“Everywhere,” he said, touching the bandage on his collarbone. Then he moved his fingertips to the center of his chest.
“You were shot, and badly burned.”
“I remember,” he said dully.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Not really.”
“How do you figure?”
“I was trying to die.”
This confession shocked her. “Did you set yourself on fire?”
His lips twisted with a dark sort of humor. “No.”
“Who shot you?”
“My associate,” he said, after a pause. “He killed two women with stray bullets but couldn’t aim well enough to finish me off at close range. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Was it Armando?”
He frowned at the question. “No, it wasn’t. What do you know of him?”
“He brought me here at gunpoint.”
“Ah. Where is he now?”
“He escaped.”
He studied their surroundings blearily. Then he closed his eyes, as if it hurt to use them.
“Let me give you something for the pain.”
“No.”
“You’d rather suffer?”
He didn’t answer. “Will I live?”
“I think so.”
“I stayed in the house as long as I could. I felt the flames lighting through my hair and melting my skin.” He opened his eyes again, trying to focus. “But it was the smoke that really bothered me. I couldn’t stand not being able to breathe. My body refused to lie down, as my brain commanded. Survival instinct, I suppose. I was half-delirious when I crawled out.”
She found herself hanging on his every word. She hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt, or how much she’d missed interacting with people. He was an interesting conversationalist. It wasn’t every day she met a sardonic, suicidal drug cartel member. “Who’s Sasha?”
“My girlfriend. She died last week.”
“Of what?”
“Drug overdose.”
Well, that was fitting. Caitlyn couldn’t bring herself to express any condolences; he’d probably given her the drugs. He didn’t look like a drug dealer, though. Even covered in bandages, he had a sophisticated air about him. “What’s your name?”
“Carlos.”
“I’m Caitlyn.”
