With a Twist (Last Call #4)(40)

Wyatt snickers, and Mike grumbles. "Don't mock the prisoner, Somerville. It's poor form."

I look over at Wyatt, and he's grinning down at me. I lean in toward him and whisper, "Yeah, but it's so much fun."

Hazel eyes crinkle up briefly in amusement, then Wyatt throws his entire head back and starts laughing. He's not paying attention to me, so I take the short opportunity to look at his handsome face, the peek of white teeth, and the strong jaw line.

Damn, he's beautiful …  inside and out.

And I don't feel the slightest bit guilty about acknowledging that to myself either.





I give a lusty yawn as I finish drying myself off and note the clock hanging on the locker room wall says 4 AM. True to his word, Mike took very abbreviated statements from Wyatt and me to get the basic rundown of what happened tonight, and then headed out to the Raleigh Police Department where Simon, the buyer, and his driver were being held for questioning. Lance had also been picked up and was en route to the station. They would be going at them for hours if they didn't lawyer up, and Mike had quite the gleam in his eye over the prospect.

Luckily, my suitcase with my clothes and real ID is here at the FBI field office so I decided to take a quick shower, which was the best way to clean my wounds. Wyatt told me he'd wait for me and give me a ride back to my apartment.

I graciously accepted the ride, but there was no way I was going back to that crappy apartment to sleep. Nope. I was treating myself to a nice hotel, and since we didn't have to be back for detailed statements for another eight hours, I was going to make the most of that time by sleeping the sleep of the dead in a comfortable bed without the ring of gunshots nearby.



       
         
       
        

I had found some hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and large bandages in the supply room, and have them all laid out on the bench that sits in front of the lockers. I take a moment to dry off my body. I didn't wash my hair because I didn't have anything to dry it with here, but rather pulled it up into a messy knot at the top of my head.

I slip on a pair of panties, careful to pull the elastic out and away from the scrape on my hip, and then sit down on the bench to tend to my elbow first. That cut is actually small and looks pretty clean from the shower, so I skip straight toward bandaging. One regular size Band-Aid later, that wound is handled.

Turning my attention to my hip, that one is a little bigger, a little deeper, and I figure that needs a good splash of peroxide. Holding the towel under the wound, I douse it good with the foaming liquid and grit my teeth through the burn. I pat it dry as best I can but the towel hurts too much, so I settle for blowing air over my sensitive skin for a bit.

A knock sounds at the locker room door, and there's only one person it can be.

The field office is cleared for the night except for the agent on duty, so I call out. "Just a minute, Wyatt."

Grabbing a white, button-down shirt-an important piece to any basic, FBI ensemble-I slip it on over my shoulders and button it up. I don't bother with pants …  because, well …  I can't put them on until I bandage my wound, and besides …  Wyatt's seen way more of my body than is showing right now.

"Alright …  I'm decent," I call out, and Wyatt is immediately striding through the door.

He looks around in interest …  cream-colored walls and shiny tiled flooring, one row of wooden lockers, stained and polished a nice walnut coloring, and a long, padded bench.

"Damn …  your digs are much nicer than our police department back home," he says as he looks at me.

I bend over, pick up a large bandage and some tape, and walk to the end of the locker where a full-length mirror is mounted. "Yeah, that's federal dollars hard at work for you," I quip.

Turning to face the mirror, I pull up the hem of my shirt so I can see my hip clearly, which also exposes my panties. They aren't sexy by any means …  plain white cotton, but they sit high on my hips and low on my belly, so they aren't horrible by any means.

"Damn …  that looks like it hurts," Wyatt says, and I give him a brief glance while I tuck the bandage under my arm and attempt to pull off a strip of medical tape. His eyes are on my hip, and they are warm with sympathy.

"Not so bad," I say, and his eyes come to mine. I smile and then turn my attention to my wound. Holding the bandage out in front of me, I apply the strip of tape along the top. Stepping closer to the mirror, I turn slightly so I can get a better angle on what I'm doing.