“’Course.”

That had made me feel better. A little.

I finger the stitches on my bottom lip. Supposedly the stitches will just dissolve when my lip heals. I haven’t told Aunt Coretta, the woman who spent a good many years helping my grandmother raise me, about my split lip. I had forgotten to call her the night of the wedding and subsequent brawl, and she had been a little worried. Flying half way round the world with a man I didn’t know all that well wasn’t the most prudent thing to do. It was something my mom would do. And I didn’t want to be like my mom, who basically abandoned me with my grandmother so she could gallivant around Europe with rich or pseudo-rich men. I don’t know for sure how she ended up with my father, who served in the military and was far from rich, except that she was on the rebound.

“Leave your stitches alone.”

I turn to see Darren standing at the bathroom entrance with his arms crossed in front of him.

“They feel weird,” I reply, glancing back into the mirror.

He walks over to me and grasps my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Touch them again, and your ass will pay for it.”

My backside tingles. “Okay, okay. What’s the big deal anyway?”

“You never had stitches before?”

I shake my head.

“I have,” he says, releasing me. “Twice. The first time, I picked at them and ended up reopening the wound.”

“Why’d you need stitches?”

“I was twelve. JD dared me to leap over the stairs in front of our school on my bike. I crashed and hit my chin.”

“And the second time?”

He pauses before replying, “Another accident. Teen boys are prone to that.”

“What happened?”

He turns away dismissively. “It was stupid shit.”

“What kind of stupid shit?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“I can imagine some pretty stupid shit,” I offer.

He looks a little exasperated but says, “I accidentally shot myself with a gun.”

My eyes widen. “What were you doing with a gun?”

“It wasn’t mine. It belonged to my bodyguard.”

“You had a bodyguard?”

“My father was paranoid that year. But my mom had the bodyguard fired after what happened.”

I’m curious to know what prompted his father’s paranoia, but that might be a sensitive subject, so I ask, “Were you hurt badly?”

“Bullet went into my leg.”

“How did that happen?”

“The safety wasn’t on the gun. I was fooling around, the gun fell to the ground and went off.”

I gasp. “You were lucky the bullet didn’t land anyplace worse.”

H grins. “There was a moment when my mom lit into me that I wish the bullet had hit me in a worse place.”

“I can see that about your mom. She’s a tough lady. I like her.”

I’m not entirely sure Sharon Lee returns the sentiment, however. She was nice to me after the brawl and accompanied me and Darren to the clinic where I got my stitches, but I’ve caught her looking at me oddly a few times, like I’m some strange zoo creature.