“Hey, you shouldn’t have,” Pinto joked when Jackson set the shot glasses on the coffee table. “Maybe later, after I’m finished.”
“This ain’t for you.” Jackson twisted the cap off the bottle of vodka. He filled both shot glasses and held one out to Essie. “For the pain.”
Tempting as it was, she raised a hand to wave him off. “Thanks, but I don’t need—”
“Yeah, I know you’re a big, tough girl, and Pinto’s the best at what he does. But he ain’t lying when he says it’s going to hurt, even with the ice. Hell, it’s going to hurt me to watch. So why not take a little something to dull the worst of it?”
Part of her wanted to argue, because she preferred to remain as lucid as possible, but the logical side of her brain said why the hell not? It had been a long, lousy day, she was already in a fair amount of pain, and being stitched up without any kind of analgesic was going to suck big-time. More important, she felt safe with Jackson and his friends. She could afford to lower her guard, at least for a short while.
“Okay, fine. You win.” Essie accepted one of the glasses and clinked it against the one Jackson held. She downed the shot, grimaced, and blew out a breath. The vodka was icy-cold from being stored in the freezer, a stark contrast to the alcohol’s burn as it blazed a path down her throat.
“There’s my girl.” He winked, and then drank his shot. “Want another?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
“You’re the boss.” He refilled both glasses and screwed the cap back onto the bottle. “Just say the word when you’re ready.”
Essie shifted her attention to Pinto, who had just opened up his suture kit, and she felt a little queasy. Those weren’t needles; they were fishing hooks, and did they really need to be that big? It was totally illogical. It made no sense. She’d never had a bad experience with needles. Over the years, she’d been stabbed, shot, waterboarded, beaten, and thrown from a moving car, yet none of that had bothered her as much as the prospect of any one of those needles going through her skin.
In need of a distraction, she asked Pinto, “So what part of New Jersey are you from?”
“What makes you think I’m from Jersey?” A hint of amusement curved one side of his mouth. “I grew up in Trenton, but I haven’t been there in years.”
“Do you still have family in the area?”
“Oh, yeah. Most of them still live in the burg. If I don’t get up there soon, my mother, God love her, is going to skin me alive.” He picked up one of the smaller needles—Thank God—and threaded it. “When I visit, the guys I grew up with say I sound like a hick. Is that some shit or what?”
In spite of her growing apprehension, Essie smiled. “If it makes you feel better, you don’t sound like a hick to me.”
“That’s what I keep telling ’em! Frigging idiots. What do they know?” Pinto pointed to the glasses on the table. “If you do another shot now, there should be time for it to kick in before I start stitching.”
Essie looked at the threaded suture needle, and the thought of how much this was going to hurt made her amenable to more vodka. When she did another shot, Jackson did one with her, and the burn of the vodka didn’t seem as bad as before.
“One more?” he asked.
“Sure, what the hell?”
That one didn’t burn at all.
Jackson took the empty glass from her and set it next to his on the table. Then he reached for her hand, and the feel of his fingers twined with hers heated her in ways the vodka never could.
“Don’t look at it, Es. Keep your eyes on me.” Smooth and rich, his voice poured over her like Tupelo honey. “Squeeze my hand if it hurts. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“What do you mean,if it hurts?” She snorted. Not the most dignified or ladylike response, but it seemed appropriate, given the situation.
Dread filled her veins and quickened her pulse as she stared at the suture kit. She hated waiting for bad things to happen. It gave her mind the unwelcome opportunity to make an elephant out of a fly.
From his spot by the window, Navarre made a derisive sound. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s only a needle. Suck it up and stop acting like a princess.”
It was all she could do not to get off the couch and smack the smirk off his face. The arrogant asshole was probably getting off on her discomfort. Eyes narrowed, she asked Pinto, “Can we please get this over with?”
“Sure thing. You’re the boss.”
Pinto removed the ice pack, set it aside, and probed the skin around the wound. Satisfied the cold had sufficiently numbed the area, he picked up the needle driver and tissue forceps, and every muscle in her body tensed.
“Hey, Essie,” Jackson said with a squeeze of her hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that Christmas we spent in Marrakesh.”
“Huh?” None of what he’d said made sense. They’d never traveled to Morocco, much less during the holidays. Confused, she turned her head toward him. “What are you talking about? We never went to Marra—”
