The Whole Truth (A. Shaw 1)

She sat back and crossed her arms. “Really? So you’re totally oblivious to the fact that you have this amazing woman head over heels in love with you but trying to figure out whether you’re her knight in shining armor or a psychopath?” Her tone was far more aggressive now.

“You have no business, no right butting into this.”

“I told Anna to talk to you before she made up her mind. I told her I thought you were a good guy. Well, are you or aren’t you?”

“Right now I’m having a hard time making up my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because part of me wants to strangle you.”

“Okay. I can understand that. Would you like some coffee instead?”

For the first time he noticed the room service table with her breakfast on it.

“No.”

“Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I help myself.”

She poured out a cup of coffee and took a bite of bagel. “Well?”

“Well what?” he shot back.

“Did you talk to Anna?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it’s none of your damn business.”

“So that’s the only reason you came here? To read me the riot act?”

He moved so fast her eyes could barely follow. The room service table smashed against the wall with a loud crash.

Unperturbed, Katie finished her coffee and put her cup down. “Are you finished with the histrionics?”

“Stay out of my life.”

He turned to leave.

“I actually have one question for you. And it doesn’t involve Anna,” she quickly added.

He stopped at the door and glowered at her.

“What did you mean when you said you’d been to hell and it was just as bad as everyone thought it was?”

“Like I told you before, you wouldn’t understand the answer.”

In response, Katie slid her robe partially down, exposing a blistery red gash on her upper right arm.

“Try me.”

Shaw eyed the old wound on her shoulder. “Gunshot?”

“I figured you were the sort of man who could tell. Fired by one ticked-off Syrian. Good thing he was such a lousy shot. He said later he was aiming at my head.”

She picked up an unbroken coffee cup and the carafe that miraculously hadn’t burst open and poured him a cup of coffee. As she handed it to him she said, “Whenever Clint Eastwood got shot in the arm in a movie they’d just pour some whiskey on it, wrap a little sling around it, and he’d get on his trusty horse and ride off. They never bothered to dwell on what happens when the bullet enters your arm and keeps going, shattering an artery here, ripping up muscle and tendon there, or nicking my left ventricle on its pinball ride through Katie’s organs. I was in rehab for three months after they finally weaned me off the ventilator. They had to cut a nice little hole in my back to get the slug out. It was flat as a pancake.”