Page 197 of Charming Like Us
Protocol:Restrain him. Zip tie him. Call authorities.
My husband lies unmoving feet away. My client hasn’t stirred since the last kick to his ribs.
My fingers tighten around his preppy collar as he thrashes against my stronghold. Rage makes a home in my body, and I want to redo the past. Fix the mistakes I made with Quinn and beat the living shit out of this guy. But Jack’s unconscious.
Jack’s fuckingunconscious.
That thought runs over and over, panicking me more.
Fuck, protocol.
I dig into his pockets, grab his wallet, and toss him to the ground like he weighs as much as a feather pillow. He’s lighter than the other two. “Get the fuck out of here before I kill you,” I growl.
He scrambles to his feet, stumbling as he sprints out of the tent. My chest rises and falls heavily as I reroute my attention. My eyes dart back and forth.
Jack.
Charlie.
I have to choose.
I’m sorry.
Every step I take is weighted with guilt and worry, until I’m on my knees beside Jack. His eyes are closed shut, and a bump already starts forming on his forehead. Blood stains his shirt, his lip busted open.
“Jack,” I shake him a little. “Jack, come on.”
He doesn’t stir.
My throat swells. “Highland!” I yell, tears brimming. “Wake the fuck up!”
I should’ve protected him better.
I should’ve hit those guys harder to reach him faster.
“Oscar?” That groggy voice comes from the back of the tent. I glance over my shoulder, and see Charlie struggling to sit up.
“Charlie, stay there. Don’t move. Are you alright?”
“Yeah…yeah. I think.” He lets out a pained breath and favors an arm around his ribs. His eyes meet mine and then flit to Jack. He blinks back something. “Is he…?”
“He’s fine.”
He’s fine. Fine. F.I.N.E.Spelling it in my head is not calming me down. I don’t want to leave Jack at all, but he dropped his camera bag around here. He might have a water bottle stashed inside.
Just as I start climbing to my feet, his eyes begin to flutter.
I crouch back down. “Jack,” I whisper, panicked desperation coating my voice. I kneel next to him, sliding a hand over his head.
He blinks awake slowly. “Os?” He tries to sit up, palm bracing his weight on the floor.
“Relax,” I say. “You hit your head pretty bad there, Arizona. Do you know what day it is?”
“September 17th.” He leans back against the bumper car, and his eyes sink into mine. Concern envelop them. “Your face.”
I barely feel the pain in my cheekbone. One guy landed a single punch that my dad would have laughed at, but knuckles are knuckles and I’m sure there’s a welt.
A fist connected with Jack’s jaw too, but I’m more concerned about the blunt force against the pole.
