Page 9 of The Bad Brother
Like he can read my mind, Colt gives me a sidelong glance. “Reese busted a couple of creekers for drunkdriving,” he tells me in a casual tone. “They told her they were coming from here.”
“Well, they weren’t lyin’,” I say with a shrug. “Showed up around nine. Strutted around the pool table like a couple of near-sighted peacocks for about an hour before they left.”
Colt lets out a loud bark of laughter that draws more than one disapproving glare. Smothering the rest of the sound with his hand and a mutteredsorry, he shakes his head. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” I ask, even though I think I already know.
“One of them told Reese the owner of the Barrett Mill got them both drunk and robbed them.” Even though it’s a serious accusation, Colt doesn’t sound like he’s taking it seriously at all.
“They were already drunk when they got here,” I say in a low tone so as not to draw any more angry looks from the Ladies’ Auxiliary. “And I didn’trobthem. I hustled them.” When all he does is stare at me, I feel my face fold into a scowl. I hate it when he pulls that cop shit on me and he knows it. “I offered to have Austin drive them home.” It’s a bold-faced lie but I tell it without hesitation. Austin will back my play. He always does. Without fail and without question.
Before I can ask him if I need to worry about it, Colt shakes his head on another quiet laugh. “Reese found open containers all over the car,” he tells me with acalm downgesture. “As for the money—” he shrugs. “As far as I’m concerned, it was a toll for crossing the bridge.”
I took two grand off them in less than a half hour.
Each.
That’s a hell of a toll.
“Look—” unfolding one of his arms, Colt slaps me on the back. “I’m not trying to bust your balls. Just trying to give you a friendly warning that you’re back on their radar. Might be a good idea to take a vacation. Give ‘em some time to forget about you again.”
Forget about me again.
They forgot about me the second I was led out of that courtroom in handcuffs. The only one who can’t seem toforgetabout me is my brother, and that little dickhead can go fuck himself.
“Yeah…” I shake my head, trying to temper my tone because stick-up-his-ass or not, Colt is a friend. More than a friend, he’s family. All he’s trying to do is what he thinks is best for me. “I’m not doin’ that.”
“I didn’t think so.” Colt gives me a flat smile. “If you’re serious about the motel, I’ll call Dave so we can start the ball rolling on getting these people somewhere warm and safe for the night.”
“I’m serious.” I give him a head nod. “I’ll go find Cade and tell him to get us a bus so we can get everyone over there.”
Planned formed and tasks assigned, Colt and I walk away from each other so we can get shit done.
AN HOUR LATER, THE PARKING LOT ISempty, save for the tent, left behind by Mrs. Lawrence from the Ladies’ Auxiliary, with a promise to collect it in the morning. Since Idon’t really care about it either way, I told her she can leave it there for as long as she needed to.
Sending Cade and Sera home to their kids and giving Austin orders to drive River back to her place in town, I finally stagger back inside around sunrise.
The place is a wreck.
Chairs overturned. Broken glasses and beer bottles litter the floor. Cocktail napkins smeared with lipstick and half chewed straws scattered across the bar. More than a couple of jackets and purses left behind.
Fuck it. I’ll deal with it in the morning.
Locking the doors, both front and back, I stagger upstairs and down the short hallway that separates my apartment from the loft I spent sixteen months renovating for a woman who said yes to marrying me but couldn’t quite manage to keep her mouth off other guys’ dicks.
Bet she would’ve stayed faithful if you threw her an engagement party at the country club.
Turning away from the loft, I jam my key into the lock of my own apartment, barely giving it a twist before I shoulder barge my way inside. Slamming the door behind me without bothering to re-lock it, I toss my keys on the coffee table on my way to the bathroom.
Cranking on the shower, I set the temperature to scalding before I strip as fast as I can, stepping under the heavy spray. Bracing my hand against the shower wall, I bend my head, letting the hot water pound my sore muscles into submission, standing there for several minutes before reluctantly finding the soap and scrubbing away the last twelve hours.
Clean and exhausted, I dry off before slinging my damp towel around my waist to make my way into my bedroom. Through the partially open curtains, I can see the parking lot that doesn’t look much better than the bar downstairs. There’s probably a hundred paper cups and empty water bottles down there. Deciding that’s another problem for future Jensen to deal with, I jerk the curtains closed and flop, face first, onto my unmade bed, asleep before I even make contact.
I’VE BEEN ON MY FEET FOR NEARLYthirty-six hours with nothing but protein bars, burnt coffee, and twenty-minute power naps to keep me going.
The last day and a half—a seemingly endless blur of bloody faces and broken bones—has been our first real test as a trauma center and, all things considered, we came through with flying colors. As soon as I feel pride start to flare in my chest, I stamp it out.
I performed surgery on ten victims from the bus crash. Nine of them came through it successfully. One of them didn’t. Like most surgeons, I forget about the nine and focus on the one.
