A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(22)

"Oh … believe me. I'm plenty angry at you!" Wes yells, his eyes leveling  me with disappointment. I stand there under the scrutiny of his stare  for a few seconds, my breathing still strong from the terror moments  ago, my nostrils flared.

I challenge him long enough that he finally shakes his head and swears  under his breath, and I step toward Kyle and offer him a hand to stand  up from the ground. I weave my fingers through his and walk with him to  the truck, climbing in the back to sit with him. I'm about to lower my  body to the truck bed when I hear the heavy thump of Wes's feet step  onto the tailgate and move toward me.

"You can call me whatever you want. You can be pissed and tell me I baby  you. Whatever, Joss. I don't fucking care, but you're not riding back  here. Not after we both just rolled down the highway. Not while my  brother's shirt is the only thing keeping blood from dripping down your  arm. And certainly not while I drive this fucking cocksucker home. Now  get in the cab!"

Wes's hat is off, thrown onto the ground on his way into the truck, and  every movement of his muscles is forceful and strong. He's actually  showing an emotion, and it's inciting the fight in me.

"No!" I yell, kicking my sore leg at him, barely grazing him with my foot.

He doesn't warn me again, instead, bending over and lifting me over his  shoulder, leaping from the back of the truck and pushing me into the cab  despite the battle my loose arms and legs put up. When the door closes  behind me, I grip the handle and work to push it open, but TK is holding  it, his body leaning against it and his face full of pity. I fucking  hate pity.

I crawl to the driver's side, hurrying when I see Wes bend down to pick  up his hat, but everything hurts, and I wince with a pain on my side  just as Wes climbs through the driver's side door.

"What? Your side? Is it your rib?" he says, reaching for the bottom of my T-shirt. I slap at his hand.

"I don't think so, asshole," I yell.

"Goddamnit, I just want to know you're not hurt any worse, that you're  not bleeding internally or some shit. That's it; we're going to the  hospital," he says, pulling his seatbelt over his body and starting the  engine, glancing over his shoulder to make sure all of our passengers  are in the back.

"No, I'm fine. No hospital," I say, reaching over and grabbing his arm.  Both of our eyes fall to where my hand touches him, and I let go  quickly, scooting back to my seat. "Really … I hate hospitals. Please. I'm  fine."         

     



 

"You probably broke a rib," he sighs, his head fallen to the side. I  hold my breath and make a silent wish to go back to that brief second  where I was under the stars and life felt free. I want to pair those few  seconds with the feeling of his arms around me. Those few simple things  are my happiness, as pathetic as they seem. His hold and the stars;  it's enough.

I tug my shirt up my stomach to the edge of my ribs, and I push in with  my hand a few times, pressing against the bones. The skin is tender, and  there's a deep bruise already forming, but I don't think anything's  broken.

"I'm okay," I say, my voice coming out in a gravely whisper.

Wes's eyes scan down my body to the bare skin on my side then back to my  eyes. He nods once and turns to face the steering wheel, closing his  eyes and breathing deep before shifting his truck into drive.

We get about a mile away from the crash when I remember my backpack and  the empty bottle inside it. I don't want that coming back to haunt Kyle.

"My bag!" I sit up, turning to look out the rear window. Wes moves a  hand to the top of my knee, recoiling as soon as I flash to him.

"Levi got it. It's in the back," he says, swallowing hard as he stares into the rearview mirror.

"Thanks," I whisper, falling back into my seat.

Unlike the last time I was in his cab with Wes, this time the passengers  in the back are quiet. Nobody is having a good time with any of this. I  meant what I said to him before-I did this. I always do this.

We pull up to Kyle's house first, and TK, Taryn, and Kyle all climb out.

"Taryn will drop me off later," TK says, reaching through the window to pound his knuckles against Wes's.

"Thanks, Wes. That was solid," Kyle says, his eyes now showing their  redness. He was too drunk to drive. And I'm too drunk to make smart  choices.

I did this.

