After a small pause, he says, "Fairly."

So I'm right. He sounds detached, and when I look back up, I find him staring at the wall ahead of us.

I put my hand on his wrist. "I have to give you a shot in the wound, because I think you might have some bone fragments floating around in there. That means you have a greater chance of infection."

He shrugs again, his face caught somewhere between stoic and irritated. "Okay."

"When you get home, you might need a cast or something."

He snorts, as if to say, Yeah right.

I make quick work of the injection, and when I'm finished, I set the syringe to the side and start applying bandages. I'm starting with something that has some sticky to it, so while it's soft over the wound, it adheres to the skin around it, keeping out germs and water. It seems to take me forever to get that on. He can't help me by holding his fingers straight, and when I ease his arm up, with his elbow on the table, the hand flops forward. He stiffens again.

I'm not much for awkward moments, so I decide to be straightforward. "This makes you uncomfortable, huh?"

He screws his face up, looking at me like I'm slow. "I can't feel it."

I flit a glance at him. "That's not what I mean."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him working his jaw, and I wonder if I've crossed a line. Then I remember him saying, "I'm sorry that this happened to you," last night before I went to sleep. I didn't want his pity, and maybe he doesn't want my prodding either, but we're stuck together for at least another day, so tough t.i.tties.

"I'm saying you feel awkward about it. You don't like being injured."

"Would you?" His mouth draws tight.

"I wouldn't," I say. "I'm sure almost no one would." I wrap my way around the hand a few more times as I think about my own screwed up state. "No one wants to be anything less than strong and capable. Vulnerable means you have to trust other people. If you're anything like me, you don't like that one bit."

"d.a.m.n straight," he mutters, and I smile a little.

"May I ask what happened?"

"You can ask," he tells me. His mouth is pulled into a smirk, but it looks strained.

"And if I ask, will you tell?"

He mulls that over, then he says, "Maybe we can make a trade."

Oh, c.r.a.p. I guess I walked right into this. I tie the gauze off and keep my poker face on, hoping he'll forget I asked.

"Keep that elevated. I'll be back with some ice." I saunter off, remembering as I approach the refrigerator that I have my own wound to attend to. I guess he'll have to do that.

When I get back, he's getting to his feet, opening an alcohol towelette as he moves. "It's your turn."

While he cleans the small spot on my shoulder, I pick at the place mat and think about how weird it is to be here without Jesus and David. How weird it is that they're both dead. Then I think about the last week I spent with them, in Mazatlan, at Jesus's favorite costal mansion, and I feel nauseated.

It's really good that Evan breaks the silence. "Does anyone else know about this place?" he asks.

"I'm not sure. It's a big secret that Jesus was gay, and apparently he's been with David for quite a while. They'd been together about a year when I left, and since David was here today, I have to a.s.sume they were still together when you shot Jesus. This place was built the year before I met Jesus, and as far as I know, the only other people who know it's here are the three guys who built it."

"So we need to get moving," he sighs.

"No. Jesus killed them."

"Oh."

I heave my breath out. "Right. So Jesus brought me in to help him with some things, and of course David, but I'd be surprised if anyone else knew."

"How sure are you about that?"

"I don't know." I freeze. "Why?"

"Just wondering." Something cold trails across the wound on my shoulder. I feel his breath on me, and I can tell he's not just wondering. There's a reason that he asked. I'm opening my mouth to ask him what that reason is, when abruptly he squeezes my shoulder. "All done." And that's the end of it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

I can't decide if my sixth sense, doom and gloom paranoia bulls.h.i.t is a headache coming on, or something more. I guess for the first time ever, I hope it's a headache. I take a seat at the table and watch as Merri cleans up the first aid stuff. I should be helping her, but my neck feels so tight, I want to do whatever I can to try to relax.

I rub my eyes and tell her, "Thanks for patching me up."

"Same to you." She smiles, and I find myself smiling back.

"You know, we still need to make our trade."

"We need to find some food first," she says. "Aren't you starving?"

I'm not, but I nod anyway. Ever since the accident, my appet.i.te hasn't been the same. I think the feeding tube messed it up. My shrink at NVIR thought it was a nervous reaction.

"Do you think there's food here?"

"I know there is," she says. "Food and wine. Ammo. Jesus had this place well-stocked."

I frown down at the table. It's weird the way she talks about Jesus. So...neutrally. Like she's talking about her cousin or something. It makes more sense now that I know he never f.u.c.ked her, but it's still weird. Dude committed horrible crimes, and she doesn't even sound like she dislikes him.

"You up for some wine?" she asks.

I haven't had any alcohol since the night I crashed. It used to conflict with the meds, and then I guess I just never had a reason. But right now I feel like I could really use a drink.

"You gonna pop the cork?" I ask her.

I lean over my shoulder to see what she's doing, and my neck zings a little.

She's got a loaf of homemade-looking bread out, and she's spreading something on it that looks like jelly.

"If I still remember how," she says. "I haven't had a drink in more than a year."

She looks so pretty right now, seems so normal, it's hard to imagine her with Jesus.

She finishes the bread and pulls out something else-beef jerky-which she sits on the table. Then she disappears, returning a moment later with a bottle of merlot and two jewel-encrusted wine gla.s.ses.

"The bread and jam are homemade. The merlot is local, too."

