“I used to sell weed when I first got out on my own to make some quick cash. But the guys I sold for wanted me to get into the harder stuff. I wasn’t up for that. I try to stay away from things that will get me arrested or dead.”
“Fantastic,” Colby said with exaggerated enthusiasm. He stalked to the other side of the room and opened the closet. A large duffel bag was on the ground. He grabbed it and tossed it onto the bed. “Then you should have no problem coming with me. Because right now, listening to me is what’s going to keep you from getting arrested or dead.”
Colby folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, daring Keats to challenge him again on this. But after a brief stare-off, Keats swore under his breath and started packing.
FOURTEEN
The ride back to Colby’s place was a quick and quiet one, and Keats was looking forward to crawling into bed and passing out. His head was pounding, it hurt to move, and his eye felt like it had its own heartbeat. He just wanted to sleep for a few days. But Colby had other ideas because not twenty minutes after they’d gotten back and Keats had lowered himself onto the bed, Colby was back in the guest room.
Colby leaned over the bed, frowning. “Lie still. I’m going to take a look.”
“I’m fine.” But Keats’s fingers dug into the sheets when Colby dragged Keats’s shirt up and off to inspect his back and ribs. The soreness was settling in now, and even the brush of cotton over his skin felt like too much. Colby pressed a warm palm along his side, applying the barest amount of pressure.
“Any trouble taking a full breath?”
“Not really.” Keats demonstrated and managed to keep his grunt of pain to himself. “I cracked a rib in middle school. This doesn’t feel like that. I’ll be all right.”
Colby leaned back, looking unmoved. “We’ll see. I have a doctor coming over to check you out anyway.”
Keats rolled onto his stomach too quickly, sending a sharp pain up his side, and his breath left him for a moment. “What?”
Colby hooked his thumbs in the pocket of his jeans. ?
??I know a guy who’s willing to make a house call and won’t ask too many questions.”
“You know a guy?” Keats asked, adjusting the pillow beneath his head and trying to keep the bracing pain each movement caused from showing on his face. “Did you forget to tell me you were in the mafia or something?”
Colby smirked, his dimple making him look like a mischievous kid. “Not the mafia.”
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and Colby left the room. Keats pulled the blanket over himself and let his face drop back onto the pillow. The last thing he wanted to do was see a damn doctor. He just wanted to crash and forget tonight ever happened. But Colby wasn’t going to be swayed, so he’d have to grit his teeth and get through this.
Footsteps and voices sounded in the hall, and Colby returned to the room with his guest. “Keats, this is Dr. Montgomery. He’s going to take a look at you. Let him.”
Keats kept his face planted in the pillow. “Please tell me you come bearing fistfuls of pain pills.”
The doctor sniffed. “Rough night, huh? Why don’t we see what we’re dealing with?”
Keats peeked out with his good eye, surprised that the doctor seemed vaguely amused. Colby leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, obviously intending to stay for the exam, and Dr. Montgomery—who was hard to think of as a doctor with his jeans and faded Oregon Ducks T-shirt—came to the side of the bed. At least he had a stethoscope around his neck. Keats gingerly rolled onto his back and moved the blanket aside.
The doc recoiled.
“Jesus.” Anger crossed his features. He sent a hard look toward Colby, accusation in his eyes. “What the hell did you do, Wilkes?”
Colby frowned deep, his gaze darting to Keats for a brief second before returning to the doc. “Seriously, Theo? You know me better than that. The guy got in a fight.”
“Oh.” The doc’s shoulders sagged as he released a breath. “Sorry. I just—”
Colby waved it off, though he still looked annoyed. “Just make sure he’s okay.”
Keats peered back and forth between them, trying to figure out what was going on. Why would the doctor think that Colby had hurt him?
The exam proceeded without many words exchanged. Dr. Montgomery poked and prodded, asked a few questions about pain levels, and checked Keats’s vitals. When he seemed satisfied, he stood and declared that Keats had bruised ribs and a mild allergic reaction to ant bites but was otherwise okay. Then the bastard prescribed regular ol’ ibuprofen because he figured Keats “could handle a little discomfort” and prescribing pain meds outside the hospital could raise eyebrows.
Colby thanked the doctor and walked him out, leaving Keats not much better off than he had been before the doctor came. When Colby darkened the doorway again, the grim expression he’d been wearing since he’d found Keats at the motel had softened a bit—relief. So Colby really had been worried. That concern burrowed into Keats and settled into a place he didn’t want to examine. He shifted on the bed. “Well, a helluva lot of good he did me. Ibuprofen and rest. I could’ve told him that. And where does he get off knowing what I can and can’t handle? This shit hurts.”
“All the tattoos and the fact that you’re at my place probably gave him that idea.” Colby gave him a wry smile. “He thinks you’re a masochist who’s used to handling pain.”
“Why the fuck would he think—” Then it hit him. “Shit. He thinks I’m like—”