Page 87 of Trigger Happy

42Lawton

I wake up to a bloodcurdling scream.

My eyes fly open and I reach for my gun, but the only thing I find is Sabrina ripping around the barn. She packed one of those sunrise alarms that starts glowing two hours before the actual sunrise, so she’s already up and dressed in workout clothes—after dislocating her shoulder.

“My hair!” she shouts.

I toss the pistol back in my nightstand, still dazed from sleep. “What?”

“My hair,” she repeats, tugging at the strands. They look lighter. “I’m blond. Actually, no. It’s worse. I’m half-brunette, half-blond, thanks to all that stupid bleach… I can’t go out in public like this. I need hair dye. Now!”

I rub my eyes. “It’s not even six thirty.”

“I know, but I want to do it before Bobbi and Arch get up.”

“After dislocating your shoulder?” I sit up. “Get your ass back in bed, Chastain. I’ll go get the hair stuff.”

“I’m fine. It barely even hurts anymore.” She circles her bad shoulder, smiles, then winces. “See?”

I frown. “And your parents started off as con artists? It’s a good thing you decided not to pursue a career in Hollywood.”

She scowls. “I’m really fine. I’ll be back to normal in less than a week. It was a small tear, and it’s happened before, so I know how this works.”

I point to her. “Ass.”

Then I point to the mattress. “Bed.”

She ignores me, of course, and goes right into the bathroom to pull out a brush.

I watch through the sliver in the door. Shit. Her hair does look pretty bad, but saying that will get me a bullet to the head, so I keep it to myself. She tries brushing her hair but winces with every stroke. There’s no way I’m letting her drive to a—where do they sell dye?—hair store. She’s moving stiffly thanks to the one-arm situation she’s got going, so I swing my legs over the bed and goose bumps erupt on my arms. It’s freezing in here. Did the heater break in the middle of the night?

I cross the room in three strides and shove the bathroom door open. It smacks the wall. Her brows come together. “What are you—”

I hook an arm behind her knees and scoop her straight off the floor into my arms, keeping her pressed close against my body.

“Lawton!” she yelps, the brush clattering to the tile.

I use my other hand to catch her good shoulder and gently cradle her in my arms as I carry her to the bed.

“Let me down!” she says.

“You got it, wifey.” I lower her onto the mattress with more care than I’ve ever handled anything, including that one bath bomb I had to disassemble. Yeah, some psycho disguised a real bomb in one of those glitter explosions.

“What are you doing?” she says, trying to get back up.

I push her good shoulder down. “Clearly, you don’t understand the meaning of ass-bed, so I’m making it clear for you.”

I tuck her into the sheets like a human taco, and once I’m satisfied with how tight she’s wrapped up in there, I grab a glass of water and 600 mg of ibuprofen. I looked up her dosage last night.

“Here,” I say, handing them to her. “Take these and stay there. What kind of hair color do you want? Brown?”

“Brown?” she huffs, but takes the pills without complaint. “I need the L’Oréal Féria Multi-Faceted Shimmering Permanent hair color in the shade French Roast.”

“French Roast. My favorite coffee blend. Got it.” I cross my arms over my bare chest, and her eyes flick down, so yeah, I flex a little.

Her chest flushes, which is the reaction I wanted because I can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have my hands all over her body last night.

“You’re not going to complain about how hard that is to remember?” she says.