Coffee & Criminals

25. Open Up

"White with pink polka dots." He answered with a completely straight face.

"Okay," I said, because it was all I could say. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Not particularly."

"Wolfe."

"Yes, Florence?"

"Please! Just tell me. Where am I?" I questioned furiously. "How long have I been asleep? Are my parents okay? Why did you try to murder a van full of people? Where am I? Where are my clothes? What happened to my shoulder? Where am I? Did I die? Is this heaven? Because if it is, then it's a real crappy version of the afterlife. Where am I?"

"Alright!" Wolfe growled. He stepped into the room and shut the door. After a moment's hesitation, he walked to me and sat down on the marble floor, leaning against the bedframe. I copied his position and we sat side by side, muscular shoulder to wounded shoulder. "Fine. Damn. Even when you're sedated you're annoying."

I glared at him. "You drugged me?"

"Anesthesia, Florence. I had to." Wolfe glared right back. "Now, would you like to listen to what I have to say or would you rather interrupt every few minutes with an unnecessary comment and keep wasting time?"

"Jerk." I muttered under my breath.

He heard me.

Wolfe sighed deeply. "You were shot."

"I was shot?!" The pain I felt was from a bullet wound? Man, that sounded so much worse (and cooler) than I expected. His words left me stunned and reeling. A bullet wound. Who would try to kill me? I was just a sad little coffee shop waitress with an addiction to Twizzlers and Harry Potter.

"Yes, you were shot."

"Okay."

Wolfe pressed his lips together and perused me carefully for a second, as if searching for something with heavy desperation. I always got that feeling around him, that clench of vulnerability. He had the power to do anything he wanted to me, to my life. It was scary, to say the least. I always felt the need to have something, like a shroud of protection, around me when I was near him. Right now, the bedsheets were my shroud.

His shoulder pressed against mine gently, not enough pressure to cause me discomfort. Our thighs were almost touching, mine wrapped in bedsheets and his in pants. Wolfe locked his fingers and let them rest on his stomach. The bandages were gone from his hands. Angry dark pink bruises were forming on his knuckles, sure to leave a permanent scar. I wondered how many more of them he had on his body. If one fight produced that many wounds, I was afraid to know how much more memoirs the course of his hobby had given him. Scars were stories. I had my very own story now. A bullet wound.

Tracing circles around my knee with pinkie finger, I focused my attention on the gold patterned marble floor and listened to his voice. His presence was suffocating. I was hyperaware of Wolfe sitting beside me. Every movement of his was noticeable since we were at such a close proximity. Gathering my courage from whatever wisps of luck there was floating around the air, I let out a soft breath through my lips. "Where are we?" I finally asked.

"Manhattan." Wolfe said quietly. "Upper East Side. My penthouse."

"Okay." I said again. It really wasn't okay. Panic was lingering in my chest, ready to back up a full blown tantrum. However, I shoved the feeling down because I needed answers before I freaked out. No, I needed to approach this situation with a calm mindset. "Why are we in Manhattan, Wolfe? And if it's no bother, I would greatly appreciate it if you took me back to Brooklyn as soon as possible. Whenever it's convenient. Whenever you'd like to stop dicking around and give me some answers before returning me to the nice, normal life you plucked me from with your veiny hands. I'd appreciate it."