Page 99 of Say You'll Never Let Go

* * *

When Wade wakes again, it’s with a headache twice as bad as before. They’re alone, so at least there’s that.

Drunkenly, he stumbles over to Kara, worried as hell that she’s still out cold. Her clothes are where they should be. The hoodie is gone, but all the buttons and zippers are intact on her shirt and jeans. The rush of relief he gets from that is better than a shot of adrenaline.

He checks for a pulse, wincing at the blood coating her forehead and holding his breath until a strong thump meets his shaky fingertips.

“Kara?” he tries gently. “Come on, wake up. We gotta get out of here.”

No response.

He tries again, giving her a shake on the shoulder. That’s when she wakes with a start and comes up fighting. He only barely dodges a fist meant for his nose. She struggles against him through all his useless reassurances spoken in a cracked voice meant to be soothing until her blown pupils finally focus on his face.

“I crashed it,” she says sadly, as if she’s committed a mortal sin. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

She’s halfway to crying already, and that’s worrisome on its own because Kara is an expert at bottling up her emotions.Frantically, her gaze darts between him and some far-off point beyond his shoulder, seeing a vision only visible to her.

“You didn’t crash it. We were attacked.” He worries she got hit in the head so badly that all her marbles were scrambled. “Do you know what year it is?”

She pauses before giving him a semi-annoyed glare. “Does anyone really know anymore?”

“Okay, good point.”

“What time is it? My father’s expecting me home before dark. Did the streetlights come on yet?”

His heart has never dropped so far into his feet so fast in all his life. “He’s gone, sweetheart. He has been for a long, long time.”

“I know that. What are you talking about? Of course, I know that.”

Shit. Something’s wrong. He’s no doctor, but he’s had a lot of concussions and she’s got the telltale signs magnified by a hundred.

“Can you walk?”

She nods, letting him help her to her feet. Nothing’s broken, and he’s grateful for that as he half-drags her to the bike that, surprisingly, hasn’t been stolen. It’s a windfall he can’t explain, but maybe it’s as simple as none of their attackers knowing how to drive it.

They’re not in any shape to ride. Staying isn’t an option either when their enemy could come back. So, he nudges it upright and helps her on behind him, taking a slower pace around the dips and curves for the next ten miles while she leans heavily against his back.

An old, half-looted furniture store, four turns down a deserted street, is the first viable place to rest that isn’t on the main road. He slings an arm under her shoulders as theystumble through the door and into a back office where he deposits her on a worn leather sofa, swaying on his own feet.

“You’re hurt, too.” She reaches out toward the side of his head and pulls away blood-coated fingers.

He hadn’t noticed. Head wounds bleed worse than they are. He isn’t in danger of collapsing just yet. “I’m alright. Hang tight here, need to look for something to get us cleaned up with.”

He checks his reflection in a dirty mirror and exhales in relief when the injury on his head is only superficial. Half expected part of his skull to be showing. At this point, he’ll take any good news he can get.

The room looks untouched. No one’s been here in a long ass time and when he rifles through a desk, he’s rewarded with a roll of paper towels but nothing to flush their wounds.

“I can’t believe I did that. Wrecked the bike. I’m empty-headed, always have been. I’m sorry,” she says, as he drags the desk chair over to face her, curls a finger under her chin and tilts her head up to inspect that cut in her hairline.

He knows exactly who used to tell her that. His heart breaks for how easily she’s conjured it up again, so many years later when that asshole who fostered them both is already dead and gone. He can still hear that voice just as clearly sometimes, calling him a worthless piece of shit. Good for nothing. Useless. He hates that she knows what it feels like to have someone so branded on her soul that it’s the first thing her mind latches onto when she’s injured, stressed, or hurting.

He applies pressure on her wound, guilt washing over him at her pained hiss. “You didn’t wreck it. We got attacked, remember? And the bike isn’t mine. It’s yours. You don’t need to apologize for anything. What else hurts?”

“Nothing. Not really?”

“What does not really mean?”

“My right ankle feels twisted, but I can walk, so it’s fine.”