Kyle holds his fist through the window just like TK did, and Wes looks  at it for a second before sighing and pounding his fist forcefully and  speeding away.

"I just have to drop Levi off, then I'll take you home," he says, his eyes looking everywhere but at me.

"That's fine," I say.

I take these few minutes to study him, to watch how he moves, to survey  how badly he's hurt, when I realize … Wes isn't hurt at all. His jeans are  ripped, and his shirt is soiled with mud and grass stains and small  tears from the road. He has scrapes and some blood where his clothing  was torn, but that's it. He wrapped himself around me and took the force  of everything when I fell, and it barely left a mark.

Within minutes, we pull up to a small white house with a single porch  light on and nothing else. There's an old station wagon in the carport  and a plump orange cat waiting to be let in at the front door.

Levi pounds on the side of the truck when he gets out and holds up a  hand. Wes circles around and rolls down his window, leaning out to talk  to his brother. "I won't be long. I just want to make sure she gets  home. Tell them not to worry if they're even up."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey … " Levi answers, leaning up and in the window to gaze at me. "I'm glad you're okay, Joss."

I want to thank him, but I know the only reason I'm able to speak at all  is sitting right next to me. So instead, I smile tightly and hold up  one hand to say goodbye.

"A'right. See you later," he says, patting the outside of Wes's door as Wes rolls the window to a close and pulls away again.

We're only a few blocks from my house, so as much as I want to sit here  in silence and escape any more judgment, I don't want to waste the time.

"You're not hurt," I say, pulling one leg up to the side so I can see how Wes reacts.

"Uh," he says, checking mirrors and then rotating his own arms and  feeling along his chest and sides. "Yeah, no. I think I'm okay. Some  cuts is all."

I wasn't really asking, more just stating the fact. Wes isn't hurt. I  was sheltered in his arms and my body looks like it's been fed through a  shredder. He's dirty. That's it.

We turn down my street, and I chew at the inside of my cheek, trying to  decide what any of this means-he looks like Christopher, which means if  it is him, that's twice now that he's saved my life. And he isn't hurt.  He isn't hurt at all. The inside of the truck is spinning a little; my  mouth feels cottony and dry, and I definitely didn't eat enough popcorn  to soak up what I drank. But I'm aware enough to know that I'm not  imagining these facts, and that they're adding up. I just don't know  what the equation equals.         

     



 

Any chance that I'll question it tonight evaporates the second we pull  up alongside my house, and my favorite day of the week rears its ugly  head. My dad is on the front lawn on his hands and knees, heaving into  the dead grass like a rabid dehydrated dog.

"He said he wasn't going to do that," Wes sighs, shoving the car into park forcefully and leaping out before I can catch him.

He said?

I get out after him, and the soreness from the evening overwhelms me, my  legs weak under my body. I clutch the side of the truck and watch  helpless while Wes bends down and pulls my father to a stand, walking  him inside quickly, neither of them looking at me.

I reach into the back for my bag while he's inside, and by the time I'm  done looping my arms through the straps he's walking back through the  front door toward me as he talks to himself. I shut my eyes  tightly-praying I can hold my weight up when I let go of his truck-and  open them on my first step. Everything hurts, but I'm able to move. It  doesn't stop Wes from weaving his arm under mine and behind my back. He  sweeps my legs up over his other arm and lifts me easily, kicking the  screen door open with his toe and pushing the main door closed behind us  with his elbow.

"You can't live like this, Joss. You guys … you're killing yourselves," he  says. His words don't feel like they're for me, necessarily, though. He  isn't talking to me; he's just talking. He's narrating my pathetic  existence.

"Bathroom?"

"That way. By my dad's room," I say, my eyes laser focused on his. He looks tired, and he looks sad.

I did that.

He sets me on the edge of the tub in the bathroom and slowly unwraps his  brother's shirt from my arm, the cotton now soaked through completely  with my blood. The sight of it makes my stomach turn a little, and I  bring my other arm over my mouth, pressing the inside of my elbow to my  lips.