Page 87 of Jump

“Go inside, Axel. Give her a heads-up so she knows what’s coming. I’ll be out for an hour, then I’m back and we’ll get dinner sorted.”

“You’re a fuckin’ coward.” He smacks my window when it’s an inch from closing. “You’d rather push her out than risk the heartache you’d feel if we lost Cootes again.”

“Can’t lose Cootes again.” I shake my head and talk loud enough he’ll hear me through the window. But I don’t shout. I don’t give this more energy than the waning amount I have left. “We already lost her, kid. It’s done. Now it’s my job to make sure we don’t lose another.”

He presses his lips together and glares.

Setting my truck into drive and rolling away from the curb, I check my blind spots and pull into the street ahead of a rusty old truck puttering along like it’s Sunday afternoon.

That truck is the only traffic around. The only noise I hear. But I see Axel in my rearview mirror. His legs spread, shoulder-width apart. His hands on his hips. And a solemn shake of his head that leaves a pit of anxiety low in my belly.

He doesn’t approve of me saving Ivy’s life. Like protecting her is a fucking flaw on my part. And yet, he was on Ainsley’s crew when she died. He was a part of her company, alongside Nixon, Sloane, and Rizz.

With the exception of Feeney, they were all around for the Oriane fire, and she still perished.

So yeah, I’m gonna be the change this squad needs. The hard-ass bully who is mean to the new girl. Because I’ll make damn sure she lives to see a hundred. As far as I’m concerned, she can spend those hundred years bitching about that asshole boss she once had.

I’ll be the villain in her story, just so long as it means she gets a story. Alive and well.

* * *

It takes only minutes to reach the hospital and pull into a parking space by the emergency department doors. Then I cut my engine and slide out of my truck. When my boots hit the concrete, the sound echoes to the automatic glass doors and bounces back again.

Slamming my door shut and stuffing my hands into my pockets, I bring one out again, and with it, my phone when it chirps with a text.

I start walking, but read Vivian’s name, flashing at me with a new message.

Ana: Hey. Is everything okay? Axel called and said you’re having a rough day.

I snort. He sure as shit adjusted quickly; using her to get to me, like it’s an old habit.

Ana: Can I call you? Are you free?

Then a third chirp.

Ana: I miss you. And you know I don’t really put that stuff in writing. So if you could call me, that’d be cool. Waiting until seven tomorrow is too long.

I don’t want to call her right now. I don’t want to say something that’ll hurt her feelings or make her worry more. So instead, I type a quick reply as I head through the emergency doors I know I’m not supposed to use.

Me: Hey, I’m working right now and can’t call. But I’ll get you later. Heading into a thing right now, so I’ll be out of contact. Be safe today. I’ll talk to you later.

Hitting send and silencing my phone, I drop it and my hand both into my pocket and follow the painted lines on the floor all the way to the nurse’s station. I follow their directions to Rory’s room, knock on her door, and peek past the curtain to find the woman laid out in bed, her leg swollen and wrapped, and her face entirely too pale.

She wears a hospital gown, and a sock on her good leg. Her dark hair is matted, and though she’s lost a lot of color from her complexion, blood stains her cheeks where she was touching earlier. When she was trapped inside her car, suspended off the edge of a cliff, and panicking about whether she’d make it through the rest of the day.

If I’m being entirely honest, she already looks dead. Like roadkill just waiting to be flicked into the shrubs.

But the machines she’s wired to tell a different story. They beep rhythmically, and her breathing follows at a constant, consistent pace.

At the sound of my boots on the floor, her eyes slowly flicker open, her movements lethargic and unhurried. But she manages to tilt her head on her own, and locks eyes with me. “Lieutenant Smiles-a-lot.” Her voice is thick and sleepy, but she taps the side of her bed to beckon me closer. “Why aren’t you smiling an’more?”

My footsteps continue to echo against the laminate flooring as I come deeper into her room. Then nudging her visitor chair closer, I drop down into it and set my elbows on my knees.

She tries to watch me. To focus. But she’s still coming down off sedation—and when she does, her leg will likely feel like it’s on fire.

So no rush.

“It’s funny you describe me as a smiler,” I murmur, “when literally everyone else in my life says the opposite.”

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