“Ozzie!” She pulled his bloody head into her lap and shook his shoulders. “Ozzie! Ozzie!” she shrieked his name over and over until her vocal cords shredded. She angrily shook off the hands that tried to grab her and lift her away, instead rocking Ozzie’s limp body.
She had survived her father’s murder, two kidnappings, and Venom’s assault. But she wouldn’t survive this. The pain of this would kill her.
Then…he moved. Or at least she thought he did.
“Ozzie!” she yelled for the bazillionth time, touching his face.
One brilliant blue eye popped open. Then another. She brushed away some of the blood from his cheeks and brow.
He seemed to have trouble focusing on her. Lifting a hand to his temple, he pushed back his hair to finger the shallow groove of raw flesh where the bullet had grazed his head.
“Oh, Ozzie!” She cupped his wonderful face in her hands. His whiskers tickled her palms. The heat from his tan skin reassured her.
Then he said the most wonderful, welcome word she’d ever heard. “Ow.”
Chapter 21
Ozzie sat on the ambulance’s back bumper and let a bespectacled paramedic stitch up his scalp. She kept referring to the wound as a “head lac” which he assumed was short for head laceration. And holy shit. He was lucky it was just a laceration. One inch to the right, and he’d be counting worms right now. Although, there was lucky and then there was good. For most of his life, he’d been both.
He blew out a steadying breath and shifted when the paramedic hit a spot that hadn’t been completely deadened by local anesthetic. She was jibber-jabbering about something. Her weekend plans maybe? But he was only giving her half an ear because he was trying to eavesdrop on the conversation Samantha was having with Carver and Washington over by Carver’s unmarked cruiser.
“Called the guy Raheem,” she said, and something about the name wiggled Ozzie’s antenna. “The only other information I have is that they took the SUV to a local junkyard where, supposedly, it’s already been smashed into a cube of mangled steel.”
“That’s good enough for now.” Washington nodded. “That gives us enough to go on and a reason to round them all up.”
“Once you do round them all up, you tell that maple-syrup judge of yours that they’re flight risks. Bail, or lack thereof, should be set accordingly.”
Fifteen minutes ago, she’d been wailing his name, rocking him in her lap, and pressing hot, desperate kisses to his face. Now, she was all business. She’d wiped most of the blood—his blood—off her face, and her voice was remarkably steady. A little thin and reedy from all the screaming. But steady all the same.
She is one tough cookie, he thought with admiration, knowing it must have been terrifying for her to see him go down like that. Just as terrifying as it had been for him to see that ass munch of a flower shop owner drawing down on her. The memory alone was enough to have his stomach threatening to spew its contents into the world. And since he never did get the opportunity to eat, chances were good those contents would be nothing but bile and acid.
“You should go to the hospital for a head CT,” the paramedic said, concentrating on finishing the last stitches.
“I’ve had my bell rung a lot harder than that,” he assured her. “Got a thick skull. Or so my boss always says. I’ll be fine.”
“Had your bell rung harder than a bullet?” She blinked at him, her dark eyes huge behind her glasses.
He shrugged.
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips. “How long were you out again?”
“Handful of seconds.”
“Probably just a minor concussion. It was a glancing blow. Still, you should practice precaution tonight. Have someone wake you up every hour.”
“Done and done,” he told her.
“Speaking of done,” she chirped, “we’re all done here.”
Now that he didn’t have to keep his head turned to the side, he snagged a peek at her name tag. “Thank you, Ms. Mancini.”
“It’s Cheryl.” She grinned at him, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “But my friends call me Cheri.”
She was sweet. And young. “Well then, thank you, Cheri.”
She handed him a little handheld mirror so he could check out her skill with the needle and thread. “It looks a little Frankenstein-y right now,” she said in a rush, eager to reassure him. “But that’s just from the swelling. Once that goes down, you’ll be golden. Not to brag or anything, but I’m known around town as having surgeon’s hands. My stitching is the best.”
Little did she know that whatever scar this encounter left behind, it was nothing compared to the damage his body had sustained from an incendiary device. He was reminded of the way Samantha had kissed his mangled thigh, her lips so hot, her words so sweet. Despite his blood loss, the memory had his crotch tightening.
His eyes went to the woman herself. To the way she gestured while talking. To how she cocked her head, listening intently to whatever Washington told her.
He loved her. Loved everything about her. Her fierce heart and even fiercer mind. That little gap between her two front teeth and the noises she made when ecstasy overtook her. The list went on and on. And he got it now. Understood the depth of the possessiveness, the devotion, the bonds his brothers-in-arms felt for their women. It was all-consuming. All-encompassing. Wonderful and terrible at the same time.
Too bad it only goes one way…
Or maybe it wasn’t too bad. Because what the fuck would he have done if it went both ways? He couldn’t tell her who he really was. What he really was.
His tumultuous thoughts were enough to have him turning back to the paramedic. She was looking at him with concern. And he realized he hadn’t responded.
Giving his stitched wound a cursory glance, he handed the mirror back to her and winked. “Looks great to me.”
“Oh good,” she enthused, covering the stitches with a bandage before snapping off her gloves.
From the corner of his eye, Ozzie saw Carver reach into his pocket and pull out a bag of Cheetos. Just the sight of the cheesy, salty snack had his stomach grumbling.
Wish the damned thing would make up its mind. One minute, it wanted to evacuate its contents. The next minute, it reminded him that it didn’t have any contents.
“You know,” Cheri said, biting her lip. “My shift ends in thirty minutes, and I make a mean batch of linguini with clam sauce.” Apparently his stomach’s gastronomical songs of hunger were louder than he realized. “You could come over to my place.”