Page 48 of Damned
Shoving the crackled windshield aside, Bree turned and cleared the way for him, then scampered over the fuselage without kneeing him—thank you, Jesus—and was outside of the cockpit on her knees in seconds. He handed their bags through the empty window frame, then his jacket, while she tossed each item to the ground opposite the burning engine, making room for him. Damn it, his plane was ruined, and that was just plain sad. This was his ugliest landing ever. Melancholy came out of nowhere, swamping him.
“Hurry, Kruze,” Bree ordered. “It’s your turn. Come on.” She clapped her hands. “Get your ass out of there.”
He blinked, and suddenly Bree was stretching through the window for him. One hand was already clamped around the back of his neck. With all of her might, she was tugging him forward. How the hell had she gotten hold of him so fast, without him seeing her? Damn, he was cold.
“C-c-copy that,” Kruze replied, sure he was losing his mind. That damned thing stuck in his side was now a pain in the ass. “Wait. Hold up.” Each inch she pulled him forward, sent electric shocks of pain through him. He was sweating bullets. “I’m—Kee-rist! I’m stuck.”
“On what?” Her breath spilled all over his sweaty face. Bree was on her knees, almost entirely back inside the cockpit. “I’m not leaving you behind. Try harder. Hurry!”
“I am trying harder,” he growled, worried now. Burning to death was becoming a very real possibility.
“No, you’re not,” she snapped. “Your harness is off. It’s not in the way. You’re clear to move, and the steering thing is pushed all the way forward. You’ve got plenty of room. There’s nothing blocking your way, and… Oh, no. Wait. Wait! Don’t move, Kruze! Oh, Lord! Hold still.”
That didn’t sound good. He blinked up at her dark silhouette against a sky so blue…
Damn it. He must’ve blacked out again. Bree was back inside the plane. Blinking furiously to wake his sorry ass up and stay awake, at last, she came into clearer focus.
“You want me to move or what, sugar? Just tell me. What’s in my way? Can you see anything?”Because I sure can’t.Whatever was stuck had him good. Kruze sure as fuck couldn’t move.
“Hold still, honey,” Bree ordered, her voice so damned gentle. Too gentle. Not a good sign when a guy’s the last one inside a burning plane. That was the tone doctors and nurses used before they told a patient he was going to die. “Just…just stay still, will you? Kruze, stop moving. Your armrest broke. I can’t get it to move. You’re hurting yourself. Let me—”
She was trying not to scare him. That shouldn’t have worried Kruze, but it did. That was his job. He pulled back farther in the seat until he could tuck his chin into his chest and look between the wall of the plane and his left side. But Bree’s arm was in his way. He still couldn’t see anything wrong, until—
She reached farther down, her cheek plastered against his chest. He tipped as far as he could to his right. She flexed that strong, womanly arm, and—“Kee-rist, woman!”—unstuck the hot, burning, son of a bitch from his side. That hurt! “Jesus! What the holy fuck did you do to me?”
“Shush, honey,” she murmured, running a quick hand over his sweaty forehead and down his cheek. “Stop being a baby. You’re okay, Kruze. Just take a deep breath, and let me—”
“Show me the gawddamned thing! Was it a knife?” Felt more like a sword.
“Just this.” Bree held up a twelve-inch, straight-edged screwdriver, the tip of it dripping with his blood. “This was lodged between you and the frame at a sharp right angle. It didn’t go all the way in, just a few inches.”
“Which is a few gawddamned inches too many!”
Bree tossed the damned tool out the broken windshield. “Let’s not argue about size, Kruze. This is not a contest. Put your arm around my neck. Let’s get you out.”
That would be the day, her helping him out of his own son of a bitchin’ plane. Kruze ignored the offer, turned her ass around, and shoved her back out the window to safety. Then, and only then, was it his turn. With a mighty heave-ho, he grabbed the window frame with both hands, shoved himself out of the pilot’s seat, then maneuvered his much wider body sideways through the empty windshield. At last, he was outside, sweating, but on the fuselage alongside Bree.
It was all Kruze could do to sit upright. Planting both hands behind him, he tipped his face to the sky, not sure how much time they had before the plane blew. But needing a few seconds of cold, fresh Maine air to get his bearings. His head was spinning but he was damned if he’d pass out again.
“We can’t stay here,” Bree reminded him, her hand soft and sweet over his.
“Yeah, I know,” he gasped, those dancing spots back again. “Copy that. Let’s… let’s just go.”
“I’ll slide off first, so I can catch you if you fall,” Bree said as she bounced off the safe side of the plane, keeping clear of the ragged metal where a damned fine wing had once been.
She was doing it again, taking care of him. Kruze loved it, but he hated it, too. He was the hero, damn it. Not this slender wisp of a woman who was even now, holding her arms up to catch him, as if he were no bigger than a little boy. Hell, he outweighed her by twice her weight. Maybe more.
Kruze would’ve been fine if he just bounced to the ground. Bree made it look easy, but he wasn’t feeling it. Dizziness swarmed up like killer bees from the rocky shoreline. But if Bree could do it, he could, too, and do it better, right? It took a few seconds, but as soon as his butt slid over the now blistered skin of his ruined plane, Kruze’s shaking legs buckled, and down he went. Like a sissy. On his hands and knees.
That hurt his pride almost as much as that damned screwdriver hurt his side. Thank God, he’d landed on Bree, but only because she’d stepped in his way, half-caught, half-dropped him. But she was warm, and he was so damned tired and cold.
Darkness never felt so good.
