Page 15 of Sexy as Sin
All kinds of things can happen,she told herself fiercely.There’s no fairness, and no rules for the universe. Your job right now is to make it better.When the dispatcher answered, she said, “I need an ambulance. Coolamon Scenic Drive. Uh...” She put her fingers to her forehead. Where exactly? She couldn’t think.
“Before, uh...” Hunter said. “God. Happy god.”
“Just before Happy Buddha Fruits,” Willow said. “There’s a banner hanging overhead, on the seaward side of the road. New development, selling now, that sort of thing. He has a head injury, I think, and something wrong with his leg. It’s bad. The leg is bad.”
“No... head injury,” Hunter said. “Hurts. That’s all.”
“Hurtsisa head injury,” she told him. “That’s why it hurts. Do you have to be in charge all the bloody time? Let me do it.”
“Say again?” the dispatcher said. “I didn’t get that.”
“Nothing,” Willow said. “Head injury, but the leg hurts him more. The leg’s the bad one.”
“I’ve dispatched the ambulance,” the woman said, her voice almost robotically calm. “Don’t move him, and don’t let anyone else move him. That’s important. You’ll need to treat him for shock, too. Cover him with a blanket, if you have one. Otherwise, get some clothes over him, and don’t give him anything to drink.”
She rang off, and Willow knelt beside Hunter and wished he’d open his eyes. Her own headache was beating like a hammer against her skull, and her mouth felt parched, like it was full of dust. She wanted to put his head in her lap, but she couldn’t. If his neck were injured, she could paralyze him. She knew that much. If his leg was hurting that badly, and it was, judging by the way his face was twisted and the harshness of his breathing, he wasn’t paralyzed. Good news. She picked up his hand, squeezed it, and told him, “Ambulance is coming. Hang on, Hunter. You’re going well. Hang on.”
“I... am.” He forced his eyes open. She could see the effort. “Hanging... on. You need a... hat. And water.”
She tried to laugh, but her mouth was too dry. “No. I need to stay with you.”
“Call... somebody.” His voice was getting fainter. “One of your... servers. Hat. Water. Make them... come.”
“Would you stop worrying about me?” Her anxiety was trying to overwhelm her, making her own breathing shallow. His hand felt cold in hers. “You’re freezing. Right. Let’s get some help.”
She called Martina. “Hunter,” she said. “Bloke in the suit. He’s had a fall, is badly hurt. By the big boulder to the...” She tried to think. “North. Turn left from where you’re facing the sea. Find the PR, and tell her to direct the ambos here when they come. Then get over here. Bring two of the tablecloths. Two bottles of water, too. Hurry.”
“Hat.” It was Hunter. A breath of a word.
“And a hat,” Willow said, surrendering.
“I tell her to direct the ambulance,” Martina said. “Two tablecloths. Water. Hat. I am coming.” And rang off.
Willow told Hunter, “Help is coming soon. Any minute. Stay with me.” His hand was so cold. She lay down beside him, careful not to touch his legs, and draped her upper body over his. He jerked and called out again, and she drew back. “Sorry. I’m trying to keep you warm. I won’t touch you anymore, though. Stay with me, Hunter. Don’t you dare die. I’ve had a bad day already.”
“Thought you were... making a... move,” he said, still not opening his eyes. His teeth were chattering now, his face ashen, his lips waxy and colorless.
“Ha,” she said. “You wish.”
A ghost of a smile. “Call me... my name. Please.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Brett. My name’s Brett. Call me my name. Tell me about... you. Tell me... your story. Please. Talk to me.”
It hurt so badly, he could barely hold on to being here. He wanted to thrash. He wanted to move. He couldn’t thrash, though, and he couldn’t move, because that would hurt more. He held himself rigid instead, locking up every muscle.
Not screaming was so hard. He’d scare the girl if he screamed, though. The girl was important. He couldn’t remember her name. He was so cold.
“Right, then. I was born in Rabat. In Morocco.” Her voice was like the breeze on a summer day. Gentle, but you knew it could get strong, too. He focused on it, and saw the wheat rippling in the fields on the Palouse hills. June greens turning to August yellows, and the waves moving across the expanse of wheat. Waves, but not scary ones, not like the river.
You could drown in the river. The boat could hit a submerged log, and you could fall in. Your waders could fill with water and drag you under, and nobody could pull you up again, no matter how long they tried. They weren’t strong enough.Youweren’t strong enough. You failed. Youfailed.
He was looking at the waves of wheat, thinking about the river, and he was crying, the sobs ripping up from his chest. It hurt too much, and thinking was too hard, and he was gone. His dad was gone. He couldn’t pull him up. He couldn’t bring him back.
The voice, then. The breeze. “Brett,” it said. “Stay with me. Squeeze my hand.Brett.Don’t you dare leave me.” Not soft anymore. Fierce, now. She meant it. His mother, that was. Or no. It was the girl. Her hair was the color of the sun at the end of a summer day, when the harvest-raised dust hung in the air and painted the sky with streaks of pink and red and orange. Her skin was white. He knew that, even though he couldn’t open his eyes.
The voice went on, and he held onto it, and her hand, like the rope from the boat, and tried not to cry. You didn’t cry. You were a man. “Right, then,” she said. “My story. I grew up in north Africa. My parents were with the foreign service. My father was a diplomat, and my mum was an analyst. A scholar, too, I guess you’d say, because her real love, besides my dad, was Arabic poetry. She wrote papers on it. She used to read it aloud to my father at night, on the veranda, and you could fall asleep listening.”
