“Good.” There’s a dark undercurrent to my voice.
I take the empty juice box from her and put it on the table. She lies back on the pillow, looking sleepy—the medication’s doing its job. She touches her discolored cheek. “You can start calling me Bruiser now—there’s a nickname for you.”
“Bruiser’s a name for someone who gives bruises, not gets them.”
She traces the frown lines on my forehead, smoothing my scowl. “Too soon to joke about it, huh?”
“A millennium isn’t enough time to make this jokeable.”
Before she can reply, a sharp female voice cuts through the closed door.
“Do you think I’m concerned about hospital policy? I don’t care if she already has a visitor, I will see my daughter now!”
Kennedy’s good eye slides closed. “Oh no.”
“Remove yourself from my path or there will be consequences, young man!”
“Oh no.”
Mitzy Randolph steps into the room, looking unusually haggard in an untucked dark blue blouse, black slacks, her pearls askew, her hair falling out of its bun. I’ve never seen Mitzy’s hair not flawlessly styled; I always figured the strands were too terrified to move.
Like a bodyguard, I stand but don’t move an inch from Kennedy’s bedside. Because, mother or no mother, if I hear one backhanded insult, I will lose my shit.
“Hello, Mother,” Kennedy says quietly.
Mitzy’s breathing is shallow as her eyes roam Kennedy’s battered features. She moves forward slowly, as if she’s in a trance. “Oh, Kennedy, your lovely face.”
“It’s all right.” She tries for a stoic grin. “They’re just bruises. Nothing permanent, no scars.”
Her mother’s lip trembles and her eyes fill, then brim over. I’ve never seen Mitzy cry—and from the look on her face, neither has Kennedy.
“My dear, precious girl . . .” Her voice cracks. “. . . what have they done to you?”
Kennedy’s expression goes soft and she looks almost apologetic and at the same time, grateful that her mother actually cares enough to be bothered.
“Don’t cry. I’m okay, really.”
But her mother just shakes her head, weeping quietly.
I gesture to the door. “I’m gonna step outside a minute.”
Kennedy’s eyes flick quickly to me and she nods a silent thank-you.
Before I walk out, I glance back at them. For some people, this is how it works. You have to get smacked right in the face with the possibility of losing something before you wake up and realize how much it means to you.
Mitzy whispers softly and gazes down at her daughter like she’s finally seeing her, not just all the things she wants her to be.
About fucking time.
• • •
Out in the hall, I spot the marshal who escorted me to Kennedy’s room and motion him over. “You think they’ll try again?”
His eyes narrow. “As long as there’s money being offered, they might.”
I nod, grab a pen from the nurse’s station, and take a business card out of my pocket. I scribble on the back and hand it to him. “Any security arrangements that need to be made should be made at that address. When she comes home, she’s coming home with me. And I’m keeping her there.”
19
I keep Kennedy in bed for the next three days.
Unfortunately, it’s not as hot as it sounds, because she’s bruised and sore and her pain pills knock her out cold. But I take care of her—I fluff her pillows, cook her food. Okay, Harrison does the actual cooking, but I bring her the food.
I also help her bathe—and that’s a fresh kind of hell.
Because with two cracked ribs, sex is off the table. I can’t even eat her out, because I know making her come will give her just as much pain as pleasure. She tells me it’ll be worth it, but I stick to my guns.
Until day five, when the sexy vixen takes matters into her own hands. Literally.
We were in bed, in the still darkness of night, and Kennedy proceeded to describe, in full, filthy detail, all the things she wanted me to do to her. Things she couldn’t wait to do to me. Then she begged me to show her—to take my cock in hand and make myself come.
On her.
And I folded like a pornographic deck of cards.
On my knees, hovering over her, I panted and groaned, imagining that it was her hand stroking me hard. But her hand was busy between her own legs, rubbing her clit, driving her glistening fingers in and out, in time with my own fist. I painted her tits that night, and she impressively demonstrated that she was healed enough to handle an orgasm.
