"Well, when you put it like that…" I say, grinning. "We gotta bring Em in on this, though. You'll like her, she's nuts."
Emily and I aren't hand-holding friends. In fact, I always thought it was weird when I saw two straight girls holding hands. But…this? It's not weird. It's sweet. She's sweet, once you get past the quasi-psychotic stone-cold killer badass crime boss bitch exterior.
We hold hands until the helicopter lands.
"For the last fuckin' time, Saxon, no. Use…the damn…crutches. I do not count as a crutch. You cannot lean on my goddamn head to walk."
"But you're the perfect height." He demonstrates by resting his arm on my head and leaning on me.
I just glare up at him. "Saxon."
He just laughs. "Fine, fine, give me the damn things. I barely need them."
"You fell on your face trying to get to the bathroom without them."
"There was an uneven tile. I would have made it."
I just arch an eyebrow. "You will still be a big tough alpha top dog with the biggest dick anyone's ever seen if you use the fucking crutches until your leg is healed."
"It's not that."
I just blink at him, and he laughs. "Fuck you," he cackles. "It's not!"
"Then what's the problem? The care is waiting. Jean-Paul’s jet is waiting. Vegas and your brotherhood of crazy arrow dudes…home…it's all waiting. Just use the crutches."
He sighs. "They're too short. They make me feel like I'm trying to swing on a kid's swing set."
I snort. "Oh my fucking god. You know they adjust, right? God, you're dumb, for a smart guy." I take them and spend roughly five minutes adjusting them higher. Hand them to him. "There. You big sissy."
He tries them out. "Oh." He touches his temple. "It's the pain meds. They fuck with my head."
I snort a laugh. "Right. You stopped taking them several days ago."
"Long tail effect?"
"Stubborn macho man thinks he's too cool for crutches." I pinch his butt. "Come on. Our stuff is loaded. Let's go."
Jean-Paul is waiting for us at the car—a custom coach-built Rolls Royce stretch limousine waiting to take us to a private airfield here on his property. "Farewell, the both of you," he says.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Jean-Paul," Saxon says, transferring one crutch to his other hand to shake Jean-Paul's hand. "For everything."
"Truth be told, I've rather enjoyed our time together. Most people are either afraid of me or are sucking up to me. You two do neither. It's refreshing."
"You still scare me a little," I say, "but I like you."
"Likewise." he turns back to Saxon, but his glance includes me. "There will always be a place for you both, here at my home and in my inner circle, should you ever change your minds."
Saxon laughs. "Tempting, but you'd have me back to being the Bloody Viking all over again in no time. So, thanks, but no thanks."
"Shame. You were an artist." He grins. "Well, the offer stands." To me, then. "I'd like to reserve a place in the very long line of people who wish to have you make clothing for me, my dear. A whole closet full—and I've got dozens of closets."
I laugh. "The line's not that long, Jean-Paul. I'll make time."
He grins, eyes twinkling. "Oh, the line is longer than you think. Word has gotten out—my official event photographers got some quite good shots of your outfit and they've circulated. You're quite famous already. If you have contact information out there, it's blowing up, as they say."
