Page 11 of Beautiful Defiance

Her fingers slide out of her hair. She rests her elbows on her knees, lifts her head, and tells me to piss off. I take a good look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, and not in a I’m-turned-the-fuck-on-by-you pink, but in a I’m-running-a-fever shade of crimson. I get down on my haunches in front of her and place the back of my hand on her forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Leigh, this isn’t the time to be defiant.”

“It’s not defiance. I’m being a sarcastic smart-ass.”

“Hey, watch the language.”

“Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you, Seven.”

“Fuck’s sake, Leigh, you’re sick. Probably swallowed cum-filled, pissed-in pool water.”

“Gross.” She wiggles her nose, looking adorable as fuck.

“Just saying.”

“Cum-filled, pissed-in pool aside, I’m fine. Go. Be gone. Piss off.” She shoves me away and flops onto her stomach on the couch, her face smushed into the cushion.

I’m ready to rip into her and either demand she tell me who fucked up her face or ask what she needs at the store that’ll help her feel better. Except I see what’s giving her the fever.

On the back of her thigh is a long gash. The skin is red and angry. I skim my finger over the cut. She smacks at me.

“Hurt, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Leigh, we need to get you to the hospital. There’s a festering infection on the back of your leg.”

“Don’t want to go.”

“Sorry, Defiance, but you don’t get a say in this.”

I help her to a sitting position. Help her poke her arms through the sleeves of her baggy sweatshirt and stick her skinny legs into a pair of sweatpants, too, that I found inside her bedroom.

After I slide her feet into her tennis shoes, I grab her by the waist, pull her up, and tug the sweatpants up until they’re hanging loose on her hips. Her head falls onto my shoulder. Her arms curl around my waist.

“Seven, I don’t feel good.”

“I bet you don’t.” I pick her up and hold her close to my body. “Don’t worry. The doctors and nurses will get you feeling better in no time. They’ll pump you full of miracle antibiotics and kill that mean-ass infection.”

“You’ve been sick like this too?”

“Yeah. Junior year, I was running after this kid and hit my knuckles hard on the side of this dude’s old truck. Split the skin. Rust got into the cut, and my body did not like that shit. My hand swelled up like a helium balloon.”

“Nice analogy.” Her hand settles on the spot over my heart. She gives me a pat. It’s like we’re old friends or something.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Seven, why were you running after the poor kid?”

“He stole this old lady’s purse. Knocked her the fuck over.”

“Did you get back her purse?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. Punched the kid in the face with the knuckles that weren’t cracked open.”

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