So of course I spend the better part of day six with my mouth attached to her pretty cunt—to make up for lost time.
But by day seven, she’s antsy. Sick of television and too wired to work. I call the troops to my place for dinner. Harrison watches the McQuaid Monsters over at Jake and Chelsea’s so they can come. Stanton arrives with Sofia, and the baby bump that could apply for its own zip code now. Brian and Vicki show up too. I introduce them to the rest of the squad, and we all eat pizza at the dining room table.
After dinner, we hang out in the living room—the guys watch the game while the girls talk baby announcements and bridal showers.
“It’s going to be a brunch,” Sofia tells Kennedy, about the bridal shower she’s throwing for Chelsea. “Not too big, because Jake and Chelsea are antisocial.”
“Ha!” Chelsea grins. “Let’s see how social you and Stanton are after this little delight is born. Then multiply that by six.”
“You really should come,” Sofia tells Kennedy and Vicki. “It’s going to be fun— mimosas and naughty bingo. Since they already have all their household stuff, everyone’s bringing lingerie for the wishing well.”
Jake’s eyes light up. “Yes, you two should definitely come. The more the merrier—for me.”
“When is it?” Kennedy asks Sofia, pulling up her calendar on her phone.
“The twenty-third.”
Kennedy clicks her tongue. “I won’t be able to make it—I’ll be in Vegas on the twenty-third.”
Spiders of unease scurry up my arms and across my back.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Kennedy meets my eyes across the room, and as casually as if she’s giving the weather forecast, she says, “The trial starts in two weeks. They’re handling the pretrial motions without me, but I’ll have to fly out in a
few days.”
I put my beer on the coffee table and give her my undivided attention. “But . . . you’re not trying the case anymore.”
She frowns. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”
I gesture to her arm, her swollen eye. “You’re hurt.”
“No, I’m healing. By the time the trial starts I’ll be back to normal, except for the cast.”
My heart beats against my chest—wanting to bust out and shake her.
I get to my feet. Because I argue better on my feet, and I have a feeling this is about to spiral into one hell of an argument. “Kennedy . . . that’s . . . fucking crazy. Did the concussion knock you stupid?”
“Excuse me?”
“He tried to kill you.”
She stands up slowly, her spine rigid and shoulders back. “But he didn’t. And it’s my case.”
“They’ll assign another prosecutor.”
“No—they won’t. Because I won’t let them. Moriotti is trying to scare me away, and I’m not going to let him. He doesn’t get to take this from me.”
My fingers press against my temples, and my voice rises. “Holy shit, Kennedy—he’s not a schoolyard bully—he’s a goddamn psychopath, with the means and motive to put a bullet in you. And you’re going to walk into his territory to give him the opportunity? Why don’t you just draw a bull’s-eye on your forehead!”
I must sound as panicked as I feel, because her posture softens. Her voice fills with calming sympathy. “It’ll be okay.”
She reaches out to stroke my forehead, but I jerk it away.
“You don’t know that! Fucked-up things happen all the time!” I point to Sofia. “She was in a plane crash, did you know that? With her whole family—and it was just dumb luck that they didn’t die.” I gesture to Chelsea. “And Chelsea’s brother, he and his wife were just driving home and they were killed, Kennedy. They had six kids who needed them, and they died.”
I rub the back of my neck, scrub my hand over my face, trying not to totally lose it. “And I was just a kid; a dumb kid who got his leg ripped off for no reason at all. Bad things happen even when you’re careful—even when you don’t deserve them.”
“This is my job, Brent.”
“It’s a job you don’t need! You have more money in your trust fund right now than you’ll ever make as a prosecutor.”
“That doesn’t matter—”
My voice drops lower. “I get that—I do. You took this job because you needed a purpose. A reason to get out of bed every day.” I grip her shoulders, bend my