Chapter 11

He’d been distracted by thoughts of Max’s talented mouth, wondering if Dix’s would be as clever, and the next thing he knew, a bullet had gouged a chunk of flesh out of his ass.

“It’s not quite that bad, Mr. Browne,” the doctor said, and Charles realized he’d spoken his thoughts out loud once again.

Well, it sure as shit had felt like it. He would have banged his head, only hitting it on even something as soft as a pillow didn’t seem like a good idea.

“I’m not going to be placed back on sick leave, am I?”

“You are,” she asserted briskly.

It was a fucking repeat of last spring, and he was getting damn sick and tired of it. He closed his eyes. Jesus, he was so tired. He leaned his weight on an elbow and raised his other hand to rub his head. “What the…?” He’d come into contact with a bandage.

“You gave yourself a fairly decent knock on the noggin.”

“Nothing decent about it,” he groused.