Cass didn’t know why she bothered. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough to do so she had to fuss over a man who refused to take care of himself.
From his grimaces, it was obvious Randy needed a doctor, not the alcohol-drenched washrag she held. But, no, he was too stubborn to seek a professional.
She had a right mind to drop the cloth on his face, pick up her bag, and go home. Yet the purple and black bruises on his face, along with the crusted blood on his lip and above his eye, brought out the caretaker in her. She couldn’t leave him in his condition, no matter how much he tried to push her away.
This scene came to me in a dream. It was the first one I wrote for my debut novel Sweet Jazz.