holding Sterling up.
“See? They’re fine,” Poppy says from the living room.
“You call this fine?”
I back up enough for Luca and Jack to help an unsteady Sterling through the door. His face is a mess. The cut over his eyebrow is slowly leaking blood into the corner of his eye, forcing him to keep it squeezed shut. Another cut on his cheek has fully clotted, but it’s still a nasty gash.
Sterling shuffles into the room, brushing off Luca and Jack—it’s obvious he wants to look like he’s in better shape than he is. He flashes me a wolfish grin. “I’m fine, Lucky. Never better.”
“Did Nikolai do this?”
“Nope,” Luca says, fighting to get the words out between laughs.
“This is courtesy of Uncle Sam, actually,” Jack clarifies unhelpfully, enjoying the look of horror on my face for a moment before continuing. “Only Ford could get in a fight with an FBI agent and not get arrested.”
“I’ve never understood why my reputation is worse than his,” Luca says. “Sterling gets into at least as much trouble as I do.”
What the fuck am I hearing?
“You fought with Noah?” I guess, not finding this nearly as funny as everyone else.
“He made it clear he wasn’t being an FBI agent at the moment I hit him. Noah and I have history, remember?” Sterling slumps into one of the stools facing the kitchen, a strange, satisfied grin spreading on his face. “It was a long time coming.”
I try to calm myself down by remembering that thirty seconds ago I was worried he would die. “As far as I remember, your plans didn’t involve meeting Noah…”
“He figured out where I was somehow. That’s why Luca was following him. He was never a danger to me, though,” Sterling adds quickly.
“Says the man in need of a hospital. Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Maybe Jack should do it,” Sterling suggests.
“Jack needs a drink, and this place is a desert,” Jack says. “Let her do it. She’s going to need to learn how.”
“Where is it?” I say, using my best don’t-fuck-with-me voice.
“In the cabinet next to the trash can,” Sterling relents.
I open the cabinet door, surprised to find there’s nothing else inside, just an olive green rucksack full of tiny compartments. I heave it free of the cabinet, surprised at the weight. “This has to weigh thirty pounds.”
“More like forty,” Sterling says, grimacing as he flexes his back.
“I need a drink, too,” Luca declares. “You in, Sutton?”
“She’s under-aged,” Sterling barks.
“I don’t think you get to pick and choose which rules to follow,” I tell him.
“For once, I’m with her,” Sutton says.
Poppy pauses, twisting her fingers together. “Maybe, I should stay…”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jack says. “I picked up a lock change kit. We should deal with that first.”
“A lock change kit?” I repeat.
“For Poppy’s place,” he says, “so that jackass can’t get in.”
“But his things are there,” she says miserably.
“We can take care of that while Jack does the locks.” Luca nudges Sutton, who nods. “We’ll get rid of it.”
“Like put it on the curb?” she asks.
“Sure,” Luca says with a shrug.
“Not set it on fire, right?” Sterling butts in.
Luca does an admirable job of looking hurt. “I wouldn’t.”
“Say it,” Sterling demands.
“We won’t set it on fire.”
I’m not sure if Sutton or Luca looks more disappointed about this.
“We’ll leave you kids alone,” Jack says, flashing a wide grin.
“How mad are you, exactly?” Sterling says, his grin slipping, as they leave. He shakes his head a little, like his thoughts are fuzzy.
“I think I’ll forgive you.” Honestly, I’m just glad he’s here in mostly one piece.
“Good, good,” he says, pulling me close to him and brushing a kiss on my lips.
It feels good. I try to kiss him back, but his head snaps back as he lets out a yelp. “Sorry, did I do something?”
“My cheek, it’s a little tender,” he says, leaning forward gingerly and pressing his lips to the curve of my neck, making me forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Hey, cut that out. Let’s get you cleaned up first.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, feigning his best southern accent.
I start digging through the first aid kit, looking for bandages and disinfectant, but I can’t find anything remotely like that. “What are these?” I ask, holding up what looks like a badly bent pair of scissors.
“Clamps,” he says simply.
“What are they even for?” I ask. The closest looking thing I’ve seen are eyelash curlers.
“Stopping arterial bleeding,” he says, letting out a chuckle that causes him to wince.
“Seriously? Where’s all the normal shit?”
“There are