lowered the metal rail, and sat on the edge of the mattress with his hip against my leg. “You got shot in the finger?”
“No, the shot was here.” I pointed to my side. “Grazed me. The finger was just my general klutziness.” I flexed my knee and jabbed it into his hip. “By the way, make yourself at home. You’re practically sitting on me.”
He patted my foot. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“She saved Katie Parst’s life,” Kacey said. “She acts like that’s nothing.”
Kacey had a way of making me feel good about myself. I wanted her to keep talking, but Michael picked up my good hand. “What about this one? Is it busted, too?” He gave me a little hand massage, his thick fingers working with surprising gentleness. It wasn’t bad.
When he placed my hand back on the bed, he folded his arms across his chest. “So give me the inventory. A busted finger and a nick in the side. Anything else?”
“Not just busted—open fracture.”
“Ooh, baby, that hurts.” He grimaced.
“And what do you mean nick in the side? It was a bullet! That’s hot metal that kills people, remember? If it’s such a small thing, why don’t you try it sometime?”
“No thanks. Already have.”
“You’ve been shot?”
“Twice. Once in the old hood in Chicago when I was growing up.” He pulled one foot up to the mattress and lifted his pant leg, exposing a calf muscle the size of a grapefruit. There was a cream-colored, nickel- sized scar that stood out like a bleached spot against his dark skin. “That one was meant just for me. Went right into the muscle. Some gangbangers didn’t like the way I looked at them. The other time was a bullet fragment—ricochet during a drug bust. One of our own guys.” He took off his sport coat and rolled up the sleeve of his blue, button-down collar shirt. “You have to look real close to see this one. It was just a nick, like yours.” He stuck his forearm under my nose.
I made a show of squinting. “Oh, I think I see it. It’s hiding under that hair.”
“You’re a riot.”
I felt that I had an advantage and I pressed it. “Were they using pellet guns?”
“What did they give you, laughing gas? Don’t let me interrupt you. You seem to be having a great time being around yourself.”
I stifled a laugh—didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d said something clever.
He rolled his sleeve back down. “Besides, it’s not that tiny. One thing I can tell you for sure is that little sucker burned like crazy. I’ll bet yours does, too. I’m proud of you.”
“She’s a hero,” Kacey said.
I could feel my neck getting warm, so I changed the subject. “Anybody bring a deck of cards?”
As if on cue, a chiseled, suntanned giant in a gray Adidas T-shirt knocked on the open door of the room. All three of our heads turned. I don’t know about Kacey and Michael, but my eyes must have become wider than the wheel covers on my Camaro. The visitor flashed a smile, and his perfect white teeth practically lit the room. Though I had never met him, I immediately knew who he was, as would every other person living in North Texas.
Rob Morrow had been quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys for three years and was one of the hottest sports celebrities in the country. He obviously had the wrong room.
“Is this where the hero is staying?” he said. He once again bathed us in the light of that smile.
It’s important to note that I’m no fawning sports groupie. In fact, I’m generally unimpressed by celebrity, but I will unequivocally state that this was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I was glad I was lying down, because I have no doubt that my legs would have failed me if I’d been standing. Kacey took a half-step backward, and she may as well have grabbed her heart. He’d only been in the room for thirty seconds, and Kacey and I were both in grave danger of humiliating ourselves based on nothing more than our facial expressions.
Michael, on
“No, the shot was here.” I pointed to my side. “Grazed me. The finger was just my general klutziness.” I flexed my knee and jabbed it into his hip. “By the way, make yourself at home. You’re practically sitting on me.”
He patted my foot. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“She saved Katie Parst’s life,” Kacey said. “She acts like that’s nothing.”
Kacey had a way of making me feel good about myself. I wanted her to keep talking, but Michael picked up my good hand. “What about this one? Is it busted, too?” He gave me a little hand massage, his thick fingers working with surprising gentleness. It wasn’t bad.
When he placed my hand back on the bed, he folded his arms across his chest. “So give me the inventory. A busted finger and a nick in the side. Anything else?”
“Not just busted—open fracture.”
“Ooh, baby, that hurts.” He grimaced.
“And what do you mean nick in the side? It was a bullet! That’s hot metal that kills people, remember? If it’s such a small thing, why don’t you try it sometime?”
“No thanks. Already have.”
“You’ve been shot?”
“Twice. Once in the old hood in Chicago when I was growing up.” He pulled one foot up to the mattress and lifted his pant leg, exposing a calf muscle the size of a grapefruit. There was a cream-colored, nickel- sized scar that stood out like a bleached spot against his dark skin. “That one was meant just for me. Went right into the muscle. Some gangbangers didn’t like the way I looked at them. The other time was a bullet fragment—ricochet during a drug bust. One of our own guys.” He took off his sport coat and rolled up the sleeve of his blue, button-down collar shirt. “You have to look real close to see this one. It was just a nick, like yours.” He stuck his forearm under my nose.
I made a show of squinting. “Oh, I think I see it. It’s hiding under that hair.”
“You’re a riot.”
I felt that I had an advantage and I pressed it. “Were they using pellet guns?”
“What did they give you, laughing gas? Don’t let me interrupt you. You seem to be having a great time being around yourself.”
I stifled a laugh—didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d said something clever.
He rolled his sleeve back down. “Besides, it’s not that tiny. One thing I can tell you for sure is that little sucker burned like crazy. I’ll bet yours does, too. I’m proud of you.”
“She’s a hero,” Kacey said.
I could feel my neck getting warm, so I changed the subject. “Anybody bring a deck of cards?”
As if on cue, a chiseled, suntanned giant in a gray Adidas T-shirt knocked on the open door of the room. All three of our heads turned. I don’t know about Kacey and Michael, but my eyes must have become wider than the wheel covers on my Camaro. The visitor flashed a smile, and his perfect white teeth practically lit the room. Though I had never met him, I immediately knew who he was, as would every other person living in North Texas.
Rob Morrow had been quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys for three years and was one of the hottest sports celebrities in the country. He obviously had the wrong room.
“Is this where the hero is staying?” he said. He once again bathed us in the light of that smile.
It’s important to note that I’m no fawning sports groupie. In fact, I’m generally unimpressed by celebrity, but I will unequivocally state that this was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I was glad I was lying down, because I have no doubt that my legs would have failed me if I’d been standing. Kacey took a half-step backward, and she may as well have grabbed her heart. He’d only been in the room for thirty seconds, and Kacey and I were both in grave danger of humiliating ourselves based on nothing more than our facial expressions.
Michael, on
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