d had the mumps. Or Dylan had had the mumps. One of us had had the mumps. I can’t remember because I’m so fucking hot. But the mumps…the mumps were bad. I remember Mom and Dad fighting about it on the other side of our bedroom door. Dad was mad because we were supposed to have gotten shots that prevented this shit from happening.
And she had spent the money instead of taking us to the clinic.
Classic Mom.
“Dylan?” I cried. Because that was Dylan saying that. Dylan was in this room. I lifted my head and peered into the shadowy corners. There was a low dresser right across from me. One of those double deals, like a his and hers kind of thing. Behind it was a sliding glass door covered with blinds.
Was Dylan out there?
I pushed up to get to my feet, but my hand was caught on something.
I glanced back at it and I couldn’t lift my hand away from the headboard. It was made out of iron and painted white.
I lifted my hand and the handcuffs rattled.
Handcuffs.
“Dylan!” I yelled. “This isn’t funny!”
God. There was something raging in my leg just under the surface of my skin.
I glanced down at my feet half-expecting there to be an actual fire burning in the bed. No fire, but there was a gigantic white bandage on my leg.
Fuck my ribs hurt. So did my head.
“Dylan!” I yelled. Because this was probably his fault. “Dylan!”
Two women came rushing in, and I jerked back away from them. One of them…the brunette with the tits…My gut said watch out for her. Be careful. She was trouble.
There were memories—important ones, things I needed to remember…but Jesus. It was too hot.
“Fever,” said the redhead. She was older. Stacked. She wore reading glasses and an expression I recognized because I’d seen it on on my own face.
I am the boss, her expression said. And you do not fuck with the boss.
The redhead—she might be trouble, too.
“Max,” Tits said. “You’re awake.”
“Where’s Dylan?” I asked and Tits and Boss-lady shared a long look. “He was just here. I heard him.”
“Dylan’s not here,” Tits said. “You’ve been shot. You have a fever…an infection.” She reached for me and I grabbed her wrist before she could touch me.
Her eyes—wide and green met mine. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t hiss and try to tug away.
I squeezed her wrist harder, the bones rubbing beneath my grip. I was hurting her. Trying to hurt her but she didn’t seem to care. Something about that face—so still despite what I was doing to her. It rattled my cage.
“Do you remember who I am?” she asked.
“Joan,” I said. The name bobbed up from the murk in my head. The strip club. But was that right? Joan? Seemed wrong. “I wanted to fuck you.”
She smiled, or at least she gave the appearance of smiling. “Likewise.”
“You’re a dancer.”
I had a rule about the girls. I didn’t touch them. Not even a little. Just to keep a lid on the drama. But I’d wanted this woman. Bad. I almost broke my rule for her. There’d been a night. A dance?
I couldn’t remember.
“Yeah, well, you’re a violent criminal,” she said. “We were not meant to be.”
She had a chip on her shoulder so big and so hard it was like armor, hiding something so hot, so fucking needy, I could barely stand to look at her and not bend her over something.
Her wrist was still in my grip. It had to hurt. But she gave me nothing. Not one sign that my touch—brutal and mean—did shit to her.
Kudos to her.
“Dylan’s not here, is he?” I asked. She shook her head.
If Dylan wasn’t here, someone else had to be. One of the boys. BLJ. Clock. I blinked, something was rising up out of the dark that I really didn’t want to look at.
Rabbit.
Jesus.
He shot me.
I tried to sit up but my body felt like it had the weight of a bike on
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