Page 12 of This Might Hurt

“Right.” He turns around and looks at me, his arms still folded behind his head. I can’t see clearly enough to read his eyes.

To my relief, a black SUV turns into the drive, bumping over gravel and potholes as its headlights scrape over the grass, the house, our sorry bodies.

If I hadn’t been so wrecked earlier, I would have laughed when Jude told Grant to take an Uber.

When we don’t feel like taking a helicopter, every one of our properties has at least three cars and drivers on hand to shuttle any of us where we need to go.

Our personal cars are mostly toys for us to play with or show off.

A tall man with cropped brown hair jumps out of the passenger side before the SUV even stops rolling and strides toward us with one hand hovering near the waistband of his black jeans.

The ex-Delta Force operator scans the yard, lingering warily on the silent house.

“Andrew.” His blue eyes flick from me to my stupid clothes to Archie’s car idling at a lazy angle with both doors open. “Are you alright?”

Jude fidgets behind me and Grant’s chin comes up.

In two seconds he’s standing between us, danger pouring off his skin as he crowds me back with his powerful shoulder.

Jude doesn’t move, just watches us both with curious eyes.

I wonder if he can already tell that I’m not the guy he met on the road anymore.

I’m nothing but an object of value, kept behind bulletproof glass.

“It’s alright,” I croak, touching Grant’s arm. “I had… I had a problem, and he helped me out.” My bodyguard eyes me, unconvinced. I’m sure nothing about me looks alright. “I’m fine,” I repeat more firmly.

He circles the BMW, examining it inside and out until he’s satisfied it will get us home, then fetches a backpack from the SUV and waves it away.

As the headlights fade, leaving us in a heavier darkness, he clears his throat.

“We should leave soon if you want to arrive before the house wakes up,” he offers diplomatically.

“I brought you some food and a coat. And coffee.” Fishing around in his bag, he produces a tightly sealed thermal mug and presses it into my limp hands.

He’s still eyeing Jude with that predatorial look he got from whatever hellscape he served in, which he refuses to tell me anything about.

He steps closer to me in that solid way he has, and I wish I could just rest my forehead against his unmovable bulk for a second and ground myself in his fresh, minty scent.

When I looked in the rearview mirror this morning and watched the gate close behind me for the last time, this is the only person I regretted not saying goodbye to.

He’s been following me almost everywhere for ten years.

It took me five to get him to call me Andrew occasionally, and another two to convince him he’s allowed to touch me sometimes, as a friend. Because no one else does.

“Give me a minute?” I murmur. “Then we’ll go.” He glances at Jude again, then relents and circles the car to sit in the driver’s seat. I can see him taking in the crack in the dashboard, the specks of blood, the leather of the seats starting to wrinkle.

The fresh breeze stirs around me as I step closer to where Jude is standing, watching everything with an expression I can’t read.

The light from the house catches his face clearly enough to show the sun freckles dotting his tan cheeks.

My head throbs, and I can’t tell if I’m nauseous or just painfully hungry.

When I swallow, it sounds loud in the night.

“Um… I—” I take a deep breath and try again. “I’m heading out.”

“Uh-huh.” He squints up at me.

My throat feels tight. I fix my eyes on the ground between my boots. Everything today has hurt, and yet somehow, I just keep finding new kinds of pain. “I’m not going to say thank you, if that’s what you want.”

He chuckles, and I can hear that strange smile. “I know.”

I turn the silver insulated mug Grant handed me around and around in my fingers. When I flick the lid open and shut again, I can smell a rich tang of hot coffee that makes my mouth water. “Here.” Refusing to look at him, I push the mug hard into his chest. “Drink it.”

“But this is a really fancy cup.” His fingers bump mine as he tries to pass it back. “I can’t—”

“Do you have any idea how many fucking cups I own?” I snap, my voice all torn up. “Shut the fuck up about cups.” I scrub a hand roughly through my matted hair, glaring at his dirty sneakers. It’s time to walk away, but my body refuses to work and I don’t know what I’m going to do.

“Hey,” he says. When I glance up instinctively, obediently, one last hit of a sharp jaw and messy eyebrows, he holds out his palm flat between us. I study it—strong and sure, with dried mud in the creases. For a minute it was the only thing tethering me to this earth.

I drag my unhurt hand flat along against his until only our fingertips are touching, then make a fist. A grin tugs at his mouth as he presses his knuckles to mine.

“You got it.” Then he leans in and rests his nose against the collar of my shirt.

I can feel him inhale deeply, the warmth of his breath. “Be good,” he murmurs. “Stay alive.”

“You too,” I mumble against the top of his head.

“Sir,” Grant says in a warning tone. He calls me that extra pointedly as revenge when I’m frustrating him. “It’s time to go.”

Jude’s weight rests heavier against me, that scent in his hair I won’t ever forget. “And don’t marry the guy who texted you.”

It’s the cruelest thing he could possibly have said right now.

“Good night.” Without looking back, I stumble the few dark steps to the passenger door and lower myself one last time into the damp seat.

I don’t know if Jude watches us drive away, because I don’t turn around.

And by the time I change my mind, by the time I whip around and squint over my shoulder to find the shape of him, it’s way too late.

All I can do is face forward again as we work our way back to the paved roads and turn north, toward home.