Page 6 of Rockstar Rescue
Something’s definitely wrong.
I ease my foot onto the brake and pull over onto the shoulder, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
As soon as I open his door, Charlie Boy hurls himself forward. He stops a few yards away, turns back to me, and barks again—more insistent this time.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!”
I hurry to the trunk, pop it open, and dig through my emergency kit until I find my heavy-duty flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness as I follow Charlie Boy’s lead.
The light catches something reflective—chrome handlebars twisted at an unnatural angle.
My stomach drops as I sweep the beam across the scene.
A motorcycle lies on its side. The expensive kind—with all those fancy gauges—now shattered across the asphalt.
Ten feet away, a man’s body is sprawled face-down on the gravel shoulder. He’s wearing a dark blue parka with a fur-lined hood, one arm bent underneath him.
I force myself to remain calm as I run toward him.
“Please don’t be dead,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. My hands shake as I press two fingers against his neck like theytaught us in the forestry first-aid course. I hold my breath, counting.
One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand...
There it is—a steady pulse beneath my fingertips.
He’s alive.
But he seems to float in and out of consciousness. I gently roll him onto his back, supporting his neck the way I remembered from training.
Oh my God, he’s gorgeous.
I shouldn’t even notice that right now, but I can’t help it. His face has these perfect cheekbones under all that blood, and dark eyebrows that look like they belong on a movie poster.
Definitely not from around here.
I run my hands along his arms and legs, checking for broken bones while trying to stay professional.
Nothing seems broken, but his face is covered in blood from a nasty gash above his eyebrow.
I pull out my phone to call for an ambulance, but the service is dead.
Figures.
Looking down, I see the man’s flutter, and I lean closer.
“Can you see me?”
I hold up three fingers right in front of his face.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He squints, then answers correctly.
“You wiped out on your motorcycle,” I tell him. “Pretty bad crash. Do you think you can stand up?”
He tries to push himself up but immediately slumps back down with a groan.
“Let’s try together,” I say, positioning myself beside him. “On three. One... two... three.”
