Page 45 of Hemlock

His friend, Jericho, switched out my bloody sweater for a wadded towel once he got him on the bed.

A flash of headlights washes over the room, but by the time I make my way to the window, darkness and my own reflection are all I can see.

"Hold this."

I look back at him, trying not to freak out at the lack of color in Owen's face.

"I've got to let the fucking doctor in," Jericho growls. "Fucking hold this."

I rush to Owen's side, pressing the towel against his skin as the huge man climbs off the bed and leaves the room. I should've cut in a different direction and diverted my car to the fucking hospital. I don't know what Owen is involved in but he's never going to be able to tell me because he'll die. I'll witness his death, and then what happens to me?

It can't end well for me if he's twisted up in something that keeps him from being able to go to the damn hospital.

I feel feral, wanting to growl and cover him with my body when the door to the room opens, but a man with a classic doctor bag, like I've only ever seen in old movies, walks inside.

I have a million questions, but I fight the urge to ask them in front of this new man.

I hate to think that Owen is somehow involved in drugs, guns, or anything illegal. The house we're in is way too expensive, but the room is plain and decorated the way I imagine a short-term rental would be. Maybe they're just renting it, but what would that cost? Hundreds of dollars a night?

I don't even attempt to do the math in my head as the doctor crosses the room because I know the math won't add up.

"Keep pressure," the man says as he opens the bag. "Who stabbed him?"

"That's unknown," Jericho says in a way that tells me he doesn't want the doctor asking too many questions.

"Did he piss someone off?" the doctor asks, looking at me.

I shrug, lifting my shoulder in an attempt to scratch the itch I feel on my chin. "We were just in the moment."

Jericho scoffs, making me hate the man a little more than I already do.

"Did Tommy Wilkinson stab him?" Jericho snaps. "Was your boyfriend pissed that you were hooking up with him?"

I thought my pacing was bad, but it has nothing on Jericho as he sweeps blood-covered hands through his hair, his nose flaring like an angry bull getting ready to charge.

"Tommy? Tommy has nothing to do with this," I argue.

"Are you sure about that?" he snaps, locking me in the ferocity of his glare.

I open my mouth to answer, but shit. I don't know. I can't say that I even know the man. Twice now he's left me wondering just what the hell he's up to. Teena left the bar tonight with a smile on her face, but what happened after she stepped outside? Did Tommy coerce her into something she didn't want to do?

I shake my head as tears leak from my eyes, my hands shaking as I continue to apply pressure to Owen's wound.

"Why does any of that matter?" I growl. "Maybe leave the interrogation until after Owen is out of the woods?"

"I've got this," the doctor says, covering my hands with his. "Why don't you go into the bathroom and get washed up?"

I climb off the bed, the sight of my hands coated in blood making my stomach turn. I've never done well with injuries. Billy would come home with busted knuckles, assuring me it was the slip of a wrench, something that happens to all mechanics, and I'd gag, fighting the urge to puke as I helped him get them clean.

I step into the en suite, the mountain cabin theme flowing into this room as well with the black bear-shaped pump soap dispenser and the cabinets made out of dark cedar.

My reflection honestly looks better than I feel. My heart refuses to calm down as I look out the door and watch Jericho follow the doctor's direction as he rolls Owen into him so the man can access the wound.

Bile rushes up my throat and I barely make it to the toilet in time before getting sick. The sting of tears follows, and I don't have the energy to fight them any longer. I allow the weight of my sorrow and confusion to carry me to the floor, and in a final bid to save face, I kick my foot out and close the bathroom door. The last thing I want is to feed into whatever stereotype those men might consider with a woman not being able to keep her shit together in the face of adversity.

I sob harder than I did the other night, knowing the only man who was capable of making my fears fade away might never open his eyes again. I'm more emotional now after only a few weeks of infrequent contact with the man than I was after ten solid years of marriage to Billy.

After several long minutes of crying, leaving me completely drained and clinging to a massive headache, I pull a piece of tissue from the roll and blow my nose, standing to toss it in the trash when I notice something that makes my breath hitch in my throat.

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