An Eye for Danger by Christine M. Fairchild

one, let alone two bullies in my life.
    When I grabbed a knife, Sam raised his arm in defense. "Relax, tough guy."
    I sliced open one of the limes, and its waxy skin rubbed against my grip, the tart scent triggering memories of a Caribbean beach, hot sand at my back, warm water at my toes, the taste of salt air and salt kisses. A world away from thugs and guns and detectives and car accidents. My shoulders unhitched a notch as Max sat by my leg, reminding me he was my only faithful companion now, that there'd never be another midnight beach, or talk of getting a puppy, or lovemaking at midnight like that again.
    "Max heard you coming and started whining," said Sam. "You must jiggle your keys or something."
    My little traitor, Max, licked peanut butter clinging to his long whiskers. Adorable. I scratched under his soft chin. "You couldn't possibly hear me whisper it from here, could you, handsome."
    "Hear what?" Sam pushed onto his elbow.
    "Just a prayer." I grabbed two glasses, my nervous fingers clinking them together so they sounded like they'd break. "But he must have heard my keys, like you said."
    "A prayer, huh?" Sam surveyed the room, like he'd spot a crucifix nailed to my wall. "Say it every time you come home or every time you enter a building?"
    The glasses landed hard on the table. "Could you stop interpreting everything I do? I don't like to be watched, or questioned, or held hostage. Or hoodwinked, for that matter."
    Sam shook his head at Max, who retreated under Sam's arm. "Mamma's pissed. You better confess this was your idea." He lifted Max's ear. "You can come live with me, buddy. I'll protect you."
    "Just stop."
    A moment of silence. Sam reclined flat on the floor, crossing his wrists at his chest like a dead man. I turned back to my chore. Clearly, Sam couldn't get up without assistance, but I wasn't hurrying to the bastard's rescue. Instead, I fetched a glass to replace the one I'd cracked and poured drinks with sloppy results. Damn these hands .
    After a thick swallow of gin, I remembered the prescription. I tapped out a few pills too many, so I slid them back into the bottle and started over. Damn Sam's intrusions .
    "Oxycodone. For the pain." I held one out to him.
    Sam's eyes darted from me to the pill and back. "Where'd you get pills so fast?"
    My arm dropped to my side. Typical cop. "The Tooth Fairy."
    "Never mind. Gimme." He held out his palm.
    Instead, I fisted the pill. "No more games." I eyed him till he nodded.
    "No more games. I swear on my mother's grave."
    ***
    "Not so sure about this." Sam sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the robe to his waist as instructed, then elevated his elbows so I could access his torso. "Don't think they wrap ribs anymore."
    "Medics trained me to do this," I replied.
    Never mind how long ago, or who taught me in which backwoods hospital in which third-world country. Straddling his leg, I reached around his back for the first layer. A few bites of food and a glass of water were all I could swallow, but they'd proved enough to calm my nerves and keep my hands steady.
    "Press here." I offered the edge of the bandage between the squared muscles of his pecs, where the 'T' of his chest hair tickled my skin. "No. Look where my fingers are. Look."
    When he finally slid his fingers between mine to hold the cotton in place, I looped the bandage around his back, crossed it over his fingers, and looped again before I let him release. When I tugged the material, he moaned, flexing every muscle till his whole body was rigid. "Relax, tough guy."
    "If this gets it out of your system, I'm all about justice."
    I stopped. "I'm not trying to hurt you. It's just unavoidable at this point."
    "Blond hair, brown eyes. One recessive trait, one dominant. Soft but tough."
    "Must you speak?"
    "Kind but cruel," he added, his grin tempting reprisal.
     "Take a breath. I'll be as kind as I can be."
    Widening his feet, he parted the robe. "Whoops," he said, shoving a hand in his lap. His