“I don’t have time for this shit,” I grumbled.
“Come on, brother.” Hawk gave me a thoughtful pat on the shoulder. “It might be worth hearing her out.”
“Fine. Just make it quick.”
Widow looked over to Remington and asked her, “You want to tell him, or should I?”
Remington’s expression was completely blank as she sat there with her drink in her hand. I was expecting her to respond to Widow when she said, “You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah. It’s just a scratch.”
“That looks like more than a scratch, Noah. There’s blood all over your clothes.”
“I’m fine, Remington.” Not wanting to make a big deal out of it, I grumbled, “You gonna tell me the idea or what?”
“Fine.” She took a long sip of her drink, finishing it off before saying, “I’ve been thinking about a way to explain where I’ve been all this time and how it can be used to get to that bad detective...The one who was there the night Thomas Long and I were attacked.”
“Detective Mathews?”
“Yeah.” She leaned forward with an edge of excitement in her voice. “I was thinking we could make it look like he kidnapped me that night. We could figure out where he lives, and—”
“No.”
“But I’m not done—”
“No, not gonna happen,” I cut her off. “No way in hell I’m going to put you in danger like that, Remington.”
“That’s just it. I won’t be in danger. We’ll go when he isn’t there, and then—”
“Are you drunk or just plain crazy?”
“Crazy?” A sour look crossed her face as she said, “This coming from a man who had a guy chained up like a dog in the office for God knows how long. Pfft. Only thing missing there was a dog collar and bowl of puppy chow, and you think my idea is crazy? Seriously?”
“She’s got ya there, brother.” Rafe snickered. “And honestly, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
“See!” Remington replied excitedly. “He thinks it’s a good idea too.”
It was bad enough that my woman was sassing me, but the fact that my brothers were enjoying the show made it that much worse. Hell, it looked like they were all about to erupt into laughter, and I just wasn’t in the mood for that shit. I reached for Remington’s arm and gave her a gentle tug. “I think it’s time for us to call it a night.”
Remington
Noah didn’t say a word as he led me down the hall and back to his room. I knew I’d made him mad. It was written all over his face, but I was just trying to help. And honestly, I thought my idea was a good one. Sure, it could all blow up in my face, but if it meant getting my life back, it would be worth it. I just had to convince Noah I was strong enough to handle it. But before I brought it up again, I wanted to see about his arm. He’d tried to play it off, but I knew something bad had happened to him. Not only was there blood on his sleeve, but his jacket and t-shirt were also soaked in it. Hoping he might open up to me, I walked over to him and placed my hand on his chest.
“Are you okay?”
“I already told you, I’m fine.” He took off his leather jacket and laid it across the chair, and I gasped when I saw all the blood covering his shirt. Before I could ask, he quickly removed it and tossed it to the floor. As he started towards the bathroom, he said, “I’m going to take a shower.”
“You aren’t going to tell me what happened to you?”
“Nothing to tell.”
“You can’t be serious,” I argued. “You’re covered in blood, and it looks like someone put a hot poker to your arm.”
“It’s just a graze.”
“You mean a bullet graze?” I gasped. “You were shot?”
“I can’t get into this with you, Remington.”
Cutting me off, he continued towards the bathroom, and seconds later, I heard the shower turn on. I just stood there completely stunned, trying to piece together the few facts I had, and it didn’t take much to come to the realization that he’d been in some kind of altercation—one that led him to being shot. Horrified by the thought, I went into the bathroom to confront him. By the time I walked in, he was already undressed and in the shower. Unwilling to let it deter me, I eased the sliding door back and asked, “What happened to you, Noah?”
“I already told you”—he leaned into the water, letting it stream down his muscular shoulders—“that I can’t get into it with you.”
“Can you at least tell me if this had something to do with me and what happened the night I was attacked?”
“Let’s just say it’s been handled.”
Something about his tone suggested that I didn’t need or want to know what he meant by it having “been handled,” so I didn’t push for more. Instead, I slipped off my clothes and stepped into the shower. As I inched closer, I placed my hands on his back, letting my fingers drift along his spine and down his shoulders. When I reached the bandage on his bicep, I leaned forward and whispered, “Are you sure you’re okay?”