Page 17 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

Santiago spins toward the sideboard behind him and rips open the drawer, fumbling around until he comes up with a pistol that looks like it was last used to hold up a stagecoach on its way to Deadwood.

“Cue close-up,” I mutter as the camera zeroes in on Catalina’s wide eyes just before she turns and bolts for the door.

“There’s no way she’s escaping through that doorway, not with those shoulder pads,” Danny muses as he sticks another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth.

There’s a loud gunshot as Santiago shoots her in the back, although there’s no blood and no wound. Catalina throws her arms up, pausing dramatically before falling and toppling over the back of the sofa and rolling to the floor. Santiago appears above her, aiming the gun at her once more.

“Tell me where Consuela is,”he says coldly.“Or I will kill you.”

“Santiago…”she whispers.“I-I’m… pregnant… and it’s yours.”

“NO!” Danny whisper-shouts. His eyes widen as he pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Cue another close-up,” I mutter as the camera zooms in on Santiago’s wide eyes. Then the credits roll.

Danny shoves his spoon back in his mouth, clamping his lips around it, and with his free hand fumbles in the bedding for the remote control. “When’s the next one?” he mumbles around the spoon while he scrolls through the listings. “What episode number is this? Do they have episode numbers? Grab your phone and look it up on Google.”

I chuckle and drop my spoon back in my own tub of Häagen-Daz. I’m about to retrieve my phone from the bedside table when I see the next episode listed.

“There!” I point. “Back up… and again… There it is.”

“Friday?” He tosses the remote down in disgust and huffs indignantly. “They need to learn to manage their viewers’ expectations. I’ve a good mind to write a strongly worded complaint to their scheduling department.”

I can’t help but laugh, which turns into a hacking cough. I turn my face away and Danny rubs soothing circles on my back. After the coughing fit subsides, I draw in a wheezing breath and fall back against my small mountain of pillows.

“Ow,” I croak.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Danny says worriedly. “That sounds like it could be a chest infection.”

“It’s not.” I shake my head. “It’s just the flu, and I’m already feeling a little better. If the cough lasts longer than a few weeks, I’ll see the doctor.”

“Promise?”

“Honestly, I’m fine.” I smile. “You should be more worried about yourself. I’m not the one who was almost crushed to death in the tiniest car in the world while Maddie was playing Mario Kart with a falling tree.”

He snorts loudly and stares down at his broken leg, which is propped up on a mountain of pillows on our bed.

“Broken legs are so boring. I’ve got nothing to do but lie here and watch trashy TV while my bones knit themselves back together,” he grumbles, and I lean forward and plant a kiss on those sulky lips. He’s pretty salty at the moment since he’s on forced sick leave while he heals.

“It’s only been forty-eight hours,” I remind him as he sets his empty tub of ice cream on his bedside table. “Besides, you love trashy TV.”

“Hmph.” He picks up the remote and starts channel surfing once more.

I set my ice cream tub down on my bedside table even though it’s still half full. Jacob Marley, who has been stretched out along Danny’s good leg and dozing, opens one sleepy eye and gives a little sniff of interest before laying his head down and watching me suspiciously. The grouchy little furball hasn’t left Danny’s side since we got back from the hospital.

The hospital only kept Danny for another twenty-four hours, long enough for the swelling in his leg to go down. He now has a cast that starts at his toes and covers his leg right up to midthigh so it can hold his damaged knee in place while everything heals.

Getting back home was a pain since the storm still hasn’t let up. It ebbs and flows, but it’s been going on for the better part of three days now. Trying to get Danny into an Uber with a broken leg while he attempted to balance on crutches that pulled at his bruised ribs left us both exhausted. We crawled into bed once we got home and have barely moved since.

I look like death warmed up, I know I do, but Danny… Even with a broken leg, banged-up ribs, and a lot of bruising, he looks hot. His blonde hair is all mussed and he has a sexy two-day scruff across his jaw. I so badly want to jump him and ride him into the sunset like a cowboy.

Stupid broken leg.

Stupid runny nose.

Stupid cracked ribs.

Stupid flu.