Page 24 of Flame
I don’t know why that single word affects me—his tone. Maybe the aftermath of confronting Branden has robbed me of the ability to think for myself longer than a few minutes at a time. I grab a stack of bills without realizing it. Then another—but at the back of my mind gnaws this irrational sense of hurt. Betrayal.
He’s making me do this but won’t tell me why. So much for freedom.
“That’s enough,” he says when I’ve grabbed four stacks of bills. “Put the rest back. Good. Now… I need you to come with me.”
He pulls away from the table and staggers a few steps toward the exit. He doesn’t even make it halfway before he careens into a pile of canvas. A volley of curses erupts from him as they—and him along with them—crash to the floor.
Rushing to him, I hook my arm around his shoulders, hauling him to his feet. I spot a metal folding chair nearby, and I practically drag him to it, making him sit. My eyes latch onto the way he’s still clutching at his side, and I seize the hem of his shirt, wrenching it up despite his attempts to stop me.
“Don’t—”
“Oh my God…” I drop to my knees to get a better look. Where there was once unblemished skin, mottled bruising paints his ribcage in a medley of purples. He must have been struck by something—heavy enough to leave a cylindrical area the width of his chest. A bat? A larger weapon?
“God, Rafe. You could have internal damage.” I can’t stop myself from brushing my hand along his ribcage, and he nearly jumps off the chair.
“Fuck!”
“What happened?” My voice rings out stronger as I rise to my feet. “Tell me, or I’m leaving. I mean it—”
“I need you.” He looks me dead in my eyes, leaving no doubt that he means every word. “I need you, bunny. Don’t ask questions. Not now. I’ll explain everything later, but for now… You’ve gotta trust me.”
“No.” I back away and nearly trip over an array of scattered pens that must have fallen from the table. “You don’t have the right to ask me to do that. You don’t!”
He wrestles his shirt into place, and I can tell from how unfocused his gaze becomes that he’s barely on the verge of coherence. In essence, he’s miles away, still running from whatever drove him here.
Lowering my voice, I try to reason with him. “You need a hospital—”
“If I don’t do this, we’re both dead.” He says it so plainly that I continue to talk over him without registering the depth of his words at first.
“An ambulance. You could be bleeding internally… What are you talking about?”
He grits his teeth in determination as he grips the end of the chair. The damn thing nearly topples as he rises to his feet.
“Trust me.” He extends a hand marred by blood, and only God knows what else. It’s so repulsive I recoil—or I start to. The second I flinch, his gaze locks me in place, paralyzing in its raw intensity.
I can read his emotions in every nuanced quirk from his lips, pursed and tight, to his brow furrowed with concentration. As well as the feeling making him sway to stay upright—fear.
That sole observation affects me like nothing else. Robotic steps propel me forward, and my hand extends without input from my brain, my fingers entwining with his. He tugs me to his side, utilizing my body as a makeshift cane.
“I need to get to my car,” he grates through his teeth. “Come on.”
We head for the exit surprisingly fast, but every few seconds, his eyes dart toward the shadows. Whatever he sees—or doesn’t—has him tightening his grip, urging me into the closest speed he can come to an outright run. Which is little more than a hobbling walk.
“This way.” Once we reach his car, he wrenches open the driver’s side door, but rather than claim it for himself, he nudges me closer. “Can you drive?”
“Yes, but I haven’t in years,” I admit. And this modern dashboard looks far different from the hand-me-down family car I practiced with back in PA. “But—”
“Do it. Please.” Without giving me the chance to respond, he limps around to the passenger’s side, clinging to the car for balance. “We need to move.” He shoots another wary glance over his shoulder, and unease drives me inside despite my instincts warning me to jump right back out.
I can’t do this—get dragged into whatever this is. But then Rafe slumps onto the seat beside me, and one look at his face breaks my resolve. I’ve never seen him like this. His hands shaking, his eyes unfocused with pain. For once, there’s no bravado.
“Please.”
Defeated, I turn my attention to the modern console. “Where are the keys? And where are we going?”
He strikes a button on the dashboard, and the engine roars to life. “Just drive,” he commands. “I’ll tell you where to go.”
Wherewinds up being an area roughly ten miles away, following the waterline north. I can’t tell if we’re still within the city limits, though the only buildings in sight are a few scattered warehouses. The road itself is sparsely populated—which is a blessing in disguise, considering I’m going roughly fifty miles below the speed limit.
