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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PERRY

“You came!” I cry, jumping out of the car and attempting to throw my arms around Arlie. Except I forgot that one of them is basically out of commission, and instead of swamping her in a hug, I curl forward with an “owwww-shit-crap” instead.

Her warm chuckle makes me glance up. “I can’t believe I’m risking my meal ticket for you.”

“I appreciate it, if that helps.”

“Not a bit.” She reaches down to help me to my feet and steers me toward a camp chair next to a large fire pit. I’m not sure how they even get that thing going considering everything around here looks really fucking wet. We’re hugged by trees on all sides, the grass is being strangled by dirt and stones and dead leaves, and there’s a hint of decaying vegetation on the air.

I’ll take the smog of city life, thanks.

Arlie plants her hands on her hips and looks down at me. “How did you get yourself shot?”

“Occupational hazard of being a hero.”

“A hero?” She cocks her eyebrow, and I try to mirror her but fail miserably. “Whatever you’re doing with your face is creepy, and you need to stop it.”

“Jeez, you can’t even show some compassion while I’m injured? ”

“No.”

I blink at her, waiting for her to go on. “No?”

“No is a complete sentence, dork.”

The thing about Arlie is that she’s intimidating without meaning to be. I love strong women; my momma was one before she died, Margot and Elle both are now, and it’s part of why I admire Arlie. But where Margot is strong because she has to be, I think Arlie just fucking likes it. And that’s the part that’s intimidating.

Judging by the goose bumps racing over my skin, I’m cold, but I can’t feel much of anything right now. My head is a bit of a woozy mess, my arm and chest are sticky with cooling blood, and I look and smell like I’ve just climbed out of a dumpster.

Meanwhile, St. Clare is still standing over by the car and looks like he’s had a mildly busy day in his suit pants and button-up shirt. The way he’s rolled up his sleeves should be sponsoring porn sites everywhere.

I’m about to tell him that I’m injured and he should put those slutty forearms away when Everett walks out of the small house, carrying … I don’t think I want to know. The small metal dish is shielding whatever’s inside, and I’d like it to stay that way.

“What do we have here?” he asks, bald head so shiny it looks as damp as the vegetation surrounding us.

“Got nicked by a bullet.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Can you believe Danvers shot at me? We closed out the bar together for his last birthday.”

Everett hums. “It’s a hard lesson to learn.”

“What is?”

“That money will always mean more than friendship in our circles.”

“Then why are you three here?”

Everett doesn’t answer me, just glances over at Tommy and Arlie.

Arlie shrugs. “Don’t ask me. I’m here under duress.”

“It was your idea,” Tommy throws back .

“My statement stands.”

I send Arlie my most grateful expression. “I always knew you loved me.”

She sighs. “Hurry the hell up so we can go, Ever.”

“Ah …” He pauses, checking both sides of my shoulder as he sets the tray down on a teeny fold-out table. “I don’t think this will be a quick fix.”

“Why not?” I ask, trying to see what he sees.

“Because it didn’t skim you. It’s still in there.”

I guess that explains all the pain, then. “And how do we make it not in there anymore?”

He chuckles, pulls a small bottle of vodka from his pocket, and holds it out to me. “We start with this.”

“You want me to drink that?”

“Well, it’s either you or me, and I doubt you want me indulging when I’m about to dig around inside your body.”

That’s an excellent point. I take the nip, remove the lid, and throw the whole thing back. It tastes filthy, like a mouthful of nasty, burning bile, and it’s lucky I’m at the point where throwing up over myself won’t make much of a difference to how disgusting I am.

My feet dig into the mulch beneath my shoes, and somehow, I keep it all down. Considering St. Clare isn’t far away and he’s watching me, I’d like to look a teeny bit impressive. The last thing a guy wants is for the guy he hooked up with to regret the whole experience. Especially since I wouldn’t mind it happening again.

“Shirt off,” Everett says.

I drag my attention back from St. Clare. “I think I’m going to need some help with that.”

“I can cut it off?”

