I cover the cut anyway, pressing hard. “You need stitches,” I say in a disapproving tone. “While you’re at it, you should get your head examined...”
Warm fingers capture my wrist, making me trail off.
“Thank you.” He’s staring up at me with one good eye while the one closest to the wound shuts against the pain.
The differences between him and his son are night and day. Sammy didn’t have to try to seem earnest, but Daze’s irises darken when he attempts anything close… It’s disarming. My breaths quicken, and I fight for air.
“I appreciate your help, Frey,” he bites out through gritted teeth, oblivious to my reaction. “But frankly, sweetheart, you have the bedside manner of a bull in a china shop. I’ve got this.”
He gingerly wrestles the rag from my grip and dabs at the side of his head a few times before setting the rag onto the floor. Outstretched, his bloodstained fingers feel along the carpet as if searching for something.
“Where the fuck are my smokes? Hey, what the hell?” He eyes the floor as if noticing for the first time that he can actually see it. “Damn. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to mess around with someone else’s shit? Where are my smokes?”
“You’re welcome,” I hiss. “And I threw them out. Every last one.”
He stares at me, his bottom lip twitching in horror. “Even the backup stash?” Before I can answer, he digs between the couch cushions and releases a cry of triumph as he pulls out a pack from beneath one of the pillows. “Bingo.” He fishes a lighter from his pocket and lights up, inhaling so hard on the cigarette at least an inch of it disappears before he finally breathes out. “Note to the wise,” he says through a cloud of smoke. “Always check for the stash.”
“You seem proud of yourself.” It blows my mind how someone can be so calm. So unfazed despite the world clashing around him—but then it hits me. That’s the whole point. He cares about nothing and no one. “How can you live with yourself?” My tone is softer than I intend, almost pitying.
“How?” Daze eyes me from head to toe, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “You’re one to talk, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But I’m not the one with a kid. I’m not the one who brought a stranger home at random. I’m not a criminal—”
“Yeah, you’re just the innocent littlestrangerwho fucked me, right? The innocent little virgin who let a criminalpop her cherry.”
“Exactly.” My cheeks flame, and I grit my teeth against another insult. “And you couldn’t even do that right.”
His eyes narrow at the insult even as he flashes a devastating grin. “You’re a damn liar.”
“No,” I counter. “You are. So much for that no consequences, worry-free oblivion you promised. Next time, I’ll take my chances with the bridge.”
“You won’t because then you’ll never learn why I was really there.” He kicks up his feet, laying back sideways across the couch cushions.
“I don’t care anymore.” If I intended to sound intimidating, I fail. I’m on the verge of tears instead.
“Don’t cry.” His head is still bleeding, but the fact doesn’t seem to bother him. Maybe it’s delirium. Or it could be a routine habit—he’s been in this situation before.
“Is this a game to you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Dumping your problems on the women you meet? Sorry, but I have my own problems—”
“And I’m sure they’re heartbreaking, baby,” he interjects, wincing. He cradles his palm against his temple. “Fuck, my head.”
“Don’t you care about anything but yourself? Your kid, for one?”
“Bingo, sweetheart.” He eyes me pointedly and gestures with his free hand as if to say—Voila.“You’ve just answered the million-dollar question. Now you know why I was at the bridge. Not everything has to do with you.”
“I’m leaving.” I head to the door. My fingers grasp the handle without hesitation, wrenching it so hard the door rattles.
“Wait...I’m sorry.”
I push the door open and take a step.
“I...I mean it.” A strained note in his voice almost reinforces that fact. Though it could be pain. “I’m sorry.”
“And you should be!” I whirl to face him. “You think you know me. You don’t know a damn thing!”
My voice breaks on an ugly note—the way it used to when I argued with Hale. When he called me the worst names during our worst fight. My chest tightens, restricting the amount of air entering it. Can’t breathe.
“You think...you think you know, but you don’t!”