Page 64 of Lush

And they would try again.

My head throbbed; the world spun, but I stood. I fumbled for my phone with blood-slick fingers, my vision doubling as I unlocked the screen.

His name calmed my racing thoughts.

Reese.

I hit the call button. Seconds later when the call connected, I didn’t give him a chance to speak, “Reese. Please. Help.”

I dragged myself back up the path. Every step hurt like crazy. Reese’s voice cut out on me. “Laurene? What’s going on? Where are you?”

“P-Park.”

I just kept moving, one step at a time, until I reached the edge of the park. My legs buckled, and I collapsed onto the curb, clutching my head. I don’t know how long I sat there, it felt like forever, and no time at all.

I smelled burning rubber and heard tires screech, then saw a car skidding to a stop. Reese appeared before me instantly.

“Laurene!” He cupped my face, tilting it up, his thumb brushing my cheek. He touched my head and the pressure made me wince.

“What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I croaked. “Someone pushed me and tried to drag me.”

“Shit, let’s get you to the hospital?—”

“No hospital,” I muttered, shaking my head, though the motion made the world spin all over again.

“You’re bleeding and barely standing,” I felt him push my hair back, and he touched a bump forming. “Don’t argue with me right now.”

“I swear I’m fine. They didn’t hurt me, just pushed me from behind to scare me.”

Before I could protest further, his hands slid under my knees and around my back, lifting me off the ground.

“Reese—”

“Shut up,” he said gruffly.

He carried me as if I weighed nothing, his long, purposeful strides a blur as he headed toward the gleaming chrome of his car. He opened the door and let me down gently.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he muttered, more to himself than me, before slamming the door shut and rounding the car to get behind the wheel.

I rested my head on the cool window; it felt good on my burning skin. I took a breather, the pain was muted, knowing Reese was close by. When the car’s engine finally cut out thirty minutes later, he didn’t waste any time.

He picked me up from the car again; I felt his body heat through my clothes as he sprinted to the door with me. Inside, he carefully settled me on the living room couch.

“Stay with me.”

He went to remove my hoodie, muttering under his breath, and seconds later, his hand went to the hem of his shirt. Before I could process what was happening, he yanked it over his head, revealing the toned muscles of his chest, the light from the dim lamps catching on the tattoos that snaked down his arms.

He dabbed at the blood on my head with his shirt. The shirtwas soft and warm, still holding his body heat. His touch was pure concern, no fear or hesitation.

“Shit,” he murmured, his thumb gently tracing the bloodied gash along my temple. His touch felt good. His hand was large, rough around the edges, but the way he handled me felt like he was trying to do everything right.

I should push him away, but I couldn’t. Not when my head was pounding. Not when the only thing keeping me upright was him.

“You should’ve let me take you to the hospital,” he said quietly, voice almost like a growl.

“I’m fine,” I replied, my voice hoarse, though I was far from fine.

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