Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“That’s true,” he agreed.
“So what now?” I asked.
“Now, I take you home and tell you how to take care of those wounds.”
“And the first payment?”
“Six days from now when we can be sure you’ve kept your mouth shut.”
“Then?”
“Then I will drop by and give you the cash. Same goes. Every week.”
“Where?”
“Your house. Or work. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
“Work,” I hissed, the reality dawning on me.
How was I going to work with a bum shoulder and thigh?
“Yeah, you have to keep working,” he told me, seeming to read my thoughts. “Don’t envy that,” he added. “But you can’t suddenly have a lot of cash with no way to explain it. From a tax standpoint, amongst other shit.”
He would know, I guess.
“Okay,” I said, thinking that if I took enough over the counter meds, I might be able to pull it off. Especially if I found ways to walk less and not carry plates with the one arm.
Sure, my tips were likely going to suffer while I healed, but I was just going to have to be okay with that.
The hush money would help make up for it.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “You ready to get out of here?”
With him?
No.
But what choice did I have?
“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding.
“Ah, babe?” he called when I started to hobble toward the door.
“What?”
“Might want to go home in something other than a blanket,” he said, his gaze roaming over my barely covered body.
I swear each inch of it warmed under his inspection.
From, you know, embarrassment.
Nothing else.
“Right,” I agreed. “Where’s my dress?”
“In a bag. Covered in blood,” he said, turning to open the door.
“Then what am I going to wear?” I called to his retreating form.
Part of me wanted to follow him, but I didn’t know if there were other mafia dudes out there, and I didn’t want to step out in front of them in a thin blanket.
So I waited there until Surgeon returned with a men’s button-down, and a pair of black pajama pants.
“Best I could do. Don’t exactly have a lot of female patients here,” he explained, moving inside.
“What are you doing?”
“You think you’re getting into these without help?” he shot back.
“I’m going to have to figure it out.”
“Yeah, after you give your wounds and stitches a break for a couple hours at least,” he said, moving forward, making me step back until the exam table wouldn’t let me retreat any more. “Babe, I’ve seen it already,” he said, gesturing down at my body. “Don’t make everything hurt worse just to be a stubborn ass,” he said.
Were those, you know, nice words?
No.
But, hell, this was New York.
We didn’t expect nice.
But under all of that not-nice we were so well known for, was a lot more kindness than you’d expect.
Like this Surgeon guy. He was being a bit of a dick while doing it, but he was trying to do something good.
“Okay,” I conceded.
But stayed frozen on the spot.
Surgeon’s hand rose, grabbing the sheet where I was holding it between my breasts, his fingertips grazing the swells.
And, damnit, what can I say?
It had been a long, long while since I’d had the time of day to give a man.
My body was just hyperaware of the sensation.
Thankfully, that tremble that moved through me, yeah, it was just on the inside.
The last thing in the world I needed was some mafia guy by the name of Surgeon thinking I wanted to sleep with him. Even if he was stupidly attractive.
“Alright. Bad arm first,” he said, bunching up the sleeve of the shirt, then sliding it on. “You might want to consider a sling for a couple of days. It will prevent you from moving your arm too much and making the pain worse. I will grab one before we head out,” he told me as he buttoned up my shirt, then gathered the leg of the pants. “Step in,” he demanded.
And with one leg out of commission, I had no choice but to grab his shoulder to steady myself as I got into the pants.
“Alright. Give me two minutes to grab some shit.”
“Okay. Ah, do you have anything for… you know… my feet? City streets barefoot. God knows what I could contract.”
“Got some slipper socks. That’s the best I can do,” he said, motioning toward the cabinet behind me before making his way out of the room.
By the time he got back, carrying both a sling and my purse, I had the socks on and was ready to put this never-ending, nightmare of a night to bed.
“Ready to go?” Surgeon asked as he slipped the sling on me.
“Yeah.”
“Give me an address,” he said, leading me outside toward a waiting car. This time, though, it wasn’t the Maine guy standing there, it was someone younger.
“What are you doing? I asked when we idled in front of my apartment building a few minutes later and Surgeon reached for his door.