Page 168 of Summer Heat
He rapped on the door, his gut full of butterflies on crack, whirling in a tornado. Why? What was he even going to—?
A man in a towel opened the door. Wet hair. Damp chest. About to die.
“Who the fuck are you?” The bellowed question came from the bottom of his boots and burst from his mouth, as Cash stepped through the door. He heard a shower running.
“Hey! What the hell?”
Cash clearly had the advantage. Dude looked GQ, even in his towel. He’d kill the bastard. “Where’s Nic?”
“The goddamn shower. Who the fuck are—”
Bam. Cash cold-clocked the fucker and sent him flying across the living room and into a side table. It crashed over. A lamp and picture frames shattered on the tile floor.
Nicola rounded the corner in a towel, soap suds dripping from her hair and a gun in her wet hand. He marched toward the .357 pistol, daring her to put that dual action recoil to good use.
“Goddamn it, Cash!”
“Goddamn me? Goddamn me!”
Nicola slid back the cover plate, ejecting the loaded round. “You have to go.” The man was still out, and she stepped to him. “Get out!”
Everywhere he looked, Cash saw red. No. Actually, he saw exactly how he pictured Nic decorating her place. Muted colors. Things all matchy-matchy. It made him sick. The knocked out asswipe on the floor made him sicker. “Explain him. Now.”
“To the raving lunatic knocking out people in their own home?”
It was his home?
But it was her home.
This was their home.
The bile in his stomach churned. A spot behind his eye throbbed. Both reactions were much better than grabbing the dude in the towel and draining the life out of his limp-assed body.
“You forgot your phone.” Cash threw it against the wall. It shattered. Stepping over the man, he slammed the door on the way out. Screw her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nicola grabbed a napkin and mopped the soap from her eyes. Garnier Fructis shampoo might actually have a splash of citrus. Her right eye stung like it was drenched in fresh-squeezed lemon, and she blinked rapidly. What the hell just happened? This was a nightmare situation, Jackson wearing a towel, just out of the shower. Her in the same getup. This was beyond bad, in a lose Cash kind of way.
Her roommate was still out cold. Shit. She shook his shoulder. Nothing. Grabbing the throw off the couch, she draped it over his damp, cold skin.
“Wake up!” A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. Nicola shook him again. “Come on, Jackson. Wake up. Now!”
First aid kit.
She ran to the kitchen and trashed the cabinet under the sink. Nothing. Where would it be stashed? It’d help if she was here more often. Nic slammed through all the cabinets. Nothing again, and the whap, whap of the doors opening and closing didn’t cause Jackson to stir.
Linen closet. Nic ran around the corner and threw the door open. Towels hit the floor. A storm of wash cloths followed.
First aid kit! She found the blue box with the red cross and ripped it open. Band-Aids flew everywhere. The CIA would be very disappointed in her chaotic response right now.
Yes! Smelling salts.
She booked it back to Jackson, grabbed a pillow to stuff under his head, and cracked open the tube under his nose. His nose twitched. Once. Twice. Eyes flew open. His head tossed to the side, and he groaned, repulsed. His eyes were all kinds of confused.
“Jackson? Jacks? Are you okay?”
His hands went to his temples and then his mouth. The blood was still fresh. His memory seemed to kick start as his eyes went wide. Oh, his metrosexual side would be pissed when he saw the bruise.
