by Elise Faber
Behind, he thought. Becca was better off behind him. He shoved her back, was surprised when she didn’t fight the action.
Hopefully, she was finally starting to realize how bad of a situation this was.
“Just go, Mick,” she said. “This isn’t worth it.”
“Quiet,” Devon hissed. His head was pounding, his hand hurt like hell, and his vision was going suspiciously black around the edges.
Becca stiffened, snapped out, “I’m just trying to—”
“Shh.” Devon put a hand to his temple, trying to rub the bleariness away. Where the fuck was Pascal?
“Don’t shh—”
God, he would have loved the fire in her tone, the spunk in her words… if only he weren’t about to pass out.
“Shh.” He shoved the phone into her hand. “9-1-1.”
“Devon?”
“Fine.”
Except he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t form full sentences, let alone protect her.
“But…”
He turned slightly, curled her fingers around the phone. “Call… 9-1-1.”
A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye told him that Mick was moving. Unfortunately, he wasn’t running away.
He was charging toward them.
Devon turned, but he was too slow.
Mick tackled him to the ground. Devon felt the hot burn of pain, a liquid lightning spurt of hurt in his side before he managed to flip them and pin Mick to the ground.
Black stuck like treacle to the edges of his vision, drawing him in, pulling him under.
He scrabbled for Mick’s shoulders, trying to stop the other man’s flailing, to just get him to stop, but his movements were clumsy and ineffective.
Another sting. Another gush of hot liquid down his side.
Then hands were on his back, pulling him away. Voices yelling to get down, to stay down, the sound of a struggle and the unique thunking sound that only came from fist meeting flesh.
“No,” he said, struggling to sit up. “Becca. Safe.”
“Here,” came her voice, tight with fear and worry. “I-I’m fine. But Devon you’re—”
Devon managed to meet her eyes, to see she was unhurt for himself.
“Good,” he muttered and let the blackness take him under.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WAITING ROOM CHAIRS. Stiff. Uncomfortable. Riddled with germs.
Becca hated them with a passion.
And not because of the creepy-crawlies or that it felt like she was sitting on a pile of bricks.
But because she was always out here.
And the people she cared about were always in there.
Taken behind heavy wooden doors, pushed through stark corridors, cared for by men and women with gloves and masks — who worked tirelessly to save the body and worried about the person inside second.
Which was how it should be.
Trouble was, she was out here.
Trouble was, she was helpless.
With a groan, Becca pulled her knees up, crossed her arms over them, and buried her head in the little makeshift shelter.
Poor Devon. This was all her fault.
Why had she taken him into the alley? Why had she kissed him? Why had she dated a freaking psychopath who pulled knives on people?
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she didn’t bother to brush it away.
Misery.
It filled every cell, made her wish for a different day, a different life. When money hadn’t been so important. When she hadn’t needed two jobs, and she could have shielded a good man from the mess that was her life.
She should have never brought her personal life to work. No. She should have never taken the job at Prestige.
But she had. And because of her, Devon was hurt.
It was all her fault.
More tears escaped, dripping down her temples and pooling on the fabric of her jacket.
No, not her jacket. Devon’s jacket. And great, now she was crying harder because Devon was sweet and kind and had given her his jacket when she’d been cold, and now she’d ruined everything and… and—
“Hey.” Devon.
She opened her eyes, peered through the gap between her legs. Booted feet stood directly in front of her chair.
He sounded exhausted, but she was afraid to look, afraid of what else she might see in his face.
“Becca,” he said. “Look at me.”
Wordlessly, she shook her head. Or really, rubbed her face against the cotton jacket since she was still ostrich-ing it and wouldn’t glance up.
A grunt, and then he was on his knees in front of her.
Gasping, she lifted her head. “Devon, you shouldn’t—”
“There you are,” he murmured, his tone beyond gentle. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”
The endearment and soft words didn’t help her get it together. More tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. He was okay. Somehow, he was okay.
And concerned for her.
It defied logic.
Calloused fingers brushed the drops away. “I’m fine. Are you?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, gazes locked, emotions swirling between them. What Becca most felt was relief, followed a close second by guilt, but underneath both of those was the sense of rightness she always felt when Devon was near. His feelings were harder to sense. His eyes definitely held relief and discomfort and even warmth, but there was also something deeper underneath it all — a thread of something more that made her want to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
Then Devon winced, and she was a flurry of motion.
She burst to her feet, grabbing for his arm. “You shouldn’t— You’re hurt… the floor.”
Levering her shoulder beneath his, she lifted, struggled, mentally uttered a really bad curse word, and managed to get him to his feet.
Mostly because Devon helped her.
“I should call Pascal,” she said once he was steady. “He’ll need—”
“He’s pulling the car around,” Devon said. “We ditched the wheels.” He nodded to the empty blue wheelchair in the corner. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” she lied.
After the ambulance left, she’d talked to the police and promised to come down to the station in the morning, if they’d only let her go to the hospital.