I snort. "What a hostess."

"Hey, I don't have to share." With some difficulty she pulls the cork, and my vision doubles as I watch her pour. She takes a small sip and sighs. "I'm just trying to be informative. It's my go-to, stressed-out mode, I guess."

"Is stressed all you're feeling?"

She laughs, but it's strained. "It's a good bit more than stressed. Honestly, it's too much for me to even begin deal with." She takes another sip of her wine. "So I feel pretty good at this moment. The wine...could be c.r.a.p and it would still be good."

"Is that true for the company?" I joke, and she pretends to consider.

"It's not the worst thing about this situation," she says.

"Nice." I take a large drink of the wine. It's velvety, with a hint of mola.s.ses and a taste of plum, but like she said, it's been a while.

I rub my eyes, take the bread she hands me, and say, "I shot a lot of people you knew."

She purses her lips and just sits there, staring at her plate. I can tell she's fighting tears, and I think to myself, what the h.e.l.l is wrong with me? Impulsively, I touch her arm. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. This whole thing is f.u.c.king weird-"

"Can you say frack please?"

"Huh?"

"Say frack." She wipes her eyes and speaks from behind the shield of her hand. "I really hate the F-word."

"Sorry," I say quickly. "My mom's Catholic, so I should know better."

She shakes her head. "It's not for anything like that. My aunt taught me it was tacky."

"Taaaaaccky." I say it with what I think is a convincing drawl, and she shrugs.

"Ooooookay. You can make fuuun of myyyy aceeeeent all you wannnnt."

I swallow back some of my wine and watch her eat. I'm like a fracking cat. Curiosity is killing me. I need to know more about this woman-now.

"I was in a motorcycle accident." There. I said it. I shift in my seat, automatically searching for a position that will lessen the painful zinging of the damaged nerve endings in my neck. "Fallout was pretty bad and I was laid up for a while."

She considers me over the rim of her gla.s.s. I can feel her eyes urging me to go on. I take a long sip of my wine, hoping it will take the edge off my zings. "What do you want to know, Mer?"

"What happened to your neck?"

"I fu- fracked up the posterior joint, like pretty bad. Fractured C3, C5, and C6. Those are vertebrae near the top of the spine but you probably know that." She nods. "Couple of herniated discs around that area and a facet fracture."

Her eyes are wide, but to her credit, she doesn't bust out with something asinine or overly pitying. She bites her lip and says, "That sucks."

"I was in a coma for a little while after."

Again, her green eyes pop. "Really? But you look so...good."

That gets a laugh out of me. "Good genes."

"Good luck," she says, chewing some bread. "Really, though, it's a wonder you're alive."

I nod. "I had a stroke, too."

"What?!"

I scrub my hand over my eyes. Why the frack am I telling her all this?

She's looking at me with sadness, but it doesn't feel like pity.

"I got moved from one place to another. Like a rehab place, to another rehab. When you're moving people who have head injuries, or I guess any kind of injury that's bad enough, sometimes their blood pressure goes up." I take a swig of wine and force myself to meet her eyes again. This is so personal, it's hard to get it all out, even though the facts are pretty straightforward. "If they get in too much during the transport...strokes can happen."

Her mouth twists. "That's awful."

I shrug, then feel like I'm bragging. Why am I telling her this? "I wasn't awake or anything like that, but sometimes I think I remember it. I just get this feeling... Kind of like dread or...I don't know, doom or something. I think maybe I can remember...almost dying."

She's chewing again, beef jerky this time, carrying on with her meal like she talks about these things every day. I heave a deep breath. I'm sweating. I feel awkward. Like I shared too much. Because I did share too much. I take another gulp of my wine and wish that I was Nightcrawler from X-Men. I could vanish in a poof.

I'm not looking at her, but I can see her out of the corner of my eye, and she looks calm and unperturbed. Just a girl eating. She says, "That must be weird. And awful. I bet no one can relate. That's an experience hardly anyone has had."

I nod, and it occurs to me that hers is too.

"I can't picture you as a s.e.x slave." Oh f.u.c.k. Did I just say that? I squeeze my eyes shut. Drop my head into one hand. "s.h.i.t. I'm sorry."

"Uh-uh." She swallows some of her own wine. "Don't be sorry. You just spilled your stuff, so I think we're being honest now. And while we're being honest, thank you. For today. I noticed that you got between David and me."

I shrug. "You waited for me to get off the bike before you ran. You grabbed my arm to help me off. Remember?"

She nods. "It was no big deal." She takes a bite of bread, then says, "And as far as the s.e.x slave thing, I wasn't really a s.e.x slave in the sense most people think. You know, since Jesus was gay. I was just a beard for him, most of the time." She says it so naturally, I almost miss the flare in her eyes when she says 'most of the time'.

I want to know everything that happened to her, and I want to know right now. But it's not my story to take. And I'm not drunk enough to go there.

"It was a lucky break," she says. "I guess. I mean, if there's something lucky about being sold, it would probably be being sold to someone who only wants you for appearances."

"Like my hand." I hold up my gun-shot palm and make a bulls.h.i.t face. "When I think about this, I feel lucky."

She makes a bulls.h.i.t face back at me, then sticks out her tongue. "I'm just trying to look at the bright side."

"Maybe sometimes there isn't one."