Page 19 of Running Risk
“Can you walk?”
His gruff voice shatters any defenses I have put up. It takes effort not to cry. I’ve missed him so much, but he’s no longer the shoulder I can cry on. No longer the friend who was always there for me. No longer anything. All I can think of when he’s around is the way he shattered my heart and all the plans we had made together.
I sit up, push my shoulders back, and clear my throat. “Yes.”
He stands, waiting for me to do the same. Clamping my jaw shut, I force myself up. His eyebrow arches, noticing I’m puttingall my weight on my good leg. Sighing, I take a step toward the truck, and my knee gives out instantly. Strong hands wrap around my torso, and my mind focuses on where every single fingertip digs into my body.
“I’ve got it.” I shove him away, but his hold remains. “Clayton.” I push again.
“God damn it, Rylee. Let me help you.” His eyes bore into mine, his lips set into a firm line.
My jaw hangs open. First of all, I’ve never heard him use a single curse word in my life. Second, he raised his voice, and third, I miss him. Seeing that I stopped fighting him, he grabs my left hand and brings it around his neck. His other arm winds around my body, firmly holding me against him. He helps me hobble to the truck and gently lifts me inside. Opening the back door, he whistles, and Socks jumps inside.The little traitor.
He climbs in behind the wheel and looks at me. Clayton has always been this way, expecting me to read his mind, but I refuse. I don’t want to look at him more than I have to. The faster he gets me home, the better. So I fix my gaze on the road ahead.
“Do you want to tell me where you live?”
My head whips in his direction. “How do you not know where I live? You were with my dad. My parents never told you?”
His fingers thrum on the steering wheel. “No.” He grips the keys, turns them, and the engine roars to life.
“What do you mean, no?” I fold my arms across my chest, facing him.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he says, “Ry, we don’t talk about you.”
My eyes widen at the familiar nickname. I don’t know why I assumed he knew where I lived. Of course, they don’t talk about me. My parents have stayed out of our teenage drama, but Ifigured he would ask, or eventually find out. Clearing my throat, I sit up in my seat. “I live three streets over. Make a left after you turn around.”
He nods and makes a U-turn. We drive in utter silence, and I point to the road to turn down and motion again when it’s my driveway.
Opening our doors simultaneously, he points to my face and says, “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog,” I yell, as he walks around the truck. I peek over my shoulder at Socks. “No offense.” I narrow my eyes on Clayton as he stands at my door with a smirk. “What?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “You still do that.”
“Do what?” I cross my arms.
Clayton pets Socks’s head poking over my shoulder. His forearms flex with the movement, and I can’t help but gawk at the changes in his body. He’s no longer in the teenage body I remember.
He jerks his head to Socks. “Talk to your dog.” His eyes meet mine again.
Blinking a few times, I huff out a breath. “Will you move out of the way?”
Shaking his head, he reaches his hand out for me. I stare at it, not wanting to accept his help, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it inside without it. So I rest my hands in his and let him slowly guide me out of the truck. He comes next to me and holds me like before. But this time, his hand grips the bare skin between my leggings and sports bra. His fingers dig into me, holding tight, and we slowly walk inside. Clayton whistles, and Socks comes barreling inside along with us, her leash still attached and trailing behind. The front door is unlocked because no one locks their doors out here, and my knee gets stiffer with each step. We walk to my bedroom, and he helps me to sit on the bed.
“First aid kit?” he asks.
“What?” My brows furrow. Socks jumps on the bed and nestles in to take a nap.
He motions to my knee. “You’re bleeding all down your leg. Take off your pants, and I’ll get bandages.”
I scoff. “I will not take my pants off.”
He rubs his hands up and down his face. “Ry. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m aware.” I lean over and take my shoes off, cringing when I remove the one from my injured leg. Blood and dirt are dried on my knee, and it looks awful. It wouldn’t be smart if I didn’t let him clean it. “Ugh. Fine,” I grumble. “It’s under the sink in my bathroom. I’ll need shorts from the third drawer of my dresser.” I point to the dresser next to my bathroom door. He goes to the drawer, tosses a pair of pajama shorts to me, and walks into the bathroom. I attempt to shove my leggings off, but they are too tight and it hurts too much to stand. Coming out of the bathroom with the kit in hand, his eyes narrow on my leggings.
“It hurts.” My voice barely comes out as a whisper, and my face lowers to the ground. “Just give me scissors, and I can cut a hole in them to clean it better.”
