Page 20 of Extracted

I can’t lose you now . . .

CHAPTER 6

Gemma batted open her eyes. A yellow glow hit her, and she covered her face with her hand. She lay on a thin mattress, and the blanket beneath her was rough and gritty. The scent of musty, unwashed bedding hit her nose, and the need to get away from the grossness made her roll into a sitting position.

“Hey, hold still.” Dallas breezed in through the front door of what she determined was a motel room, two plastic bags dangling in his grip.

Her leg throbbed, and she brought her hand to the outside of her thigh. He squatted next to her. “You passed out. I didn’t have anything to clean the wound with so I ran to the twenty-four-hour drugstore next door.”

She rubbed her face and scooted back against the headboard. “I really don’t feel like messing with my leg right now.”

Dallas’s hooded gaze met hers. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s how you get an infection.” He set one of the bags on the nightstand and stood. “Let me wash my hands and we’ll get you sewn up.”

“Oh no,” she shouted to his retreating back. “You’re not giving me stitches.” Nausea pooled in her stomach. He didn’t so much as glance at her, and the exclamation had taken half her energy.

She heard water running in the bathroom, and he came out with towels. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, but not because she needed to cool down. This sweat was thick and composed of pure dread.

He sat on the edge of the bed and she shifted away a few inches. “I don’t do needles.”

His warm palm covered her calf, and he tilted his head. “Look. If you don’t do this needle, you’re going to end up in the hospital with an infection. Then you’ll get a kickload of needles.”

She narrowed her eyes.

He dragged her leg closer, forcing her to turn so he could view the outside of her right thigh.

“Get comfy,” he said, as his fingers went to the knotted, bloodstained towel. He had to lift her knee and pass the material between her legs. A thrill raced over her flesh as his fingers got a little too close—or not close enough—to the pulsing heat at her center.

What bullshit. She was finally stuck in a motel with Dallas, nowhere to run, and she couldn’t even get naked with him because she was too injured. He peeled off the towel, and she yelped as the coarse material pulled at her flesh.

Dallas tsked, and his face crinkled with sympathy. She was tempted to pull away and clean the wound herself, but she might just puke if she moved.

A flashlight clicked, and she watched Dallas study the bullet hole.

“You know,” she said, staring at his long, dark eyelashes, “I’m a little bit offended that you expect me to be sober while you stitch me up.”

His gaze lifted to hers, and a smile crept into his usually sour expression. He reached into the bag on the floor and straightened holding a bottle of vodka. “I’m not that heartless.”

She made a face. “Ew. Who drinks that stuff?”

He lifted a shoulder. “You do today.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. She didn’t usually drink, but there was a time and place . . .

He unscrewed the cap and slammed a shot back then passed her the bottle. Oh, great. They’d skipped cups. This oughtta be a fun night.

She tipped the bottle to her lips and the cooling sting of alcohol filled her mouth, sterilizing her throat on the way down. She coughed and sputtered. Her body shuddered, and she gagged. “That’s disgusting.”

“Couple more if you don’t want to feel anything.”

“I’m going to feel this come up, and it’s not going to be pleasant.”

Dallas chuckled and reached for the bottle. “Have it your way.”

She pulled it closer to her chest. “No, no. I’m not that stupid.” She sucked back a good two more shots then shoved the bottle in his direction and pressed the back of her hand to her lips. “Dear god.”

He set down the bottle and grimaced. “Ready?”

“For what? Is the bullet in there?”

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