Pretty Dirty (Dirty Bad Things Book 2)(6)

He’s a serious piece of shit. I mean, I work for a crooked fucking mob family — they’re all pieces of shit, mostly. But Joey’s a special kind of fucked up. Cruel, mean, viciously brutal. I’ve heard the rumors about him — about his taste for beating on women. I've heard of “his girls” too — girls he’s got either turning tricks, or stripping, or God knows what else to pay him back for whatever he bailed them out of — things I bet they’d prefer now instead of being in debt to that asshole.

It seems I have one of his girls in my arms.

I grit my teeth, the rage rolling up.

Not his girl.

Mine.

The elevator dings, and she clings to me as we step inside.

“Oh, wait please!”

Shit.

Mr. and Mrs. Sampson, an elderly couple who also live on this floor beneath mine shuffle around the corner and step into the elevator.

“Oh!” Marjorie gasps, bringing a jeweled hand to her lips as she realizes what’s in my arms.

“My sister’s friend,” I gruff out, staring straight ahead and ignoring the awkwardness of me holding an almost naked, half-unconscious girl, bleeding from the head, in my arms.

“She’s just visiting and I think she had a bit too much fun on the Strip.” I try and make a joke out of it. I try and smile knowingly at them. I think it comes across.

“Tried to get into the wrong room,” I mutter with a shrug.

“Oh…” Marjorie’s brow furrows pitifully. “Oh I see. Poor dear.”

“You’re a good man, Grayson,” Dick Sampson says, patting me on the arm as the elevator rises to my floor and stops. The doors open and I swallow as I step out.

“Night,” I murmur, making an attempt to smile again before the doors close.

Fuck.

Inside my place, I lay her out on the couch by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The blanket falls aways, and I grit my teeth, ignoring the flash of tantalizing skin that flashes before my eyes. I ignore how nearly naked she is, or how fucking sexy she is, even like this. I ignore how the mere sight of her at this point is hardwired to make my dick grow.

She blinks, looking around her like she’s just realizing where she is, and starts to stand.

“I— I have to g—”

“You have to sit still and take a deep breaths,” I growl.

She blinks, still looking dazed from the hits that fucking prick doled out to her.

“I—”

“Hang on.”

I pull out my phone and thumb on the flashlight.

“Look into this,” I say gruffly, my eyes narrowed in concern as I wave it back and forth across her eyes.

“What are you— cut it out!”

She swats at my hand, but I grab her wrist and pull it back..

“Sit still,” I growl.

She does, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she swallows.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I just got punched in the head?”

I supress the urge to grin at that sass.

“The good news is, you don’t have a concussion.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, frowning. “Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Field medic training.”

I get up and go to my kitchen.

“Field medic training?”

“Marines,” I toss over my shoulder. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, cracking it open as I walk back to the couch and hand it to her.

“Thank you,” she whispers. She holds my gaze.

“You’re really him, aren’t you?”

I mull it over for half a second.

“Yes.”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “How? Did you fucking stalk me or something? Is that it?” Her voice rises as her brows furrow. “You figure out where I live and—”

“Yes, I figured out where you lived, and in two short weeks, I sold my worldly possessions, moved to Las Vegas and bought a two million dollar condo above your apartment, in the hopes that your shitty boyfriend would beat on you and I could come save you. Nailed it.”

She gives me a hard look

“Not my boyfriend.”

“I would hope not.”

She glances round, sipping the water bottle.

“Two million?”

I nod, and she whistles.

“You sure you’re not a doctor?”

“Lawyer.”

I decide not to tell her who for. I decide not to mention that I’ve actually gotten Joey out of time before, a fact I fucking hate even more now than I did before.

“Wow,” she whispers. “Nice gig.”

What can I say, I work for some bad people who pay me very well to keep them out of jail.

“Let me take a look at that. Hang on.”

I jog to my bathroom and grab a first aid kit before I return to the couch and kneel down next to her. I move close — so close that I can smell her shampoo as I lean in to take a look at the cut. I wet an antibiotic swab and dab at the abrasion, but she winces.

“It’s fine, really.”

“Don’t fidget,” I growl, trying so hard to ignore the scent of her, or the heat radiating from her body.

Don’t be hard, I tell myself. Don’t be fucking hard as stone as you help the girl in need.