Lucky and the Crushed Clown by Emmy Grace

Author:Emmy Grace [Grace, Emmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: EG Books
Published: 2019-10-16T05:00:00+00:00

13

I wake suddenly.

You know how you bolt upright in the bed after a bad dream?

Yeah, like that.

“What happened?”

My question is more to the world in general because I don’t immediately spot the person sitting in the chair across from the bed.

“You passed out,” Liam says, drawing my eye.

I turn to look at him. My head swims lightly for a second or two, but then it all comes rushing back. My stomach flips over with a sickening glop.

“You…you gave yourself stitches.”

He nods. “I did.”

“Why…why did you do that?”

“Just for fun. It’s what I do every Sunday.”

I tilt my head. “Ha. Ha.” I scoot to the end of the bed. “Ar-are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It wasn’t as deep as I thought it was.”

“But you still stitched it?”

“Oh, it was deep enough to need stitches, but not so deep that it nicked anything important.”

If Regina were here, I’d ask her if I’m green.

Because I feel green.

I think I’m a little green.

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I really didn’t. Blame that Cessna sized bug.”

“Did you get it out?”

“I think so. If not, it’s laying eggs in my brain and they’ll hatch and I’ll become the fly in a few days. Tell me if my hair starts falling out.”

I’m only partly kidding. But it would be rude to focus on a bug infestation of my own when I nearly emasculated the man across from me.

And I mean that in a literal sense. I came way too close to cutting off his boy parts. Or at least puncturing one or two of them. That takes priority over a bug any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

One side of his mouth lifts in a smirk.

Now he smiles.

“So, you’re not supposed to be buzzzzzzing?” He accentuates the onomatopoeia.

I clamp my hands over my ears. “Not funny.”

“Sure it is.”

“You’re impossible,” I grouse.

Liam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Let me get this straight. You can look at dead bodies that have disgusting wounds, but you can’t watch me give myself stitches?”

“I’m better with blood and stuff when the person is dead.”

“Good to know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, if I ever get hurt, it’s important to know that you’re not effective in a medical crisis.”

“Yeah, you can pretty much count me out of that. Sorry.”

He shrugs again like it’s no big deal.

Men!

“I think you should take off that sweat suit. You might be dehydrated. You’ve been sweating a lot I’ve noticed.”

Even now, I feel a rivulet of water run down between my boobs. “You’re probably right.”

I don’t tell him that I might need a surgeon to get me out of it. It’s probably melded to my skin by now.

I shimmy off the bed and head for his bathroom-slash-room of torture. I quickly shed my outfit and then work at peeling the plastic sweat suit from my limbs. When I step out of it, I fling it onto the floor, where it makes a wet slopping sound like I just threw down a gob of boiled spaghetti.

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