Page 23 of Be My Rebound

“Laurel…”

What? Everything is muffled, fuzzy, and starting to become comfortable. I’ll just lay down here for a second.

An arm cradles my back. Another slides behind my knees. There’s enough air in me left to gasp as I get lifted off the asphalt. I pry my eyes open and piece it together that Blackmore has picked me up. Holding me, he opens the car door and places me on the front passenger seat. I hang onto his shirt, my entire world full of him and him only.

“Do you need a doctor?” His voice sounds right next to my ear. “You feel warm.”

So does he, even through his clothes, and I can’t let go no matter how many times I command my fingers to uncurl. I drop my head onto his shoulder. His scent envelops me, vaguely piney or herbal, and my brain ceases its struggle for normal alertness. I don’t know him. Still, there’s something intangible but undeniable that draws me to him. He’s a guitar pro. He’s everything I tend to avoid. He sabotages my common sense. He invades my thoughts. He—

“I don’t want a doctor,” I say. No doctor will help shake off the madness that’s taken over me. “But if you have something to drink, that would be nice.”

Strong hands wrap around my shoulders, and Blackmore pushes me, gently, to the back of the seat. His cool fingers swipe my hair away from my forehead and press to my cheeks. “I might.” He detaches my hands from his shirt and goes to rummage in the trunk.

My pulse knocks on my eardrums, threatening to turn me deaf. Lucidity drips back into me, and so does the pain in my feet. I try to kick off my sandals. They refuse to cooperate, of course.

Blackmore thrusts a black-and-yellow soda can into my hands. I pop the tab open and take a desperate swig that slashes my mouth with carbonation and high-fructose corn syrup.

“Thank you,” I say and inhale my next sip in surprise—Blackmore slips off my sandals and curses.

“I’m sorry.” His face is all storm clouds.

I lift a foot and find an angry, bleeding welt above my heel. “Lovely.” There’s no need to look at my other foot to know it matches. It burns the same way.

Blackmore chucks my shoes onto the back seat.

“I still need those,” I protest.

He picks up my jacket, drapes it over my knees, then thuds his fist over the glove box latch, popping it open. “I wouldn’t trust them again. They have tasted your blood. They’ll want more.”

I savor another sip of what turns out to be a pineapple-flavored energy drink and watch him take out a small first aid kit. Blackmore then sits on the floor of the car, his shoulder pushing into my hip, rests the kit on his lap, and reaches for my left foot.

“Did you knock your head on something while we were running?” I exclaim, jerking both of my feet onto the seat.

“I’ll be careful.” He rips a sanitizing wipe packet open and points at his lap.

I catch a flicker of guilt racing across his face and give in. “It’s not your fault. You don’t need to do this.”

“I know.”

Blackmore wipes my whole foot with the sanitizing wipe and slathers the tear in my skin with the antibiotic ointment before I even remember to hiss at the alcoholic burn on raw flesh. Everything inside me whispers that he’s only doing this because I’m a Halifax, but something deep, deep inside insists that’s not why at all. That he’s helpful no matter what or who or when. And I’m upset about the way this evening turned out, but he must be too. I’m not the only one with plans down the drain. Also, “You would’ve stayed and talked to your fans.”

“I wouldn’t have run.”

No. He wouldn’t. I’m the one who ran.

“You’ve disappointed them because of me.” Resting my head on the seat, I cradle the can in my hands and do my best to not fixate on Blackmore’s fingers brushing against my ankle as he sticks on a Band-Aid.

“It’s fine. They’ll have a ton of fun sparking rumors about the mysterious young woman by my side.”

There’s that too, of course. “Don’t you care what they’ll say? The media or your friends?”

“Nobody will say anything bad. You’re hot. Next foot.”

“I’m hot?” Here he goes with random nonsense again. My looks have nothing to do with this conversation.

Blackmore chuckles and starts working on my other foot. “To answer your question, though, no. I don’t care what anyone says.”

“How do you do that?”

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