An open door off the living room stood ajar. Cruz pushed it open all the way. A shadeless lamp lay on its side on a TV table beside the bed. The light he’d seen from outside. “Daisy?”
“Thank you, Jesus.” The voice, thready and weak, came from the other side of the massive bed, which took up most of the floor space. Cruz was beside Daisy in seconds.
Crouching beside her in the confined space, he tried to assess her injuries. Blood covered the entire left side of her face, and more seeped out of what was obviously a broken nose. One eye was already swollen shut, the other turning colors. Her mouth was swollen on one side, and her hands were covered in blood. Cruz hoped she’d killed the asshole. He’d pay her legal fees.
The rage he felt was off the charts. “How badly are you hurt?” he asked gently. The light was shit, but he saw enough. Blood. Copious amounts on her face and clothing. Bruising. Contusions. A black eye.
Terror. Resignation. Hope.
Her hand, curled on her hip as she lay on her side, twitched, as if she wanted to pull him closer. “Charlie?”
“Mia and I have him. He’s safe.” She let out a whimper that pierced his anger. Fuck fuck fuck. She reminded him so much of his mother that for a moment the two women were superimposed over each other in his mind’s eye.
Cruz sucked in a heavy breath. He had to focus on what the hell was going on now, today. He was no longer a child. This was not his mother. And he had to get her the fuck out of this house before Latour returned. He yanked a thin comforter off the bed, and paused as he calculated the best method to get her wrapped and up off the floor.
“I’m going to put my arms under you very gently and pick you up. I’ll try not to hurt you any worse, but we have to get you out of here.”
He’d hurt her more, and he was fucking sorry for it, but she needed medical treatment, and he had to get her away from here.
“Don’t let Charlie see me. . . .”
He took that as permission and carefully wrapped her in the thin quilt to lessen the possibility of his hands accidently hurting her when he picked her up.
She cried out as he lifted her in his arms. She was as light as a child. She smelled of blood, vomit, urine, and bone-shattering despair.
“I’m s-sorry,” she choked out, tears diluting the blood on the side of her face as she tried to keep her head upright.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he told her, keeping his tone light and calm. “Lay your head on my shoulder, Daisy. I won’t drop you, I promise.”
“I’ll g-get bl-blood on your sh-shirt.”
“I’ve always hated this shirt. There.” Her head dropped to his chest. More because she couldn’t remain sitting upright than because she was willing to be a burden. “We’ll be in the car in a minute, and you can see that Charlie is all right.”
I’m going to find you, you fucker, then show you exactly how being beat to shit feels like. “I’m sorry this hurts,” he told her as he carried her out of the house, his steps fast and as even as he could make them as he strode down the cracked, weedy sidewalk.
He saw Mia’s pale face inside the cab of the truck, and by the time he reached it, she’d unlocked the back door and jumped out to meet him.
Her eyes sought his. Cruz indicated that it was bad.
“Charlie fell asleep,” she whispered. “Lay her on the backseat. I’ll stay back here with her.”
Daisy was barely conscious as Cruz and Mia laid her down, the comforter over her. Mia climbed into the backseat, lifting Daisy’s head to her lap, whispering “God damn that fucking son of a bitch” under her breath. Then urgently, “Go, go, go!”
Cruz got in, buckled up, and took off. Beside him, a little boy in Superman skivvies, wrapped in a designer scarf, slept the sleep of the finally rescued.
Chapter Twelve
Mia loved the feel of Cruz’s heavy arm draped over her shoulders as they drove home from the hospital in New Orleans, her head resting on his shoulder, her arm across his waist. She especially loved the way he absently rubbed her upper arm now and then as he drove. She loved the way he smelled, too. No cologne, and his shower soap smell long gone. He just smelled male and sexy, and whatever it was, it was a siren song to Mia’s hormones.
She felt like a teenager. Not that she’d ever been in a truck with a bad boy as a teenager. Then it had been arranged dates and limos. She liked this much, much better.
She was exhausted but not sleepy, and almost in a hypnotic state from the vehicle headlights coming toward them. Even at three in the morning, the road was busy.
It had been a risk driving that far with an injured woman. But Cruz hadn’t wanted to risk Latour’s being able to find his wife and son at any of the local hospitals or shelters, and Mia had agreed. Leaving them anywhere close to Latour wasn’t an option. They’d taken them to Ochsner Medical Center in New Orleans.