“A what?” Brandy’s mouth dropped open a bit.

“A. Water,” I repeated slowly.

Brandy looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “Anything else with your . . . water?”

Even rolling my eyes was painful. “Ice.”

Brandy gaped at me for a while longer before heading back to the bar. In all fairness, looking at me like the world as she knew it had just changed because Garth Black had ordered a glass of ice water in a bar was probably to be expected. Despite being underage, I’d been venturing into Brandy’s bar since I turned fifteen, and that was the first time I’d ordered water. Waiting for my H2O, I grabbed a couple of napkins, twisted them, and stuffed them up both nostrils to stop the bleeding. As far as medical attention went, that was about all I needed.

“You sure you don’t want anything else? It’s on the house.” Brandy set a tall glass of ice water in front of me and waited.

“No, I’m good. Me and my water. What else could a man wish for?”

Brandy shifted, dropping her hand on her hip. “I could think of a few things. You decide you need something else, anything else, you know where to find me.” Glancing at the back room, where Brandy and I’d had plenty of after-hours “get-togethers,” she winked before walking away.

Sex was, like alcohol, my go-to when I wanted to block out something like a shitty day, getting thrown from the bull before the eight-second buzzer, or taking a serious beating. I’d already drowned myself in alcohol. Sex was the next thing on my journey toward “healing,” but sex with Brandy wouldn’t cut it. I don’t know how I knew that, or why; I just did. Sex with just anyone wouldn’t work like it normally did for me. When the face of who I did want flashed through my mind, I wished I’d asked for a bottle of whiskey with my water.

I wasn’t going there again. Not with her. Not ever. Once was enough to fuck a man up good for the rest of his life. I didn’t want to be fucked in the hereafter as well. Not that I wasn’t already fucked when it came to any kind of hereafter reserved for the likes of me, but that wasn’t the point.

“Since when did you start drinking vodka on the rocks?” Josie slid into the chair beside me and dropped a first aid kit on the table.

“Since never.”

She scooted her chair closer until her legs brushed mine. “What are you drinking then? Gin? Tequila? Hemlock?”

I gave her another tight smile. “What you basically ordered me to drink.”

And I thought Brandy’s face had been shocked.

“Water?” I nodded. “No way.” She grabbed the glass and actually took a sip. “Well, crap. Just when I think I’ve got you all figured out.” She set the glass down and shook her head.

“I go and order a glass of water? Mind blowing, I know.”

She fumbled through the first aid kit before pulling out some bandages and ointment tubes. “Consider my mind sufficiently blown.” She pulled out a few small squares and tore one open. Even though I felt like a panty-waist sitting in a seedy bar having a chick patch up my war wounds, I wasn’t about to get up and leave. I probably should. Being alone and in close proximity to Josie Gibson did strange things to me . . .

Like making my heart feel like there was something more to it than just pumping blood.

Speaking of panty-waists . . . I was so far gone in the land of make-believe and shit that I barely registered when Josie lifted a damp towelette to my face. That changed real quick when she pressed it into the gash above my eyebrow.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t wince. I all but leapt out of my skin. I was doing fabulous things to my notorious rough-and-tough reputation. “Shit, Joze, warn a person before you douse alcohol on a serious wound. Give them a second to brace themselves first.”

She gave me an exaggerated eye roll, holding the bloody alcohol swab off to the side. “First of all, I hardly consider an alcohol swab to be ‘dousing.’ Second, you gave up the right to call any of your wounds serious when you refused to seek medical attention and left me strapped with the burden of patching you up in the corner of some hygienically-deficient bar. And third”—she had to work to disguise her smile—“I thought you were immune to pain.”

Josie might as well have just slit me open and gutted me for as vulnerable as I felt. She was looking at me like she could see everything, everything, and was waiting for an explanation. I gave myself a proverbial shake before replying. “I am immune to pain, but no man, not even the toughest son of a bitch in the universe, is immune to alcohol applied to a gaping wound.”

“Gaping? Really? You on some sort of exaggeration kick or something?”

I couldn’t catch a break with Josie to save my life. “You said I needed medical attention. If something isn’t gaping on my face, you’re the one exaggerating, not me.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus. You are the most exasperating person I’ve ever known,” she said around a sigh, reaching for another alcohol swab. “For a man who doesn’t seem too picky about his alcohol, you wouldn’t think he’d turn his nose up at the rubbing kind.”

“Let’s get something straight. You, princess”—I lifted a brow until the pain registered. No raised brows for me for at least twenty-four hours—“are the most exasperating person I’ve ever known. And if it has the audacity to call itself alcohol and put a warning on itself saying not for personal consumption, then hell yes, I’ll turn my nose up at it. Calling something alcohol when you can’t drink it is kind of like Colt Mason calling himself a cowboy. It’s heresy.”

Josie knew from enough experience with me that I would never forfeit an argument. It just wasn’t in my nature. To start an argument with me was to lose an argument with me. So instead of going a few more rounds, she gave close to her dozenth head shake before lifting the swab to my other eyebrow. “Brace yourself, you big baby. I’m about to douse your gaping wound with the redheaded-stepchild of alcohols.”

I still flinched when she pressed the pad into my skin, but at least I didn’t act like a cat on a hot tin roof. I bit the inside of my cheek and blew out a slow breath.

“Big baby,” she muttered before moving closer and blowing on the spot she was dabbing.

Shit, that felt good. If I had a tail, it would have been wagging. No one had to tell me twice that Josie leaning in, that damn coconut-scented hair brushing my face, and softly blowing on my battle wounds was probably the worst thing that could happen to me. One step above the apocalypse. No one had to remind me that I needed to keep as much distance between her and me as space would allow. Hell, I was reminding myself of that. But when Josie broke through my walls and got close, physically and every other way she could, I was incapable of pushing her back out. No, nobody needed to tell me how fucked up that was. I reminded myself of it every day.

“This is one deja vu moment getting doctored up by you,” I said to distract myself from my thoughts.

She tore into another alcohol pad and blew on the next patch of face even before pressing it against it. “After these past couple years, I actually regret that day on the bus.” Her eyes looked everywhere but into mine.

I pulled out the knife she’d just lodged my chest before replying. “I guarantee you not as much as I regret it.”

Josie was a tough girl, one who I’d seen cry about as much as I did, but when her face broke, I was reminded for the billionth time what a dickhead I was. My default when someone hurt me was to hurt them back. It was a reflex, but it was one I wished I could turn off with people like Josie. She tore the next alcohol swab package open like it was to blame instead of me. Even though my words had cut her, she still dabbed my face gently, blowing the entire time.

I sighed. “Shit, Joze, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a dick but—”