They’d been understanding, had suggested that she get checked out herself.
But bruises didn’t need an ER doc’s attention. Neither did an overdose of guilt.
One of the officers had driven her to the hospital, and she’d parked her butt in the chair.
That had been hours ago.
“Come on,” she said, spotting Pascal coming back through the automatic doors. “Let’s get you home.”
She opened the passenger door and watched miserably as Devon painfully maneuvered himself inside.
Becca didn’t speak, and neither did Pascal, but once the door was closed and she had stepped back onto the curb, he touched her arm.
“Not your fault.”
She swallowed hard. “Of course not.” A pause. “How bad?”
“Three wounds. Thirty-seven stitches. A huge lump on his head but no concussion.”
Oh, look at that. The moon was bright and… blurry. At least until she blinked rapidly for several seconds.
“Okay.” She nodded, pulled out her phone, opened the Uber app. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“No, Ms. Stealing.” Pascal shook his head at the same moment the window whirred down.
“Get in the car, Becca,” Devon snapped. “And for once in your life, don’t give me attitude.”
Her eyes were wide; she could feel it. Devon never talked to her like that.
But all things considered — stab wounds, head lumps, crazy exes — she guessed she could give him a pass.
She got in the car.
Pascal came around and slid into the driver’s seat. A moment later, they were off.
Becca opened her mouth when they bypassed her exit and headed toward the more-expensive part of town but quickly closed it. She could catch a cab home later. The sooner Devon was resting in his own bed the better.
They stopped briefly at a gate. Pascal pressed a button on a remote to open it before driving up a winding road. Near the top they stopped, and Becca’s breath hitched.
It was beautiful.
The huge craftsman-style house was painted in dark gray, the trim a bright white. Flowers spilled from ceramic pots and crawled over the planter beds in cheerful disarray. Stone-covered columns enclosed a tidy porch, completed with wicker furniture and a two-seater swing.
Her eyes were just tracing the lovely woodwork of the front door when the car moved forward again, and they pushed into the garage.
She blinked at the sudden transition, from charming and warm to bland and wholly male. Sports equipment lined the walls — Pascal might as well have been parking in the middle of Dick’s. The other side held cabinets and a workbench, drills and hammers and other strange-looking tools all hanging above it in perfect precision.
The car door slammed, and Becca jumped before getting her butt in motion.
She popped the handle, pushed out, and… promptly ran into Pascal.
“Sorry,” she muttered, shuffling out of the way as he moved to help Devon, who for some reason decided he was going to try and get out of the car by himself.
“Fuc—” He glanced at Becca. “Frack.” He sank back down, his jaw clenched tight, his skin almost gray.
And cue more guilt.
Pascal grabbed Devon’s arm and waist, tugging him free of the leather seat. Muttered curses — or rather, aborted ones — rained out of his mouth as they moved and Becca slid by them to open the door.
“Wait—” Pascal began.
Harsh beeping erupted around her. She froze, listening to the alarm before spiraling into motion. Lights. She needed lights. A bank of switches was on the wall near the door, and she scrabbled to turn them on. Except, no matter which one she hit, the inside of the house didn’t get any brighter.
A hand reached over her shoulder and calmly pressed a switch. The same one she was sure she’d hit ten times over.
The lights flicked on.
“7-8-4-1 and enter,” Devon said, pointing to a panel on the wall that looked frighteningly technological.
Swallowing, Becca pressed the buttons and hit enter. The horrible beeping sound stopped. She blew out a breath.
“The police will be here in—”
“What?” she all but shrieked.
Devon gave her a goofy half smile and chuckled before breaking off with a wince. “Kidding.”
“Come on,” Pascal said, tugging Devon forward. He nodded at a row of kitchen stools. “Wait here. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need—” Two exasperated sets of male eyes swiveled toward her and, hands raised in surrender, she sank down onto a stool. “Fine,” she muttered.
Devon inclined his head at her then let Pascal lead him from the room.
Becca sat… for all of a minute. Which was the point when she began getting antsy and feeling like she should be doing something.
She stood and paced the kitchen for a few minutes then remembered Devon’s bag of medicine was in the car. She retrieved it and read his discharge instructions so she knew what he would need next and the dosage.
Since one of the meds required food, she bustled around the kitchen until she found the fridge — no easy feat considering the space was sleekly modern with built-in panels on every appliance except the double oven.
Good Lord, she’d love to bake in that.
Which so wasn’t the point, she reminded herself and extracted a loaf of bread from the fridge before searching out the toaster and popping a slice inside.
While she waited for it to finish, she scrounged out a cup and filled it with water before laying out the pills on a napkin.
By the time Pascal came back into the kitchen, the toast was ready on a plate, and Becca was cleaning the already spotless countertop.
Pascal stopped short at the sight, the corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. “I’ll take you home now, Ms. Stealing.”
