Page 6 of Red Rabbit
On my way back to the surface, I found a robust backpack and another smaller crate in the back. I pulled the backpack first and swam to the shallows with it before I turned around and went back for the crate. I did the same multistep process with this crate as I did with the other one because it was just barely too heavy for me to carry all the way in one go.
Despite asking for privacy, Graham watched me the entire time. When I came back dragging the crate, I looked up and my breath faltered when I saw at some point he removed his shirt. It should be criminal for someone to look like that—a body built for purpose and strength—not aesthetics, although that was an added bonus.
He grabbed the backpack and the items were currently near the fire where he laid them out to dry. He looked up at me over the flames.
“Did you find the recorder?”
“Tails gone,” I gasped as the cold tore my breath away.
He nodded like he hadn’t been counting on it.
A vicious breeze tore through the shoreline and a violent shiver wracked my body. I grabbed the blanket quickly and gave up on the crate in favor of getting warm as my teeth chattered ferociously. The fire felt wonderful as I dried off and put my clothes back on before I wrapped myself in a space blanket and grabbed a granola bar and some water. The cold here was brutal and it seemed to sink into my bones, making it hard to get warm. I wondered if I’d ever know what being warm felt like again.
“Find anything useful?” I ask around my shivering.
“Tent, sleeping bag, flashlight, more matches, another tarp…”
He unraveled the sleeping bag to dry by the flames. Of course there was only one. Love that for me.
“…a few more medical supplies, a flare, compass…”
He turned his back to me and I must have made a sound because he looked over.
“Your back,” I said. “That needs stitches. Do you want me to…”
I trailed off, realizing he probably got cut by the glass just like I did when I pulled him from the plane. I should have felt bad but I didn’t. I was trying to only look at the gash on his back and not how his muscles moved and when I met his eyes he gave me a skeptical look.
“I don’t want your shaking hands anywhere near me,” he grumbled.
He rose and went to retrieve the crate from the shoreline.
“Fine, let it get infected,” I quip. “When it does I’ll be sure to drive you straight to the hospital.”
He lifted the crate like it was nothing and carried it over. I tried not to stare at his arms. He needed to put his shirt back on.
“You know your sarcasm is really helpful,” he said.
He set the crate down and the first thing he pulled out was a gun.
“Will—will that still work?” I stammered.
His gaze flickered to me while he palmed the handgun. In a quick movement he ejected the clip and then a stray bullet popped out the top.
“It should once I dry it all out,” he said.
He carefully extracted every bullet from the clip and laid them out a safe distance from the fire to dry. Even though I have a career in military tech, guns weren’t something I found myself around often. He didn’t look like he was a stranger to them though.
“Are your hands still shaking?” He asked.
I shook my head, my eyes still on the firearm and again I questioned my decision to save him seeing as now the criminal held a gun.
“Never seen a gun before, princess?” He sounded amused.
“Oh, I’ve seen them,” I said.
I tore my gaze away and grabbed the medical supplies as he sat down with his back to me. This close he radiated heat nearly as much as the fire. I rub an alcohol wipe over the cut. It would need at least ten stitches by my estimate and when I stuck the needle into his skin, he didn’t so much as flinch. I carefully did the first few stitches, trying not to concentrate on the way his muscles felt under my fingers.
“So what’s the game plan?” I asked.
