Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Her eyebrows shoot upward. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and she bites her bottom lip—against a burst of hilarity, I realize, and suddenly I want to see her laugh. Want to hear it.
But that’s the concussion talking. I’ll play nice, but I have zero interest in seeing any Walker happy.
“That,” she says, and there’s a wobble to her voice as if her laughter is still right there on the tip of her tongue, “is the tit tiddler.”
Tit tiddler? Oh fuck.
By the look in her eyes, she’s enjoying how stupid I feel right now. My face grows hot, and I mumble an apology—completely inadequate, but all I can manage. I’m a fucking prick. I know it.
I can’t meet her gaze. Not while embarrassment still flushes my face. Even the tips of my ears are burning. I pretend they aren’t, accept from her the pills and a glass of water, and study the cat as I swallow them.
Though obviously well-fed and clean, it’s the most unfortunate-looking animal I’ve ever seen—a raggedy ginger with a squashed pug nose, whiskers resembling a drooping walrus mustache, and a sullen glower. “Was that thing in the cabin last night?”
Even with a concussion, I couldn’t have missed seeing that.
“He hid under the bed when you barged in.”
The cat doesn’t seem afraid now. Instead he’s staked his claim on her side of the mattress. After, apparently, staking his claim on her chest. The creature’s baleful green gaze follows our movements when she takes back the empty glass.
I continue to eye him warily. “He doesn’t look happy.”
“He never looks happy. Are you up for food?”
Just the thought of chewing intensifies the throbbing in my head. “Maybe not yet.”
“All right.” She leaves my bedside and returns, dragging one of the chairs from under the small dining table. “In case you need to get to the bathroom and aren’t steady on your feet yet. You can use it like a walker—and sit down on the seat if you become dizzy.”
I want to say a crutch won’t be necessary. But the way my head spins now and again, it might be. “That’s…smart.”
“Smart. Hmmm.” She tilts her head, laughter sparking in her eyes again. I’m not sure yet what color they are. The light in this corner of the cabin isn’t good enough. Some medium color. Hazel, I think. Maybe green. But whatever shade, her amusement seems to make her eyes brighten her entire face. “Did that hurt to say?”
“It did.” But I have to admit, “Everything hurts right now.”
“Hence the inner dying.” She chews on the bottom corner of her lip, gaze running over me as if searching for anything else she can do to help, then shakes her head. “Well, let those pills kick in. Maybe you’ll feel better soon.”
After a while, I do feel better. A little. Enough to convince myself that I can make it to the other side of the cabin without the use of the chair.
I do. Barely. I’m so damn shaky that as soon as I close the bathroom door behind me, I spend a good ten minutes sitting on the toilet lid, gearing myself up for the effort it’ll take to stand again and piss. Not to mention the return trip to bed.
This is the most humiliating situation I’ve ever been in. But slightly less humiliating than if Harris found me dead outside his cabin door, since my keys are in my pack. Which is still strapped to the snowmobile.
He’d give me shit for that while standing over my frozen corpse. Then probably carve Here Lieth One Stupid Fucker on my gravestone.
The Walker girl saved me from that final indignity, at least.
I know better than to prod the lump on my head, but I get a look at my thigh when my pants are down. The bruise isn’t too colorful yet. The green and purple are likely coming. The whole area feels tender and hot, and every step hurts like a motherfucker.
But I don’t want to lie in bed all day. So despite the pain, I carefully make my way to one of the armchairs in front of the fire. Seated at the table, the Walker girl watches me with a doubtful expression as I cross the cabin, then purses her lips when I manage the distance without falling flat on my face.
“Want coffee?” She taps the steaming mug in front of her, as if my rattled brain might have forgotten what coffee was. “Or water?”
I hate that she’s still having to look after me. Even if my leg didn’t hurt and my head didn’t spin, I’m so shaky I can’t trust myself to carry a full cup of anything.
“Water sounds good.” So does coffee, but I don’t know if the caffeine will be good for a concussion. And in order to heal, it’s probably better to sleep than to artificially keep myself awake. “Thank—ow, fuck!”