Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“You need the hospital,” I insist.
“Just because you have money doesn’t mean you should throw it around.”
I gape at him, two seconds away from losing my shit, and that’s why I’m still absent-mindedly stroking Peach Lips at the same time, which I’ve been doing during this whole conversation. Petting her lowers blood pressure, and it’s probably the only thing keeping me standing at this point.
Never mind me, what about Thorn?
“What do you mean you were stabbed and that it’s taken care of?”
I didn’t think twice. I just hop off the bus.
“Lift your shirt up,” I command, though I’m not sure it’s a good idea. What if that’s the only thing holding him together? That’s silly. He’s not a rotting zombie.
He edges the cotton up slowly, the damp fabric sucking away from his skin. The blood doesn’t shoot like a geyser at me, but it does bubble up and dribble over an aggressive-looking cut that wraps around his whole side.
“Ahh!” Do not pass out. Do not pass out. The sight of blood doesn’t even bother me, but that? That’s a gash right across Thorn’s whole side. A few inches over, and I think he’d have had some serious problems. It makes my side sympathy ache to the tune of burning, stabbing pressure. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s just a scratch. That needs stitches.”
“Normally, I have a field dressing kit, but I must have left it on the jet. I don’t normally get a rental.” He frowns, studying his side, but I don’t think he’s making faces at the wound. “I don’t normally do any of this, actually.”
“Any of this?”
“I took some time off. I want to visit my family.”
“Oh!” Okay, priorities. Hospital first, talk later. “Give me your keys. I’m taking you straight to the hospital,” I say firmly.
“That will take hours. You’re on the edge of Tucson. Do you know how long it took me to get here from the airport, even if I hadn’t stopped?”
“My first aid kit doesn’t involve stitching materials. It just has some basic gauze, bandages, and rubbing alcohol. Not triage for bullet wounds and knife fights.”
“Good.” He sets his jaw and pulls down his shirt. “I’ll bandage myself up, and then we’ll go.”
I give him a major stink eye. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Serious?”
“No. I’m not going to inconvenience you. I’ll make some calls and have a private surgeon come to the bus.”
“Ugh.” I don’t think I’m going to get better than that. Thorn might have an aversion to hospitals. Goodness knows I sure do. I’m not above going if I need to go, but the PTSD from my mom’s appointments and all her medications is real. “You’d better come up before you bleed out.”
That doesn’t exactly sound welcoming. My heart is fluttering all over the place. I’m breathing like it’s Thanksgiving and as though I overdid it on everything and then attempted to run one of those impossible obstacle courses that is designed to kill you in eighty different and hilarious ways. Thorn is here. Ostensibly, it’s to pay for damages, but I’m having a hard time believing that’s the real reason.
I don’t want it to be the only reason.
So why am I gatekeeping the bus like I don’t want him to be here and like my insides aren’t doing fifty thousand backflips while he’s bleeding?
“I’m sorry!” I’m not a nervous hair raker, but I give my long strands a good finger combing with both hands. “Get on the bus. Now. Please. I’ll get my first aid kit, and if you need help patching yourself up, you better believe I’m here for it.” I bend down and snatch up the dollar bill. “Make calls and get someone here. Anyone. Or let me take you, please. Losing this much blood isn’t okay.”
He grins. Grins. “Are you worried about me?”
“How is that even a question?!” I exclaim.
Having him step on the bus ratches my breath into impossible territory. An invisible giant fist just shot out of the wall of the obstacle course and knocked me off an already greased pedestal kind of territory.
I’d almost forgotten how he’s so big that he takes up all the space. Bus-sized humans don’t happen to come along every day.
“Hey, Peach Lips,” he says, his deep voice echoing through the place like we’ve just stepped into a cave.
“Sit.” I pat the bench slash couch, point a threatening finger at it, then fill a cold glass of water out of the fridge and reach under the sink for the first aid kit.
Thorn sits. He doesn’t even grimace. If I was slashed six ways to Sunday, I think I’d be making a fuss about it. God, I’m more of a baby when it comes to a paper cut than he is about having half his side carved out like he’s a hunk of beef.
“Relax.” He takes the kit from me, and my hands are the ones doing the shaking. “It’ll be fine.”