“You good, man?” I ask again. Hartley turns his tired green eyes on me. “I should be asking you that question.” “I’m not the one who just popped his murder spree cherry tonight,” I point out. “As for the wound, it’s fine.” “Let me see,” Hartley says, standing up and nodding his head to follow him. We get to the bathroom, and I pull my shirt up with a roll of my eyes. The gauze covering my stitches is completely spotless, proving my point. “See?”
