So Jeremy would have to be on a need-to-know.
A click turned off his desk light, plunging the room into darkness. He wasn’t gonna sweat the tattoo. It was the least of the problems he’d have tomorrow. Take a frickin’ number.
On a deep sigh, he sank to the edge of the couch, made quick work of removing his boots and socks, and tugged off his shirt. The action brought to mind Becca’s voice. Take your shirt off.
Her hands had been soothing against his skin, adding a dose of solace to the seizing ache of his side and lower back after Murda’s dirty kidney hit and his little run-in with the counter. Her touch had gentled as she’d examined the area around his scars, like she’d known he hurt there. And she had. She’d known he hadn’t been taking regular breaths, she’d observed his posture and understood what it had meant. They’d known each other but a few days. Either she was a damn good nurse or she could read his body and his tells already. Probably both. He didn’t know whether to be horrified or to take her into his arms and never let her go.
’Cause that thought was really fucking helpful right now.
Maybe it wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny that Becca’s hands had touched him in places that lay deeper than his skin.
On a sigh, he undid his jeans and added those to the pile of clothes, but he left the cotton boxers on so Becca didn’t find him lying bare-assed out here in the morning.
Stretching out, Rixey threw the cover over himself. No matter how he lay, his back screamed. Finally, he turned into a position in the neighborhood of tolerable and closed his eyes. And found himself looking at the picture of that jackhole jamming a knife into Becca’s ribs.
Jesus.
He blinked the image away and tried again.
And this time saw the horror on her face as she stared at Charlie’s finger. The blood had literally drained from her skin. If Beckett hadn’t hauled the garbage can in front of her . . . well, it was a good thing he had. And then the guy had held her hair out of her face—all Rixey had felt toward that touch was gratitude for the man’s compassion and help. In that moment, every bit of anger he’d been holding onto from the fight had fizzled out of him. Murda was a good man. They all were.
But the rage they felt had the power to turn them into loose cannons. He’d need to remember that. Direct it. Find a way to use it as an advantage.
The image playing against the inside of his eyelids shifted again. He saw Becca, coolly calm as she’d taken care of him after the fight. If he hadn’t found her competence and focus sexy enough, she’d had the guts to order Beckett to back off, to dress down his men, to stand up for him when it was pretty frickin’ clear a whole lot of aggression was aimed his way. When was the last time someone had stood up for him that way? He might not deserve it, but the fact that she’d done it lit him up in places that were usually deep dark.
Rixey blew out a long breath. Sleep was about as likely as stepping into a time machine, traveling back a year, and undoing the hell his life had become.
At some point, his brain miraculously and finally stopped churning, and Rixey dozed off.
Click. Click.
Rixey’s eyes popped open at the soft sounds, and his brain surfaced from the haze of sleeping. Staring into the darkness, he listened and realized what he’d heard was the bathroom door closing. A few moments later, he heard the door again just before a dark silhouette crossed the far end of his office, moving slowly and silently along the wall.
“You okay?” he said, his voice ragged in his own ears.
She gasped. “Shit, you scared me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay. What time is it?”
“About one.”
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, pushing up onto an elbow. That made the second night in a row.
“No.”
There was something in the tone of her voice . . . He needed to see her. “Shield your eyes,” he said, stretching for the lamp next to the couch. He squinted against the glow and found her standing by the door, hugging herself like she was cold. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m happy to report you’re a lousy liar.” He winked and eased into a sitting position, moving slowly because his back was still being a pain in the ass. Literally. Better than earlier, though that wasn’t saying much.
She shrugged with one shoulder. “Took me a long time to nod off,” she said, “and then I had a nightmare. So . . .”
The sadness in her words and the fear in her eyes drew him off the couch. A sudden need filled his chest. He wanted her to lean on him. He grimaced, his muscles not appreciating the too-quick movement. “Uh, sorry,” he said, grabbing and stepping into his jeans.