Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Riggs put his hands on my shoulders firmly. “Carter. Chill. You’re doing that nervous babbling again.”
Fuck. “Am I?”
“You are,” he confirmed in a low voice that rumbled through my stomach and made me feel unaccountably good. He chafed my upper arms much like he’d done the day before, and I found myself melting into him, wanting to bury my face in his bare chest. I forced myself to stand up straight.
“Okay. Let’s try this again.” I took a deep breath and recounted all I’d heard and seen in the same detached way that I ran down a patient’s health information for another physician. When I was done, Riggs looked more troubled than he had when he’d woken up.
“It was a guy who sounded like Amos Nutter? And it was definitely Horn of Glory he was playing?”
“Yeah. Why? Do you think I’m losing it?” I shrugged. “The good news is, I know exactly how to get there from here—six doors down, left turn, four more doors. Bad news is, there’s a guard on the door.”
“We need to get in that room,” Riggs said.
“Yes, obviously. So should we—”
Before I could suggest causing a distraction so Riggs could sneak out, a key jangled in the lock out in the living room.
Riggs pointed at the pile of clothing he’d torn off me the night before, and I gathered it all up while he snapped up his shirt and threw it over his head. It wasn’t until I felt the hard outline of the knife I’d scooped up with my clothing that I understood why he was so upset. We’d almost given away our weapon.
Beardy stepped in the door first, brandishing his gun per usual, and he looked even less pleased to see us than I was to see him. “¡Ven ahora!” he commanded without preamble. “Señor Santiago está muy molesto.”
I frowned. Santiago was… in pain? Shit. I didn’t know what molesto meant. When we got back to the States, I was so taking Spanish.
Riggs glanced at me. “The boss is angry,” he translated. His voice was carefully even, but his eyes flashed a warning. To Beardy, he added, “¿Molesto? Porque?”
But if Beardy knew why, he wasn’t saying.
“Let me just get dressed.” I lifted the ball of clothes and headed back to the bedroom.
“No.” Beardy shook his head emphatically. “Aquí.”
There? He wanted me to change in front of him? I shot Riggs a panicked look. I wasn’t particularly modest, but if I put down the clothes, Beardy would see our knife.
Riggs set his jaw. “El doctor necesita privacidad,” he insisted in his You Will Obey Me voice. He stepped between me and Beardy. “Carter, hurry.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I scrambled to the bedroom and threw my clothes on, then hesitated over the knife before taking the extra two seconds to attach it to my leg. I seriously doubted I’d ever use it, but it was nice to know it was there. Like a security blanket or something. Plus, if they searched our room while we were gone, I didn’t want it found.
When I got back to the living room, Riggs and Beardy were still trying to out-badass each other (Riggs was super winning, though Beardy had the gun), and Glasses had joined them, holding the bag of medical supplies I hadn’t seen since I’d run my initial tests on Santiago.
He tossed the bag at my feet for me to pick up.
“Knife’s secure,” I murmured as I passed Riggs. “Thanks for the distraction.”
Riggs blinked, and then his eyes widened, like maybe he hadn’t been talking about the knife at all. Like maybe he just hadn’t wanted Beardy to see me naked.
Sure. And maybe Gustavo had a parachute he could sell me too.
“Come,” Glasses commanded, ushering us out the door with Beardy bringing up the rear. “The boss is extremely angry.”
My heart rate picked up as I hurried to follow after him. “Is he worse? I mean, sicker?” I demanded. Maybe sitting up hadn’t helped. Maybe he had an ulcer, and maybe the ulcer was—
“No,” Glasses said angrily, breaking into my thoughts. “He is better!”
Better? I had to be misunderstanding something.
The answer became clear when we arrived at Santiago’s bedchamber. The group of wailing women was there, wailing even more loudly this morning. One was on her knees with her hands clenched in front of her as she sobbed. Two others clung together, hunched over and weeping into each other’s embrace. A fourth woman clutched her stomach as she murmured something unintelligible to the ceiling.
And Señor Santiago? He sat—like a king, as instructed—in the center of his enormous bed, looking…
Perfectly healthy, actually. Rosy-cheeked. Pain-free.
“Sir. I’m so glad to see you looking so much better!” I exclaimed, striding toward the bed.
“Silence!” he roared, stopping me in my tracks. “Dr. Carter, my Lucrecia here has reminded me that this ‘sitting like a king’ that you have suggested is the very same thing that the first stupid doctor suggested. ¿Verdad, Lucrecia?”