Witness in the Dark (Love Under Fire #1)(49)

He spared a glance at his wound in the mirror in front of the bed. She’d done a crappy job of stitching him up, but that wasn’t a surprise, given her lack of training and how badly her hands had been shaking.

The important thing was, the bleeding had stopped and the stitches would hold. The scar would be a constant reminder of the woman who was sitting on the bed watching him.

He smiled at the thought.

What he wouldn’t do for the chance to climb on top of her and show her all the ways that bed sex was better than countertop sex. But at the moment, he could barely get his bag unzipped to get out some clean clothes. Awesome sex was totally out of the question.

Water dripped off his elbow and chin as he pulled the towel tighter around his waist and tried the zipper again. He could feel her eyes on him.

“My God,” she said with a gasp.

No doubt she’d spotted the dark bruises marking up his back and stomach. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken,” he reported as if he’d had an X-ray machine in the bathroom. The truth was, he was pretty sure something was. But he’d broken ribs before and survived. He would survive this time, too, despite the burn every time he took in a deep breath.

She pushed his hands away from the bag and opened it, dug around, and pulled out a pair of shorts and a zip-up hoodie.

“I’ll go get you some ice,” she said and went for the door.

“No. I’m good.”

“You’re not. Those bruises are awful. They need ice.”

Something about how she tucked the Glock in the waistband of her jeans and pulled her sweatshirt over it made his body respond. He was grateful he was too beat-up to act, or he would be in process of making yet another big mistake with her.

She didn’t wait for him to argue or stop her. She picked up the ice bucket and the plastic liner, and left.

He should have stopped her. It wasn’t safe to let the witness go anywhere without protection. But he also realized she might need a moment away from him. Away from the reality of their situation.

The reality that death was a distinct possibility and could be waiting anywhere.

Hell. Even at the ice machine.





Chapter Thirty-Seven


As Sam passed the line of doors under the porch of the motel, the sound of televisions came from a few of the rooms. The ice machine was in a large niche at the end of the building. But before she got the ice to take back to the too-small motel room with a man she wanted but couldn’t have, she needed a moment to take a breath and wind down.

It had been quite a day. Looking down at her father’s watch, she corrected herself. Yesterday had been quite a day.

Cars were traveling up and down the divided highway, and she wondered if anyone in them was hunting her. The neon sign in the window of a liquor store across the street showed it was open. Remembering the bottles of fancy bourbon lining the shelf in the kitchen at Garrett’s cabin, she headed over to the store.

The entry door let out an annoying buzz as she went in, and the large woman at the counter glanced up from the newspaper. Seeming unimpressed, she resumed reading as Sam perused the aisles.

She found a bottle on the bourbon shelf that looked familiar because of the red wax oozing down the neck, and took it to the counter.

“ID, please,” the clerk said.

Sam pulled out her new driver’s license and the cash from her pocket. Without a second glance, the woman returned her ID. Sam bumped the gun at her waist as she put it and the change back in her pocket.

Shit. She’d carried a gun into a liquor store. Now she had two things to worry about—Howe’s men and the police.

The clerk put the bottle in a paper bag and handed it to her with an unenthusiastic, “Have a nice night,” before turning her attention back to the newspaper.

With her purchase and enough fresh air, she put a scoopful of ice in the bucket she’d left on the machine, and went back to the room.

“What the hell took you so long?” Garrett demanded. He’d been trying to get his boots on. “I was coming to look for you.” He wobbled as he stood up.

“Relax. I saw a liquor store across the street so I got you this. I thought maybe it would help.”

With a glare he took the bag she handed him, but it softened when he pulled out the bottle.

“I didn’t give you that sixty bucks so you’d spend it on me,” he grumbled, and sat down on the loveseat.

She chose to ignore his grumpiness and fetched the plastic cups from the counter, and dropped in a few of the ice cubes.

People—men in particular—could be quite snappy when they were in pain or exhausted. This man was both. He would be in a much better mood after a good night’s rest. She handed over the bag of ice and he put it first on his head and then on his ribs.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just bruised. I’ll be fine.” He winced as he sat on the edge of the bed.

She focused on pouring him a couple fingers of bourbon so she wouldn’t stare at his bare chest and ripped abs. Even the bruises didn’t detract from his sexiness.

Or the fact that there was only one bed.

She knew Garrett was going to insist she take the bed regardless of the fact he wouldn’t fit on the loveseat.

She had an idea that might make him more cooperative. Rummaging through the first aid kit, she found the Vicodin and dumped two into her palm while her back was to him.