motives other than to replace all his red meat with chicken and beans and make him eat diabetic friendly. And if you have any more questions about my integrity, then perhaps you should be a better friend and hang around the man so you can see how we interact.” I moved to the driver’s side of my car and opened the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my boyfriend and his washing machine.”
He didn’t respond, just moved to the side so I could back my car up, but as I made the turn toward the road, Big Joe as still watching me, looking none too pleased. I probably should have been more understanding of his concern for Hank, but I’d also seen how lonely Hank had been. I was loyal to the people who were loyal to me.
As I pulled away, I couldn’t help wondering if Big Joe wasn’t just angry at me for calling him out about Hank. Maybe he’d hoped the conversation would go another way, just like I had, and he was pissed I’d turned it around. In the end, I decided I had bigger worries than Big Joe I’d just ask Hank about him in the morning when I put the pressure on him to tell me everything he knew about Louise. Right now I had to figure out how I was going to explain the bruises on my arm and keep Marco out of jail for assault.
Chapter Six
I was in Marco’s kitchen when he got home, stir-frying some chicken and veggies. When he saw me, barefoot and wearing shorts and a flowy summer top, a huge grin spread across his face. He walked over, still in his uniform, and silently pulled me to him, dipping me slightly as he gave me a deep, soulful kiss. Then he lifted his head and stared into my eyes, not saying a word.
I smiled up at him. “Hey.”
A look of deep satisfaction filled his eyes. “I could get used to comin’ home to this.”
“With me barefoot and in the kitchen?” I teased.
“More like findin’ you here at all. You have no idea how good it feels after the day I had.”
My smile faded. “You had a bad day?”
He grimaced. “It wasn’t the greatest.” Releasing me, he walked over to the cabinet where he kept his over-the-counter medication and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen. He granted me a pained grin as he opened the bottle. “That’s not tofu in that pan, is it?”
I laughed. “Sadly no. I made this entirely from things you already had in your pantry and fridge. I didn’t have time to go to the store.” I lifted a brow. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking a couple of tablets into his hand. “Nothing some ibuprofen and holding you won’t fix.”
My heart melted, but the look on his face said he was hurting more than he’d let on. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Go sit on the sofa and I’ll bring you a bowl.”
“Okay,” he said, his relief palpable.
He filled a glass with water, downed his pills, then gave me another kiss before leaving for the living room. It was then I noticed his slight limp.
I finished the stir-fry and scooped some onto the rice in the waiting bowls before bringing our food and some silverware into the living room.
Marco was sitting on the sofa, his head leaned back and his eyes closed. His left leg was extended onto the coffee table and he was rubbing his thigh—where he’d been shot last November.
Setting the bowls on the coffee table, I sat down next to him and placed my hand next to his on his thigh.
His eyes opened into narrow slits. “You tryin’ to cop a feel?”
“How bad does it hurt?” I asked, beginning to massage his tense thigh muscle.
He didn’t answer, just leaned back his head and groaned.
“Does that hurt?” I asked, snatching my hand back, horrified that I might have made his pain worse.
“It does, but it also feels good. Keep going.”
Using both hands, I continued to massage his thigh for the next several minutes. Marco kept his eyes closed and released a mixture of satisfied and agonized grunts and groans.
“How bad is it, Marco?” I asked quietly as I continued to rub. “Scale of one to ten?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled.
“Yes, you do,” I encouraged softly. “How bad?”
He sat up slightly and opened his mouth—and then shut it again and swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. A resigned look washed over