Number 90: “You need to take off your shirt.” 😏
“Elizabeth,” Red opened the door, “this is not a good time.”
“I’ve been calling you all day. Dembe didn’t pick up.”
“Dembe didn’t pick up because we were busy.”
“Well, then you should have dug that chip out of your damn neck.”
Resigned, he stepped back and allowed her to come in. “Well, you’re here now, so what’s on your mind?”
“I…” Taking a seat on the couch, she watched as he downed his drink before pouring himself another. “You didn’t answer the phone.”
He nodded, dropping into the armchair across from her. “Yes, we’ve established that already.”
“It’s just… You always answer—or you at least get back to me.”
“Ah, I see.” He smiled, appearing curiously pleased. “You were worried about me.”
“I was not—“ Catching her own lie, she snapped her mouth shut. Then, shoulders slumping, she quietly muttered, “Is that so surprising?”
Sensing her change of mood, his features softened from smug to sincere. “I never want you to worry about me, and yet I’m happy you do, all the same.”
“So?” She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “What were you so busy with, anyway?”
“Meetings to be held, deals to be made.”
She rolled her eyes at his characteristic obscurity. “And nothing went wrong this time?”
He took a generous gulp of his scotch.
“What is it?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“You’re avoiding my eyes, which means you’re hiding something.” She wasn’t sure whether she should feel worried or proud when his twitch confirmed her suspicion. “So, what aren’t you telling me?”
“There was a small moment of miscommunication.”
“A few shots were fired…”
“What?” She immediately came to a stand in front of him. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he chuckled, and she breathed a sigh of relief—until he added, “Not really.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“Well, it was just a minor flesh wound—not much more than a scratch, I assure you.”
“Where—“ Scanning his body, she realized blood was dripping down his fingers. “You’re bleeding!”
“Ah, the stitches must have torn.”
“You need to take off your shirt.”
“If this is about your back, I already know.”
Taking pity on his shocked state, she explained, “We were on the run together for months, Red.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, voice barely more than a low rumble.
Shaking her head, she shrugged. “I didn’t see the need to.”
“You don’t have any questions?”
“Oh, I do,” she laughed, though it was void of mirth, “but they can wait.”
“Until we’re ready.” When he didn’t say anything, she prodded, “Okay?”
“Now, will you let me help you?” Without waiting for his reply, she gently tugged his jacket off, wincing at his bloodstained sleeve. “Scratch, my ass.”
Tilting his head, he arched his brows and smirked.
“Shut up,” she slapped his wound, immediately feeling bad but trying to hide it, “You know what I meant.”