“It’s time for Devon’s medication.” She picked up the instructions. “They say he’s supposed to have a pain pill before he goes to bed.”
“Mr. Scott won’t take it.”
“But the doctor—”
Pascal sighed, shook his head. “He won’t. He doesn’t believe in taking anything stronger than over-the-counter medication.”
“This is a stupid male thing.”
“This is growing up with a father who was addicted to Oxycontin and making a promise to yourself to never be in the same position.”
Becca froze at the sound of Devon’s voice then felt her jaw drop at the matter-of-fact statement.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah.” Devon limped into the room, and her jaw dropped again, albeit for a different reason.
He was deliciously rumpled, and, even hurt and pale and clearly exhausted, Devon was still sexy as all get-out. His T-shirt skimmed the muscles of his chest, made her want to trace her hands over the fabric, to feel the muscles beneath. His hair was disheveled, as though some woman — Becca couldn’t deny she wished it had been her — had run her fingers through it.
Even the flannel pajama pants he had on were hot, riding low and exposing a strip of skin she very much wanted to taste.
Devon tilted his head, lips twitching. “Something on my face?” Except the way he’d said face made it seem dirtier, like he’d caught her eyes drifting south and liked that she’d been looking.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and Pascal coughed — or maybe chuckled, the jerk — before turning away.
“No,” Becca said and snatched up the pill before grabbing the bottle of painkillers and taking it over to the sink.
She dropped it down the drain before remembering her ecology class from college and how it was bad for the environment to dispose of medication that way. Poop. Her eyes locked on to the rubber covering of the garbage disposal, and she sighed heavily.
“Becca?” Devon sounded confused.
Her shoulders slumped as she set the bottle on the counter. She couldn’t even do a simple thing like throw something away correctly.
Eyes burning, she blinked and forced her voice to be steady. “I’m ready to go home now.”
“Hey.” He touched her arm. “What’s the matter?”
And that was it. All of her calm faded, and the emotions that had been roiling under the surface of her skin for the last hours burst forth.
“What’s the matter?” she screeched. “What’s the matter? You’re kidding me, right? You’re not seriously asking that, are you? Because in the last twenty-four hours, my car’s been vandalized, my boss has kissed me, then was hit on the head and stabbed by my ex-boyfriend, and n-now I’ve probably murdered some poor d-defenseless sea l-lion—”
She burst into tears.
Too far gone to care that Pascal and Devon were probably exchanging the-girl-is-nuts looks, Becca slumped against the counter and buried her face in her hands.
The arm around her shoulders surprised her.
“Hey. It’s okay,” Devon said.
Which — of freaking course — made her cry all that much harder. Because Devon was comforting her. After everything that had happened over the last few hours, he was being nice.
When, for all intents and purposes, he should be royally pissed.
Oh God. There her mind went again, saying naughty words when six months before, such a thing would have never crossed her tongue, mental or otherwise.
She straightened, looked Devon right in his chocolaty eyes and said, “I blame you.”
His jaw dropped open in surprise. He glanced down toward his torso, no doubt cataloging the list of injuries that were defini
tely not his fault. “Uhh.”
“Oh!” Good grief, her emotions were cycling. Crying one second, cursing the next, and confusing the heck out of everyone else in the process. “I— Shit.” She gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Becca.”
She shook her head. “I need to go.” Except, it sounded like “Shmf a pog.”
Devon peeled her fingers from her lips. “Come again.”
“I need to go.” Becca took a slinking step to the side. “I didn’t mean that—” She pointed to Devon’s yummy and rather abused torso. “—was your fault. Of course not. Just the cursing.”
Yes. That was good. She nodded, wiped her cheeks. Now to make her escape.
“The cursing?” He raised a brow.
Another step toward the garage, her hand was on her purse. “Uh-huh. You curse too much. And now you’re corrupting me.”
Devon’s eyes danced with amusement. “I do curse too much.” He tilted his head. “What kind of curse words are crossing that innocent mind of yours? Dang? Heck?”
Oh really? Now he was going to tease her?
“I’ll have you know—”
“What’s this about a sea lion?”
“I—”
A frown pulled his brows together. “Where’s Pascal?”
Becca glanced around, saw they were alone in the kitchen. She crossed to the door, opened it… and sighed.
The garage was empty, the gears from the garage door’s motor still clinking as it settled back into place.
Devon came up behind her.
She knew that despite not hearing his footsteps, knew he was mere inches behind her because her spine tingled, gooseflesh spread on her nape, and, of course, the heat. The heat that spread through her limbs, soaked into her skin, burned through her nerves.
The spark that always existed between her and Devon flashed to life, threatened to incinerate the room.
She couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk reducing her heart to ashes.
“Pascal. Always with the matchmaking,” he muttered, and panic gripped Becca. It was already hard enough to resist Devon without someone throwing them together.
“Match—”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You can take the Jeep. You do know how to drive a stick, don’t you?”
