“Ugly bitch.” Dom tucked what remained of his money in his front jeans’ pocket and wiped a shaking hand over his bloody face. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
But Kieran couldn’t move. His feet froze and his face burned. Dominic limped toward an exit, but before shoving it open, he turned to face Kieran, his expression a familiar mix of defiance and deep unhappiness. “Don’t start,” he muttered before disappearing through the door.
Glancing around at the few souls still lingering in the hell hole he’d occupied for the last few hours, Kieran followed his brother out, shouldering the door open by mistake. The pain slammed into him from all directions, making him stumble and drop to one knee. As Dom helped him to his feet, Kieran studied his brother’s mangled face.
“We should take you to the ER. Your nose is definitely broken, you’re cut in three different places.” When he reached out to brush strands of hair away from Dom’s face the other man winced and stepped away.
“I’ve been in worse shape than this and not needed a nursemaid. Just take me home,” Dominic insisted, his voice hoarse like he’d been smoking, or yelling, or someone had clouted him in the windpipe. He dropped to butt at the curb and propped his elbows on his knees. Kieran hovered over him, unable to conjure a single word of comfort.
Finally Dom met his eyes. “Thanks for coming. Please, take me home now.”
They stopped for food and coffee that Dom ignored in favor of downing half a dozen Tylenol then falling sound asleep against the window. The long, dark hours it took to drive home to Kentucky gave Kieran plenty of time to absorb what he’d learned about his brother, and by the time he pulled into his parents’ driveway at 5 a.m., he’d made a decision.
He poked Dom’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go see Mama.” The man snorted, farted, and jerked awake.
“What? Where are we?” Recognition made his jaw clench. “Oh, hell no. Take me to my place.”
“We gotta tell them.”
“We aren’t doing anything and you are keeping your mouth shut about this, capice?”
When he touched Dom’s arm, the heat of the man’s skin shocked him. All sorts of dire concepts came at him then, including AIDS. Dom jerked out from under his palm.
“I’m fine. Jesus. Get me to my place and leave me alone. And so help me if you tell Mama or Daddy....”
“Fine. I won’t tell them. But are you...okay, I mean, not...you know, sick?”
“You know what brown-noser? I am sick. Sick in the head, sick of all of this crap.” Dom punched the dashboard hard enough to make it shudder. “Now take me home. That,” he pointed out the windshield, “is not my home.”
“But, it is.”
“Lord have mercy will you stop already? I spent a night getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of me by a bunch of rednecks. I don’t require a lecture from you on what I should do next. I’m fine. I fucked up, all right? I trusted somebody and I shouldn’t have. End of story. Now take me home.” He slumped down in the seat and tugged his blood-splattered ball cap down over his face.
Kieran had no words for that, so he put the truck in reverse, hoping his early-to-rise parents hadn’t noticed their oldest son’s truck pull into the drive then leave again.
Chapter Thirteen
Cara waited while Kieran’s mother warmed up riding the stationary bike. The sensation of moving through fog twenty-four-seven would not go away—unless she alleviated it with long, sweaty sessions of sex, followed by a nap.
She shifted in her chair, her skin prickling with the odd, low-lying buzz of what she could only honestly call horniness. Sighing, she helped Lindsay off the bike, guiding her over to the table in order to evaluate her recovery from hip-replacement surgery.
“Oh Lord, this thing pains me. I don’t know why you make me get on that contraption.” Lindsay lowered herself onto the pillow with a long exhalation, gripping Cara’s arm, her face contorting in pain.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m the mistress of the torture chamber most days.”
She manipulated Lindsay’s leg, stretching and extending it to gauge how well she responded post-surgery. It had been seven months since she’d been rushed to the ER after falling on a wet spot in the laundry room, having lain on the hard concrete floor for nearly two hours before anyone found her. Cara’s friend Helen had been on duty in surgery that day and had called to tell her Lindsay had coded twice on the operating table. With her weakened condition they had little hope she’d pull through such a trauma. But she had in her inimitable fashion and now lay there groaning her way through a biweekly PT session.