“A hero?” She cocks her eyebrow, and I try to mirror her but fail miserably. “Whatever you’re doing with your face is creepy, and you need to stop it.”

“Jeez, you can’t even show some compassion while I’m injured?”

“No.”

I blink at her, waiting for her to go on. “No?”

“No is a complete sentence, dork.”

The thing about Arlie is that she’s intimidating without meaning to be. I love strong women; my momma was one before she died, Margot and Elle both are now, and it’s part of why I admire Arlie. But where Margot is strong because she has to be, I think Arlie just fucking likes it. And that’s the part that’s intimidating.

Judging by the goose bumps racing over my skin, I’m cold, but I can’t feel much of anything right now. My head is a bit of a woozy mess, my arm and chest are sticky with cooling blood, and I look and smell like I’ve just climbed out of a dumpster.

Meanwhile, St. Clare is still standing over by the car and looks like he’s had a mildly busy day in his suit pants and button-up shirt. The way he’s rolled up his sleeves should be sponsoring porn sites everywhere.

I’m about to tell him that I’m injured and he should put those slutty forearms away when Everett walks out of the small house, carrying … I don’t think I want to know. The small metal dish is shielding whatever’s inside, and I’d like it to stay that way.

“What do we have here?” he asks, bald head so shiny it looks as damp as the vegetation surrounding us.

“Got nicked by a bullet.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Can you believe Danvers shot at me? We closed out the bar together for his last birthday.”

Everett hums. “It’s a hard lesson to learn.”

“What is?”

“That money will always mean more than friendship in our circles.”

“Then why are you three here?”

Everett doesn’t answer me, just glances over at Tommy and Arlie.

Arlie shrugs. “Don’t ask me. I’m here under duress.”

“It was your idea,” Tommy throws back.

“My statement stands.”

I send Arlie my most grateful expression. “I always knew you loved me.”

She sighs. “Hurry the hell up so we can go, Ever.”

“Ah …” He pauses, checking both sides of my shoulder as he sets the tray down on a teeny fold-out table. “I don’t think this will be a quick fix.”

“Why not?” I ask, trying to see what he sees.

“Because it didn’t skim you. It’s still in there.”

I guess that explains all the pain, then. “And how do we make it not in there anymore?”

He chuckles, pulls a small bottle of vodka from his pocket, and holds it out to me. “We start with this.”

“You want me to drink that?”