Page 91 of Himbo Hitman
Wonderful.
“Who is this? Where are we going? And what the hell just happened?”
Perry loudly inhales, hair so sweaty it looks wet, as he reaches behind himself and pulls off his backpack, teeth clenched tight in pain.
“Got shot.”
“I can see that.” And as much as I’d love to remind him that he put me through the same, I can’t. I don’t like seeing Perry’s face anything but happy, and right now, it’s pinched with tension, and his big eyes hold a worry so deep I want a word with whoever put it there.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I say.
“No hospitals,” the driver throws back.
“He’s bleeding.”
“It’s his shoulder. It’ll be fine.”
“How the hell could you know what?”
The driver laughs. “You ask a lot of questions.” Then he turns up the radio.
Perry tugs open the zipper on his bag and digs around inside for a second before pulling out his phone. It’s an old thing. Bright, metallic pink, with a tiny screen on the part that flips open.
I snatch it from him. “Answer me.”
Perry’s actually shaking. “I went to the lobby to check on Walter. There were two guys there, and they were holding Margot and Elle at gunpoint. I need to make sure they got away okay.”
Before I can hand the phone back, it rings. Perry’s big, warm hand closes around mine as he takes the phone from me and snaps it open.
As soon as I make out Margot’s voice from the tinny speaker, I relax a fraction. She’s okay. I can feel it in the way Perry’s whole body relaxes.
They barely say more than a few words before he hangs up. His phone is gripped loosely in the hand resting on his thigh when he sags back and closes his eyes.
“You’ll get blood on the seat,” I tell him.
Somehow, he manages a small smile. “Look at where you’re sitting.”
I shift forward to look down and … well.Thatdoesn’t look pretty. “Please tell me this isn’t the first time you’ve been shot.”
“It’s the first time.”
“I don’t want to know what those stains are, do I?”
“Couldn’t tell you even if you did.”
Wonderful. I give myself a second to adjust to the reality that I’m sitting on a lot of someone else’s blood before I move stiffly back into place. “Nice car.”
“It’s reliable.”
His sleepy voice draws my attention back to him. I don’t like how gray his face is going or the way he’s got sweat still building at his hairline.
“How are you feeling?” I stupidly ask.
“Sore.”
“Yeah, but besides that.”
Finally, his eyes crack open, and he looks at me through amusement. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
