Hate You Not

She laughs, then recoils. Pain drags at her features, and I feel a kick of guilt for not waking her up to take the pain med.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

After a slow, careful exhalation, she opens her eyes again and looks up at me. “We must officially be friends now. That’s a couple different sorries in the last twelve hours.”

“Do you want to be friends?”

“I don’t know.” She tries to smirk, I think, but it looks like a wince. “What’s in it for me?”

“Not very much,” I tell her honestly. “Maybe some packages from overseas with weird candy.”

“Weird candy? Like little gummy microphones from Tokyo, that sort of thing?” I nod, and she smiles. “Sold.”

“Don’t forget the five-star mattress-side service. Are you hungry?”

She makes a face, looking pale and weary. “I don’t know.”

“Eating is a good thing. Just tell me what to get you.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “Toast?”

“What kind?”

“Umm, butter and jelly?”

“Butter first, then jelly?”

She nods, looking amused.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m on it.”

When I return with a plate containing one slightly toasted piece of bread that’s topped by butter and a layer of homemade jelly, her eyes are closed.

“How are the kids?” she whispers without opening them.

“I don’t know.” My gaze jumps to the clock on her beside table, which says it’s 9:05 AM. “I’ll call if you want, though.”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her eyes still shut. “I can, since you don’t know her.”

Fuck…her voice is quiet. And she’s still. Jesus, she looks small under her blankets. She even looks small compared to her big, black boot. I hope the hard edge of her pain is blunted by the medicine I brought her.

“I do sort of know her,” I say, of her sister Mary Helen. “We talked some during the rodeo.”

Her eyes lift open, and even in her more sedated state, she gives me side eye. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” I grin, feeling a flash of silly pride. “She liked me.”

She snorts. “MH could talk the ears off of a chicken.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Do chickens have ears?”

Her lips curl in a slow smile. “Yes, you dumb-dumb.” She shuts her eyes. “Lil’ trivia. The eggs they lay…” She pulls her eyelids open again, and her gaze is less focused. “Same color eggs…as the color of their ears.”

“That’s just weird.”

She yawns. “I’m a wellspring of knowledge. Whip your ass at trivia night,” she murmurs.

“I’d like test that out sometime.”

“You’re on, Sly.”

She rubs a hand over her face, and I step back, aware I’m staring at her with more than a little intensity while she’s only partly awake.

“You want anything else, Gryffy? A big bag of ice to put over the boot or something?”

“No,” she whispers. Her face tightens, like the mention of ice hurt her.

“You still hurting?”

She nods, just a little motion.

A flush of heat spreads down my cheeks and neck and settles in my chest. I look down at her. She’s got her shoulders sort of curled in. Her eyebrows are rumpled, her smooth, pale face tense. I don’t like it.

My gaze moves all up and down her a few times. I tell myself that I should step away, stop staring down at her like some weird stalker.

Instead, I reach down slowly, gather a handful of her blonde-brown hair in my hand, and rub my thumb down the smooth locks, until it’s right there at the slightly prickly ends. Trying to remember how she did this to her own hair, I just sort of toy with them. I’m holding my breath, and then she groans softly and my heart starts to pound.

“Feels so good,” she murmurs. Her lips twitch a little, so I keep sifting through her hair. And very soon, she’s sleeping.Chapter 13June“Yes! C’mon…” Then there’s a long, put-out sigh. “Don’t close your eyes again, June. I’ve got needs!”

The words trail slowly through my brain, a distant comet I can’t quite make out. And then I do. Needs?

I squint my eyes open and recoil at the face nearly mashed against my own. “Leah? What are you doing?”

She sighs again and stands to her full height—which is a good thing.

“Finally,” she sighs. “I’ve been waiting for a half an hour.”

I blink around my room, feeling so confused. “Waiting?”

“For you to wake up and explain that—” She nods toward the door, then waves both her hands in the air, as if we can talk via some drunken sign language.

“What is that?” I rasp, then swallow to steady my voice. “A mime of a dying bird?”

“Who is that schemxy thang out in your living room?” She bats her lashes.

“Are you having some kind of malfunction?” I squeeze my eyes shut, then attempt to shift my butt, which is asleep, but somehow still aching. “I think I’ve got bed sores.”

“How are you? How is your foot, poor baby?”

I roll my eyes. “Now you ask.”