…which I probably promised you MONTHS ago! Bear with me, folks. I’m a damn busy woman.
So, here’s a second scene from Assassin: Book 2 in the Kick-Ass Girls Club series. The first part is here and this one is actually from chapter 2 of Assassin.
I’ve only been dating Killian for a few months, and it’s been a damn roller coaster ride because of his “job,” and because we’re both hot-headed Irish folk. The queasiness might stem from the fact that he’s got a gash on the side of his head that has my temper flaring as blood runs down his face.
“Hey, Red.” A grin splits his face, as though he’s completely unaware of the blood on the side of his head, cheek, and down his neck. And more than likely, that’s probably the case.
“What the hell happened to you?” I grab a clean damp towel and run around the bar.
“What are ye talkin’ about?” He stops my arm with his hand when I reach up to clean the gash and inspect closer for the severity.
“You’re bleeding, dumbass,” I say, and he lets go of me so I can clean up his face. “What’d you do now?”
He sits on a barstool and waves a hand, practically dismissing the question, but he answers anyway because he knows better. “It’s nothin’, really.”
It’s always “nothin’” with him. He could be on fire and it’d be nothin’. Thinking of fire reminds me who I am, and I get a glimpse of my scarred hand before pulling the towel back so he can see the blood. I take a closer look at the wound. “You need stitches.”
“Nah, I’ll be fine.”
I place the towel back against the wound and press . . . hard.
“Ow! What the fuck, Red?” He slaps my hand away from his head.
I poke his chest with each spoken word. “You. Hospital. Stitches. Now!” I point to the exit. “And if I don’t see stitches in your goddamn head tonight, you’re going to need more.”
He gets that grin like he’s proud of me for standing up to him. Whatever. “Fine, I’m going,” he says, and hops off the barstool. “But it won’t be the hospital. See ye tonight.” As he turns to the exit, he slaps my ass and walks away with a chuckle.
“Stitches,” I yell before he walks out the door. He throws his hand up and waves his acknowledgement.
I swear, if I wasn’t falling for the bastard, I’d be livid for that ass-slapping stunt. Especially at my place of employment.
On that note, my boss walks up behind me. “Please tell me that’s not blood on that towel.”
“Aren’t you the observant one?” I throw it at him and walk back behind the bar.
He tosses it back at me with a disgusted look on his face. “Teagan, he can’t keep showing up like that, and bleeding,” bossman says.
“If you want me working holidays, drop it,” I say as I scrub my hands like a doctor before surgery. Tainted, it may not be, but I can’t have even a speck of his blood ending up in someone’s drink.
“You know why I do that,” he replies.
I nod because I do know why he has this place open every holiday, and I find it admirable. My co-workers, not so much. They piss and moan about it every holiday they have to work. I don’t because hey, double time! And on a bartender’s wages, that means a lot.
“I’ll talk to him because quite frankly, I’m getting a little tired of it myself.”
“Don’t break things off with him,” he says, surprising me. “He’s a good guy. He just needs to stop bleeding all over my establishment.”
I salute him. “Got it.”
He shakes his head and walks away.
I let out a sigh and get back to work, counting the minutes to when I may potentially get to kick my boyfriend’s ass.