‘Emelia, I couldn’t get a clean shot.’” She imitated Dad’s accent, with long e sounds and thick consonants. “Where have I heard that before? Those stitches would look bad on a corpse. We’re going to do them right.”
She disappeared down the hall and returned with a suture kit and a needle.
“No drugs.”
“Brynner Carson—”
I held up my hand the way Dad did. “No drugs. Drugs leaveyou—”
The sting of a needle on my shoulder bit me like a fly. As fast as it came, she pulled the needle out and shoved it into a sharps container. “Stubborn Carson men.”
I rubbed my shoulder. “I don’t need stitches on my arm. Or vitamin D. And I had a tetanus shot at both hospitals.”
“Fine. Be that way, but get out of my kitchen chair. Lie in the recliner, and I’ll stitch you up.” She practically yanked the chair out from under me.
The hours of flying, the stress of so many days on the edge wore on me, and I stumbled my way to the recliner. Once I’d relaxed, she snapped on nitrile gloves and opened a new set of syringes.
“I said no drugs—” Somewhere along the way, she’d replaced my hands with iron anvils. Even my eyelids took supreme force to keep open.
“I heard you.” She injected me along both sides of the wound, counting off in steady time.
The numb feeling that spread along the wounds should have caused my heart to rattle in my chest, but the adrenaline wouldn’t come.
“Is the Valium taking effect?” She looked into my eyes, gauging my pupils. “You look nice and comfy. Let’s get that wound sewn up right.”
And that right there, was why I hated going home.
GRACE
Showering in a strange person’s house was exotic by my standards. I lived a quiet life, doing my best to make sure nothing of importance happened around, to, or by me. Still, the rules my mother taught me growing up stayed with me.
Be clean.
Be quiet.
Her third rule, “be careful,” I didn’t need. Mom’s bad choices in men weren’t my bad choices. No, I’d made all new ones of my own. And lived with the consequences every day.
When I cut off the water and toweled dry, I found my clothes missing. Replaced, in fact, by a mishmash of clothes that might have fit when I was thirteen, or might be wearable when I’m fifty. Still, it beat wearing co-org blood and smelling like hospital. Once I was dressed, I found my way back to the living room.
There, the woman Brynner called Aunt Emelia leaned over him, working a needle and thread through his skin in a way that made my stomach churn. She glanced up at me. “We’re almost done here. Brynner got the bad end of a meat-skin. Maybe next time he’ll shoot it instead of shaking hands with it.”
Brynner stared off into space, his eyes glassy.
“Is there something wrong with him?” I waved a hand in front of his face.
She nodded. “He’s got Heinrich Carson’s genes and my sister’s stubbornness. I gave him something to help him relax. Boy’s still with us. Just moving slow.”
It registered to me he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His muscles, even at rest, showed clearly, from wide pectorals to an abdomen that said if he ate the fries, he ran the stairs.
Scars covered his tanned skin. From the new one, a slash that started at his abdomen and worked its way up to his collar bone, to dozens of white bars, burns and scratches.
I didn’t mean to stare. Or to admire his body. What sort of strength did he have? Where on earth had he gotten those scars?
“He’s always had a fine build.” Aunt Emelia nodded to me. “Well, not always. In the fourth grade he had a chest like a pencil and ran around with a squeaky voice like a parrot.”
My cheeks heated up, and I stammered a protest.
“So how did you and Brynner meet?”
At those words, his head lolled over in my direction, his eyes pleading with me. The legendary Brynner Carson didn’t look so impressive now.
“A briefing. We met at a field briefing. The first time I’d ever seen him up close.”
Brynner let out a sigh, relaxing back.
“Not the first time I’d ever heard of him, of course.”
Brynner’s eyes fluttered open, and his gaze locked on me.
Emelia shook her head. “I’ll bet not. What do you think now that you know him?”
I wanted to relish this moment, but fear wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed, my own, or others. I spoke with care, choosing