My Fake Husband by Black, L. (lightest ebook reader .TXT) 📗

kiss that I couldn’t put into words. This was what Brody had described when Laura was kidnapped. This ferocious need to protect, to possess. It thrummed in my blood. I drew back from that devouring kiss and looked at her, those big eyes dark with need, but the weariness, something like fear in her face.

“Are you hurt?” I asked again.

“Gas is off,” one of the guys said. “The tenant upstairs left her stove on. I guess the pilot light went out, but the gas infiltrated downstairs. It’ll be clear in a few minutes to go back inside.”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to flip the closed sign and lock up. I’m taking her to the hospital to be checked out.”

“I’m fine. I just got lightheaded, and I noticed the smell, and I called 911 and came outside. It’s no big deal,” she said. She was swaying on her feet, stubborn but weaker than she’d admit. I shook my head.

“Go get her purse and flip the sign,” I ordered one of the other guys, not even looking away from her long enough to see which one followed my instructions. I took her purse when it was handed to me and I found her car keys. “I’m gonna text the chief, tell him I’m taking off now and I won’t be in tomorrow. Thank you guys. I owe you a case of beer later on.”

I slid my arm around her and tucked her in against my side, walking slowly, matching my stride to hers until we reached where her car was parked. I opened the passenger door and eased her into the seat.

“This is like when you plugged in my phone and tucked me in,” she said, her voice watery.

I dropped to my knees on the pavement beside the car and knelt beside her, took her hand, searched her face.

“I could’ve lost you. Jesus Christ, Trix. I’m gonna throw your tenant out as soon as I rip the gas line out of the wall. Next one can use a fuckin’ hot plate for all I care. I won’t have you in danger.”

“It was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone, really. Don’t blame her. And I need the rental income to pay you back.”

“Enough of that. You’re not paying me for anything. Stop. You’re working yourself to death. You’ve lost weight, you’re pale. You barely talk to me. Talk to me, please,” I practically begged, my voice hollow, my hand sliding up her arm to her shoulder and her hair.

She looked at me, eyes welling with tears and shook her head mutely. Tears slid down her face. I leaned my forehead against her shoulder for a moment, then gathered her against me, kissed her hair.

“What have I done? Tell me, dammit,” I said, but my voice was broken, sorrow showing through. “Everything was perfect. We were happy. I know we were. I don’t know what happened. You have to tell me so I can fix it. Please,” I choked out. She clung to me, sobbing, shaking her head, refusing again and again to speak.

She pulled away from me and turned her face where she wasn’t even looking at me. I reached across her and fastened her seatbelt, shut the door. I sat in the driver’s seat, adjusted it so my knees weren’t up around my ears because she had to sit up so close to the wheel. We would’ve laughed about that two weeks ago. Hell, I would’ve had her in my lap, riding me, that exquisite look of wonder on her face as I made pleasure blaze through her body. It hurt me physically to think of it.

All I could do was give her the space she wanted, and make sure she wasn’t sick from the gas leak. I took her to the ER, the same entrance where I’d dropped Brody off a week ago to check on my sister. This time, I parked in the fire lane and rounded the car, helped her out and charged in demanding a wheelchair.

“You can’t park there,” she said faintly.

“I’m a fireman,” I said, “let them fucking say something.”

A security guard came out to wave me off. I rounded on him and said, “My wife was in a gas leak. She needs to be examined now.”

“Sir, they’ll tow your car.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not leaving her. Here’s the keys. If they want it moved, they can move it.”

I badgered the registration clerk and shoved my insurance card at her and insisted on following when they took Trixie back to the cubicle to be examined.

“Sir, you can’t go in during the exam,” a nurse told me.

“That’s my wife,” I argued.

“Rules are rules,” she said wryly, “we get plenty of domestic disputes in here and women get examined without their partners. No exceptions. Wanna complain? We got security.” She crossed her arms. I stepped back and went to sit in the waiting room.

“Tell her I’m waiting,” I said.

I sat in the plastic chair and stared at the floor tiles. I wasn’t capable of making a call or sending a message. I was vibrating with fear, with tension. After half an hour, the same nurse came out.

“Are you here with Trixie Owens?”

“Vance. Her name is Trixie Vance,” I said. “Yes.”

“You can go back now. She’s in the first exam cube.”

I slid the curtain back and saw her lying on a narrow gurney, a cotton blanket over her. She was on her side, curled up, and she’d been crying.

“I can go home,” she said. “I’m going to be fine.”

I went and sat on the edge of the gurney and took her hand and kissed it, “I’ll do anything,” I said. “You were going to leave me, weren’t you? I knew when you didn’t answer my call you were done. But I want to try again, just tell me what we need to work on. Is it my work schedule? Is it—do you need more help at the shop or do we need to get counseling or something?”

Trixie