“No.” I grip the front of my T-shirt. “It’s my favorite shirt.”

“It’s covered in blood.”

“Just needs a good soak.”

“Whatever you say,” he mutters, helping me peel the shirt up and over my head. My good arm is easy enough to pull out, but it takes some careful maneuvering to peel it from the wound and get it off the other one. The prickling of the cool air picks up with the breeze, even with the fire right next to me, and I’m probably getting frostbite or pneumonia at this point, but at least I still can’t feel it. Despite how much I’m fucking shaking.

Everett picks up what looks like a long, thin knife. “Three … two …”

I’m waiting for one when he stabs me with the damn thing, and a very unmanly squeal bursts from me. “I wasn’t ready!”

“That was the point.”

My teeth clench tight as Everett digs around in my shoulder, and now he’s started, all I can hope for is that he doesn’t bust up something vital that will lose the control of my arm. It’s a very nice arm, and we’ve been through a lot together. Shooting guns, carrying my bracelet, and all those times it’s helped me eat, drink, and jerk off.

“Is it actually in there?” I ask through my clenched jaw. “Or are you just enjoying stabbing me?”

“I can enjoy stabbing you and have it be in there, Perry.”

“My mistake.” If you’d asked me a few minutes ago whether this could hurt more, my answer would have been no, but look at that, Ever is managing. I glance over and finally catch St. Clare’s eyes. “Have I mentioned yet how very, very sorry I am for shooting you?”

Instead of the indulgent amusement I’m so used to from him, St. Clare turns away and walks over toward where Lars is. They talk quietly between themselves, and I try and fail not to feel like the odd one out.

Tommy, Arlie, and Everett have each other. St. Clare and Lars have each other. No matter how much I try, I don’t fit in with any of them.

But these guys showed up for me, so I have to be grateful about that.

“Got him,” Everett exclaims, and a heavy metallic chink comes as the bullet falls into the metal bowl. Everett leans in for a better look. “I think that’s the whole thing.”

“You think? ”

“At least sixty-five percent sure.”

Those aren’t terrible odds, I guess.

“I’ll clean it up and then stitch you back together.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Close enough.” Everett wipes over the wound. “Just don’t expect it to be pretty.”

“Good thing I have my face to do the heavy lifting. Isn’t that right, St. Clare?”

His stare bores into me in return, and I get that uncomfortable gut wrench that maybe I’ve done something wrong. When he doesn’t answer, I turn to Arlie. “Isn’t that right?”

“If by heavy lifting you mean scaring people away before they can even see your shoulder, then sure. But it’s not your whole face. Only the stuff that comes out of your mouth.”

I drop my head back toward the watery blue sky, the needle piercing my skin nothing compared to the abuse my shoulder’s seen today. “I’m starting to suspect I’m unappreciated in my time.”

Tommy laughs and waves a hand my way. “What part of all this are we forgetting to appreciate?”

Ah … Okay, he’s got me there. I joke about being good-looking when in actual fact I’m probably nudging a seven on a good day. On a day like today, I’d probably give me a weak four. People say I’m a fun guy, yet none of those people have bothered to stick around, so I’m not sure they can be trusted. I think I’m a fun guy, but as Lars pointed out, apparently my judgment can’t be trusted either. I’m loyal—just have no one to be loyal to. I have a big heart—and no one to share that with. And I’m sure I could hold down a job if this bad luck would stop following me.

I swallow roughly as Ever wipes over my newly stitched-up franken-wound. “Can we take a rain check on that answer?”

Tommy laughs again, but I’m not so sure I find it funny. I like making people happy, but just once, it might be nice to be in on the joke instead of being the joke.

It’s nice to have dreams, I guess.

My gaze finds St. Clare again, standing on the other side of the lawn, closer to the house, and the second our eyes meet, he wrenches his away again. As much as I love that everyone showed up for me, I wish they’d hurry up and get moving so that I can ask him what’s wrong. Moody St. Clare isn’t a version of him that I’m used to.

He needs that spark of his back.