Page 59 of Saved By the Boss

“Declan!” I scream again, my voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. My boots slip on the ice, and I fall hard, the coldseeping through my jeans as I scramble back to my feet. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart pounding as I reach the driver’s side of the truck.

I peer in the window and see Declan slumped against the seat, his face pale and streaked with tiny cuts. He’s spitting out what looks like powdered glass, his movements slow and dazed. He’s not responding, either because he doesn’t hear me or because he’s in shock. A cold chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the weather, and I begin to panic.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe, yanking the door handle. It doesn’t budge. The metal is warped and bent, the frame pinned under the weight of the tree. “Declan! Are you okay?”

He blinks up at me, his green eyes unfocused. “Jade?” he says hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “What the hell just happened?”

“The tree,” I say, my words tumbling out in a rush. “It fell on the truck. You’re bleeding, oh my God, your face—”

“I’m fine,” he says, though his voice is strained. He shifts in the seat, wincing as he tries to move his leg. “Shit. Okay, maybe not fine.”

I grab the door handle again, pulling with all my strength, but it’s no use. “I can’t get it open,” I say, my voice shaking. “Can you move? Can you climb out?”

He tries to shift again, but the door is dented inward, pinning his leg. He grimaces, his jaw tightening. “The door’s jammed. I think,” he pauses, wincing. “I think my leg’s caught.”

The panic claws at my chest, but I force myself to take a deep breath.

“Okay,” I say, just to give myself some time to think. “Okay, we’ll figure this out. Just hold on.”

I move to the other side of the truck, slipping and stumbling in the snow and ice, and manage to get the passenger door open. The inside of the cab is littered with broken glass and bits of tree bark, the air thick with the acrid smell of leaking fluids. I climb in carefully, reaching across to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Alright,” I say, my voice steadying as I focus on the task at hand. “I’m going to pull you out, okay? Just tell me if anything hurts too much.”

He gives a faint nod, his face pale and tense. “Go for it.”

I slide my hands under his arms and pull with all my might, gritting my teeth against the strain. He was twice the size of me and all muscle, so it was a difficult task. He groans in pain as his leg shifts, the twisted doorframe scraping against his jeans. I keep pulling, inch by inch, until he’s free.

Together, we manage to stumble out of the truck and into the snow. He leans heavily on me, his weight almost too much for me to bear, but I don’t let go. His leg is clearly injured. He’s limping badly, and every step seems to send a fresh wave of pain across his face.

“We need to get to the cabin,” I say, half-dragging him toward the porch. The storm is relentless, the wind tearing at us with icy fingers. “You can’t stay out here.”

He doesn’t argue, though his breathing is labored, and his steps are slow and uneven. By the time we reach the porch, my own legs are shaking, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him up. But somehow, we make it inside, the door slamming shut behind us, muffling the roar of the storm.

The warmth of the fire is a sharp relief after the freezing cold, and for a moment, we just stand there, both of us breathing hard. Declan leans heavily against the wall, his face pale and streaked with blood. I grab the nearest chair and help him into it, my hands trembling as I reach for my phone.

“I’m calling 9-1-1,” I say, already dialing.

“Don’t,” he protests weakly, but I shoot him a glare that silences him. The phone rings twice before a woman’s voice answers, calm and professional.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s been an accident,” I say quickly, my words tumbling over each other. “A tree fell on my friend’s truck and he’s hurt. His leg, his face, there’s glass everywhere—”

“Ma’am,” the operator interrupts, her tone firm but not unkind. “Is he breathing? Is he conscious?”

“Yes, but—”

“All right. Are there any life-threatening injuries? Is there excessive bleeding?”

I glance at Declan, who shakes his head slightly.

“No,” I say reluctantly. “But his leg is hurt. He can’t walk.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then the operator says, “Due to the storm, emergency response is limited right now. As long as he’s stable and not in immediate danger, it may be a while before we can get to you. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yes,” I say, frustration bubbling up inside me. “But I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I can walk you through basic first aid,” she says, her tone steady. “Do you have the kit nearby?”

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