“This better be good,” I warned him, following her inside.
The apartment had high ceilings, exposed brick, and tall, arched windows overlooking Main Street. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom I’d personally gutted, and an open concept living space with a small but kick-ass kitchen.
His dining room table was covered in paperwork and what looked like case files. He clearly had trouble following doctor’s orders. Morgan men didn’t care to be told what to do.
“Sit,” Naomi said, pulling out a stool from the kitchen island. He eased himself down on it, his jaw tight as if just that movement hurt.
“You taking your pain meds?” I asked. I’d strong-armed him into filling the prescription. But the bottle was still sitting next to the sink where I’d left it.
My brother met my gaze. “Nope.”
I knew why. Because one generation had the potential to poison the next. It was something we both lived with.
“It’s not pretty, Naomi,” Nash warned as she headed to the sink to wash her hands.
“Wounds never are. That’s what first aid is for.”
She dried her hands and gave me a sunny smile as she returned to his side.
“You’re not going to faint, are you?” I asked her.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “I’ll have you know, I have extensive first aid training.”
Nash met my gaze as Naomi gently peeled the tape from his shoulder.
“A few years ago, I came across the scene of a car accident. It was late at night, raining. A deer had run out in front of the driver, and he swerved to miss it. He hit a tree head-on. There was blood everywhere. He was in so much pain, and all I could do was dial 911 and hold his hand. I’d never felt more helpless in my entire life,” she explained.
She’d hate that, I realized. The woman who lived her entire life to make others safe and happy would have hated feeling helpless when someone was in pain.
“So you took a class?” Nash guessed as she eased the gauze away from the wound.
I saw the clench in his jaw, caught the tightness in his tone.
She hissed out a breath, and I looked up.
Nash’s shoulder was bare. It wasn’t a nice, neat hole. It was a chasm of angry tissue, black stitches, and the rust of dried blood.
“I took three classes,” Naomi said.
A memory surfaced. Nash on his back on the playground, fresh blood flowing from his nose as Chris Turkowski sat on his chest and pummeled fists into my brother’s face.
Chris had fared worse than Nash that day. I’d gotten suspended for two days. A consequence both my dad and I felt was worth it. “Family takes care of family,” he’d said. At the time, he’d meant it.
I couldn’t stop staring at my brother’s wounds as blood pounded inside my head.
“Knox?” Naomi’s voice was clo
ser now.
I felt hands on my shoulders and realized Naomi was standing in front of me. “You wanna sit down for a minute, Viking? I don’t think I can handle two patients at once.”
Realizing she thought I was going to faint, I opened my mouth to clear up the misconception and explain that it was manly rage, not wobbly knees. But I changed my mind and went with it when I realized her concern for me had trumped Nash’s bullet holes.
I let her push me down into one of the leather armchairs in the living room.
“You okay?” she asked, leaning down to look me in the eye.
“Better now,” I said.