Page 93 of Bad For A Weekend

It’s eerie how much she looks like Baylor, and why wouldn’t she? She’s her birth mom. But this version is older and hasn’t taken care of herself. She’s bone thin, with protruding veins, sunken cheeks, and dark bruises under her eyes. Her skin is paper thin, wrinkled, and weather-worn.

Shit. I killed Baylor’s mom.

A hand clamps onto my shoulder, and out of instinct, I grip it tight and twist it behind their back.

“Bro, it’s me. It’s Hudson.”

Hudson. My brother. I shake my head, trying to clear my vision and see that, yes, I have Hudson in a punishing hold. I quickly release him and rub my eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“You okay?” Hudson asks.

“Fine,” I mutter, but I’m not fine.

“Good, because the ambulance isn’t here, and Baylor could use your help.”

Baylor. Fuck.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of blood. Someone said something about an artery being hit.” Hudson runs a hand through his hair. “If you want to see her, you better go now.”

I nod and push my way through the crowd that’s still dispersing. This is a shit show.

When I finally make it to the stage, I see Baylor’s feet dangling to the sides as though she’s unconscious. One foot still has a shoe on while the other is bare. People are huddled all around her, and I hear Corey yell for more clothing to staunch the blood.

I toss my suit jacket to the side, loosen my tie, and rip my shirt open. Buttons fly as I remove it and force my way between people doing nothing but gawk.

“Here,” I say, offering him my balled-up shirt.

“Owen,” Corey croaks, his eyes wide and his face white as a ghost.

“Let me take over. I have medical training.” Glancing down, I see Baylor covered in blood, and it’s still flowing. Definitely hit an artery somewhere. I ball up my shirt and press it firmly into her stomach. “Check her pulse.”

The headmaster places his fingers on her neck. “It’s there, but barely.”

“Okay. Can you find which direction those ambulances are coming from and lead them here?”

He nods.

“Hurry. Get them here as fast as you can.”

“Okay.” The older man moves fast through the crowd.

Baylor’s eyes are closed, and her mouth hangs open. Blood roars in my ear, making it hard to hear what people are shouting at me. I can’t do this. Not for her. If she doesn’t pull through, I’ll never forgive myself. But looking around at the grief-stricken and panicked faces around me, I know they can’t either.

What feels like hours later, but is probably only a couple minutes, an ambulance can be seen stopping just shy of the bushes surrounding the area. Seconds later, paramedics are shoving everyone away.

“We got it from here,” a woman says, placing her gloved hand over mine, but I don’t move. “Sir, I know you’re scared, but I swear, we will do everything we can to save her.”

With no other option, I let go and stand on wobbly legs. This is my fault. I knew she was coming; I learned as much during my trip to Ohio. But I never thought she’d get past Hudson’s team. She so clearly didn’t belong here in her worn clothes and straggly appearance.

I stand next to Corey in only a ribbed white tank smeared in blood as we watch the paramedics attach monitors and start an IV.

“Who was that?” Corey asks, with a horrified expression on his face.

“Let’s talk about it later,” I mutter. Hashing all this out right now won’t help anyone.

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