Quit Bein' Ugly (The Southern Gentleman 3)

“The fact that now I have to go get fitted for another suit when I despise the hell out of it,” I grumbled as I looked at my feet. “Did they fuck my shoes up, too?”

“Those are here,” I heard Carmichael say. “You want them on?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m not walking out of here on bare feet. Do you know how dirty these floors likely are?”

She shook her head and tossed the shoes onto the floor.

I sat down and reached forward to grab one but immediately regretted it.

I felt a wave of nausea roll over me at the pain that ripped through me at the move.

“Let me do it,” came Carmichael’s soothing voice.

I couldn’t even appreciate her at all.

Not with the way that I was currently fighting not to throw up all over her and the floor.

“Pick your foot up,” she ordered.

I did and she slipped my stupidly expensive shoe on my foot. They were wet. Likely with blood.

I still didn’t care. I could probably get them cleaned. If I couldn’t, I’d wear them anyway.

Who looked at shoes anyway?

“Nobody does,” Carmichael answered. “At least not a man’s shoes. I don’t ever look at them. Now, if this were a woman’s shoe, I’d say the opposite. But they’re not that bad. And I don’t know about the scuffs from the concrete, but you could probably get them cleaned up just fine.”

I looked into her eyes and felt my breath hitch.

“Thanks,” I said softly, still fighting the nausea.

Her violet eyes warmed as she said, “No problem. Let’s get the other one on.”

I did, picking my foot up and not complaining at all when her fingers tickled the bottom of my feet.

When she was done, and I was officially discharged, we walked out of the hospital almost hand in hand.

Well, she was under my good shoulder steadying me, and her hands were on my bare chest.

All the while, though, I wondered if she really wanted to be there.

CHAPTER 7

I can get you on the naughty list.

-T-shirt

CROFT

“You need help out of the truck?” she asked, looking at me warily.

I shook my head and slid out, bouncing slightly when I finally made it to the ground.

My shoes were wet, my head was fuzzy, and I wanted nothing more than to go inside, sit on the couch, and not move for an hour.

It didn’t help that my parents had called while I was in the car with Flint and Carmichael, telling me that they would be out of touch while they were on vacation. I didn’t want to spoil their time so I chose not to say anything about being shot.

After spending the majority of the time trying to convince them that nothing was going on, I then fielded a call from the judge. He of course was assessing my ability to litigate at the trial scheduled to start on Friday.

After assuring him that I would be able to make it through the trial in two days—please sweet baby Jesus let that be true—we were arriving at the house.

Now Carmichael was standing in front of me, looking at me warily.

“You’re ashen,” she declared.

“I don’t do well in the car,” I admitted.

On top of the already present nausea from the pain, I was now motion sick.

Fun times.

“Y’all have everything?” Flint asked.

I gave him a thumb up and kept walking, my stomach tight with pain.

“Call if you need anything,” Flint honked twice, making me twitch.

Then he was heading down the street toward his own house.

“Twat,” she said. “He knew that’d scare you.”

I knew that, too.

At least he didn’t have my horn.

I’d put an air horn on my truck a couple of months ago because I’d thought it was awesome. I’d yet to get the chance to scare anyone.

One day…

“What are you grinning about?” she asked, looking at me.

I licked my lips. “I was thinking about the fact that I just got a new air horn put on my truck because your brother thinks it’s fucking hilarious to scare us with his squad car. I can’t wait to get him back.”

Her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Please, please let me do this to him when he comes over tomorrow morning,” she pleaded.

I snorted. “No way, Jose. That’s my brand-new gift to myself for my birthday. I get to scare him first.”

She sighed. “You’re no fun.”

Together we walked to my door, and when we arrived, I handed her my keys, unsure if my shaking hands would allow me to put the key into the lock or not.

She opened it up and blinked in surprise when she saw my dog.

“Is that a…” She paused.

“Corgi poodle Australian Shepherd mix,” I said as I walked into the room and over Lion’s dancing body. “Would you catch the door? She’s usually really good about peeing outside now, but she’s still a puppy, and I’ve been gone longer than I intended.”