Page 25 of Reckless
Phoebe is curled into a ball beside me, practically motionless. The shot came through the passenger side window just as I was pulling out of the apartment complex and onto the highway. Not that there is ever a good time to get shot at, but getting shot at while trying to merge into traffic has to top the list because I can’t exactly stop in the middle of the road.
“Are you okay? Were you hit?”
Glancing over, I find her sitting up this time, but there’s a dark waterfall of blood spilling down from a wound in her head.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
Not caring about those around me, I whip the car onto the first off-ramp I come across and pull into a gas station parking lot. I had to make sure we weren’t being followed, but I curse myself the whole time. Seconds are precious with any wound.
The car rocks as I slam on the brakes and yank off my seat belt. I reach over and undo her belt. She moans when I put an arm around her, and my heart stumbles in my chest.
I take off my jacket and press it to the wound on her head. She tries to shrink away from the pain. “Shh, baby, I know it hurts, I’m sorry. I have to get a look at it because head wounds bleed like a bitch. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
She cracks her eyes open, and I’ve never been happier to see those different-colored eyes. “No. It just hurts. A little dizzy.”
“I know it does. Let me see if we can stop the bleeding so I can get a look. Just stay with me, okay? You need to stay conscious.” Her eyes flutter closed again. “Stay with me, honey. Come on.”
I shrug off my button-up. With quick, efficient movements, I wrap the arms of the button-up around her head and knot them to hold it in place. Using the tail of the shirt and an old bottle of water I had in the car, I wipe away the blood on her face. Her skin beneath is white as snow.
“Phoebe, are you injured anywhere else?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.” Her voice is tiny, and I hate that someone put that fear and pain in her.
“I’m going to take you to the hospital and go back. I’ll meet the cops there and explain what happened.”
“I’m fine. Look, the bleeding has already stopped. We don’t need to go to the hospital.”
She flips down the cosmetic mirror, checks her reflection, and then turns to show me. The wound is about two inches long and not very deep. It isn’t serious enough to warrant stitches, but it still makes me wince. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to let her come inside with me. Hell, if I hadn’t brought her to check it out in the first place. I was thoughtless, and now she’s hurt because of me.
“You aren’t fine. You should get checked out by a doctor, just in case. You could have a concussion.”
“I said no, Griffin. Let’s just report the shooting—without mentioning the breaking and entering—and go home.”
Stubborn woman. But I don’t want to argue about it in a parking lot when the person who shot her could be close. “At least let me have a friend come over to take a look at you.”
“Only if you promise you won’t take me to the hospital.”
“Fine, but I’d like it noted that I’m completely against this idea.”
“Noted.”
I text a friend who used to be a medic in the Marines and pull out of the parking lot. By the time we are exiting the highway, he’s texted back, letting me know he can meet me at my apartment.
Phoebe is quiet, my nerves are fucking shot, and all I want is a nice, cold beer and about a thousand hours of sleep. But I don’t think I’ll be getting either in the foreseeable future.
Trey Winter is at my door when we pull up. He raises a brow when he sees the gash in Phoebe’s head.
“Do I even want to know?”
“Man, you really don’t.” He follows behind us as I open the door to my apartment. She heads to the couch, but he stops beside me. “She hit her head pretty good. It isn’t too deep, but I want you to take a look just in case. She refused to go to the hospital.”
“This is the last favor I’m ever doing for you, shii-it. Only you would call me to look at someone with a concussion, no questions asked.”
“Then I owe you one this time.”
“Damn right. You got some lights in here?” I turn on every light in the living room and try not to hover while he examines the injury. As he probes lightly around the cut with his fingers, Phoebe flinches. “Sorry, beautiful. McNalley said you probably have a bit of a concussion.”
“W-what?” Phoebe says faintly, and I frown. Had she lost more blood than I thought?