“I can’t,” I gasp. He swings the car to the right at speeds that I know for sure are illegal. My body shifts toward him, his right arm shoots out and he gives a tug on my left arm. My entire body tenses as he pulls me close to him. He wraps his arm around my back and places his hand on top of both of mine above the bloody wound and he presses down so hard it gives me a whole new reason to cry. I’m fairly certain he’s applying more pressure than necessary just because he’s a dick.
“Quit screaming. It’s just a fucking flesh wound,” he grinds out. I close my eyes once again so I don’t have to see the look on his face or the way he’s driving. In all fairness, he does have only one hand on the wheel, but still. If I could bring myself to focus in on anything else, I might be terrified by the way the buildings fly past us so quickly that I can’t even really see what any of them are. With my eyes closed, I can focus on the pressure from Grady’s large hand and not the ache of my muscles.
“Stop it,” he screams, and his hand puts even more pressure on my abdomen. I gasp for breath, and he lightens his grip just slightly before the car slows down for a second.
“You keep screaming, I’ll be forced to knock you out,” he snaps. I suck in a shallow breath of air, and then another, and another. I want nothing more than to tell him off. He has no right to threaten me, even if he is helping me. This is his fault anyway.
“Where,” I mumble, feeling my lips lazily smack together, “are we going?”
“My house,” he says. I should be focusing on why we’re not going to a hospital, but I can’t. All I can focus on is the mind-numbing pain.
Chapter 7
THE FIRST THING I notice as I pull myself from sleep is how rank my breath is. My teeth and tongue are covered in a layer of fuzz that would offend most bums. I let out a stinky, frustrated breath. Waking up, no matter the time, always sucks. But this morning sucks even worse, because I’m cramping all over. My back aches, and so do my legs and arms. I move slightly and cringe from the stiffness that’s set into my entire body. I lift my head from my pillow and open my eyes, finding that I’m shrouded in near total darkness.
Across the small room is a wide, single-pane window that’s mostly covered by thick blinds, but slivers of pale light shine through. It’s just barely enough to confirm the fear that’s been creeping up since taking that first rank breath of alertness. I’m not at home.
I’m not the kind of girl who can assume that she tied one on the night before and let a stranger take her home. And I’m really not the kind of girl who wakes up, achy all over, in a room she doesn’t recognize. At least not anymore.
“Mindy,” I rasp out and swing my head from one side of the room to the other. Everything around me blurs, and I slow myself down so I don’t pass out. I call for Mindy again, only to find that she’s not answering. Surely, if I’m in a strange place, there must be an explanation for it. And Mindy and I do just about everything together now that I’ve moved home, so if I’m here, that must mean she is, too.
The door on the far side of the room swings open. An imposing body, too large to be a woman, stands in the doorway, blocking the light hanging overhead behind him. His shadow casts into the room, disappearing in the darkness, and a brief spark of recognition ignites somewhere in me. A huge bulking frame leans over me with his hand on my lower abdomen, above my hip.
Grady.
I move back toward the headboard, but dull pains emanate from just above my right hip and I let my arms fall to my sides as I sink back into the mattress. It reminds me of everything that happened, and I groan. The last person I want to rely on is Sterling Grady.
He lifts his arm and flicks the light on, temporarily blinding me. When my vision returns I see that my surroundings are sparsely decorated, with only the basics present. This space is clearly impersonal.
Grady stares at me from his position in the doorway. He looks so cold and calculating. Something feels different about him now, not that he’s ever been particularly friendly in the past. He strides into the room, and it’s like he’s brought an arctic blast with him. He’s all hulking muscle and wide strides and penetrating gaze.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. He clears his throat and eyes my belly. It’s likely the first kind thing he’s said to me.
“I’m sore,” I say. “Shouldn’t I be at the hospital?”
“What do you remember?” he asks, totally ignoring my question. Just like always, he redirects the conversation to where he wants it to go. Control freak.
“Pardon?” I say, trying to stall. My women’s intuition is on high alert, telling me that something isn’t right here. I’ve spent most of my life with the club at arms’ length, and have gone to school with a few of the members of the club—and some of their wives and girlfriends. I’m not na?ve enough to think that the club doesn’t run this town. Uncle Harry is always complaining about how the club members can get away with murder—and he’s quite convinced they have—as long as they continue to fund new playgrounds and keep the drug deals beyond the town’s border.