Page 113 of Lucky Shot

“What’s wrong with preferring to put the money back into the business? Martin deserves a fair wage, and the facility always needs upkeep. The equipment . . . kids are hard on equipment,” she says almost as if to justify her making peanuts. “What’s so wrong with doing whatever it takes to keep the doors open in order to save other kids like it saved me?”

“Nothing is wrong with it, but you deserve more. Better. A place—”

“A place? So we’re talking about my apartment now?”

“It’s not safe.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“What’s that?”

“What it’s like to never have anything in your entire life that’s yours. To move from house to house, almost as if you’re renting their clothes, their bed, their food, because nothing ever is really yours except for the small duffle bag you get to bring with you. So that place as you call it might not be up to your standards, Alexander Hardy, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever had to myself, and it’s one hundred percent mine.”

Jesus. Her words hit me hard, and I struggle with finishing my train of thought. How to validate her comment while expressing my fears. “I hear you. I don’t understand because I’ve never been in your shoes, but I hear you. It’s just . . . the neighborhood is unsafe. You might have four locks on the front door, but I had the back door kicked in in seconds.”

“You what?” she gasps.

“How do you think I got to you? How do you think the paramedics got in?”

“My door. My stuff. How is—”

“I got Frieda to board it up and schedule a new one to replace it. It’s safe. Your stuff is safe. I have it all under control.”

She looks out the side window, and I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking.

“I didn’t say that to make you embarrassed.” Wrong thing to say, Hardy. “I just . . .”

“Please just take me home.” She gasps in pain but grits her teeth to hide it. “I’ll figure out the back door. I’ll—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m taking you back there. Not while you’re recovering. Not in this heat with no AC. Not with no one to look out for you.” I see her lying on the floor. I hear her incoherent gibberish. I remember the fear snaking down my spine. “Just . . .” Let me take care of you.

But the thought dies when I look over to see her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling.

Thank fuck for strong pain meds and for her being asleep.

It’s going to make what I plan to do next a whole lot easier for me.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Whitney

Clouds.

Big, fluffy, white clouds wrap around me and let me sink into them while feeling like I’m floating all at the same time.

I’ve never been this comfortable in my whole life, and I never want to leave.

The sun is bright through my closed eyelids. The pain? Pretty damn intense.

I need pain meds. Desperately.

But when I open my eyes, the pain is put by the wayside when I find myself in a foreign room.

Hardy.

I know it immediately despite there not being a damn thing here that identifies him. It’s just him somehow. Maybe it’s the windows that look out for miles or its the simple extravagance of it, but it’s most definitely him.

The space is big, bright, and airy. Everything is white with touches of grays and blues here and there. The sheets beneath my hand feel like they cost more than my yearly income, and the comforter wrapped around me even more so.