Page 9 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

L os Angeles smelled worse than any battlefield I’d ever crawled through. Hot piss on concrete. Old smoke. A hopelessness that seeped into your skin.

The clinic was wedged between a boarded-up liquor store and a laundromat with broken machines. Neon lights buzzed weakly above the door: FREE CARE.

Bear whined in the seat beside me.

“You wanna see her first, or should I?”

He wagged his tail like he understood, eyes fixed on the clinic door.

I stepped inside.

And there it was—that voice. Commanding. Alive.

“No, Jose, you’re not leaving this clinic with a bullet still in your shoulder—sit your ass down, or I’ll staple you to the damn table myself.”

I stopped dead in the doorway.

Blue Davis.

Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled up. Hands bloody.

A nurse rushed past. A kid cried in the corner. Chaos, misery, fear. And she stood in the middle like a lighthouse.

She turned. Saw me.

And time collapsed.

“Lightfoot.”

My name in her voice. It wrecked me.

Bear didn’t wait. He limped straight to her and dropped at her boots like he belonged there.

She tore off her gloves and crouched, running her fingers through his fur. “Hey there, traitor.”

I didn’t care who was watching.

I crossed the floor and stopped inches from her.

“You didn’t call.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Over her shoulder, Jose groaned. She snapped her fingers.

“Stitches. Local anesthetic. Now.”

“You’re still mean,” I murmured.

“And you’re still in my damn way.” She stood, chest brushing mine.

“You gonna make me move, Doc?”

Her eyes flicked to my mouth. “Maybe,” she whispered.

I brushed a curl from her cheek. Her breath hitched.

“You ran.”

“You let me.”

Fair.

Too fair.

She stepped back. Always her move, always her timing.

“Sit down, hero. I’ve got a patient to sew up. Then you can pretend this is about a checkup.”

I watched her go.

Bear curled at my feet.

And I knew, without a doubt—

This time, I wouldn’t let her leave.