Page 11 of Wanted

“Can I?”

Those two words scrape against one another abrasively in his gruff voice. I don’t have a clue what he’s asking, but I find myself slowly nodding.

He shuffles closer on his knees until we nearly touch. His fingertips are whisper soft as he draws my broken arm carefully away from my body. The throb beneath his touch has nothing to do with the broken bone.

I hold my breath as he slides the scraps of lace around my sleeve, crossing the pieces and reaching behind my neck.

I lick my lips.

He’s so close I can smell his cologne. Something crisp and fresh. I flick my gaze over his face before dragging it away a second later.

A white, crescent scar decorates the skin beneath his right eye just above a smattering of freckles.

“What’s your name?” The words leave my mouth in a whisper, caught in my throat by his proximity until the second I set them free.

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“Jude Powell.”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the information. I suppose I can use it to thank him later once he gets me out of this fricken forest. Send him a gratitude card or something.

“What’s yours?”

My eyes snap back to his face only to find him staring at me with an intensity I find startling.

“F-Frankie. Zelmen. Technically, it’s Franklynn, but I always thought Frankie was more feminine.”

“Your parents named you Franklin?”

He stares at me while he says it. Like he’s both riveted and repulsed by my answer.

I sigh. “My parents were addicts. I suspect they were high when I was born since my dad’s name is Frank and my mom’s name is Lynn so they just put them together. I’ve always been grateful they didn’t name me Frank Lynn. Or Lynn Frank. Can you imagine?” I ramble while Jude stares. “They decided my name was long enough and didn’t give me a middle name. And before you say it, neither one has a sentimental bone in their body. They forgot I existed about the time I could feed and dress myself. In my twenty-eight years, I’ve never even had a birthday cake. So I don’t think it had anything to do with wanting to pass on their names. I think coming up with a fresh baby name was just too hard.”

“You’re twenty-eight?”

“Is that a problem? What are you, like fifty-two?”

He grunts. “Only thirty-nine, sunshine.”

It’s only as his hands drift away from the back of my neck that I realize he finished tying my new sling some time ago and has been holding them motionless while I spewed my life story while practically sitting on his lap. A chill replaces his touch.

He doesn’t say anything else as he stands. My rambling probably gave him second thoughts about helping me.

Jude slides his arms around me and yanks me cautiously into his chest.

Okay, maybe not.

“I can walk.”

I hardly jostle as he pivots toward his ATV.

“Uh, Mr. Powell—”

“Jude,” he mumbles as his long strides eat up the forest floor.

“Put me down, Jude.”

“Quiet.”

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