“You wanna tell me what happened?” I ask, grit in my tone.
She lifts her hand and gives me the finger. Figuring the worst she can do is shoot me, I stand between her and the TV. Now I have her attention. And she has mine. She’s cut up, banged up, and clearly in pain. She tries to hide it, but I can see it written all over her face. But those eyes, still cold as ice.
“I’ll take care of your truck. Give me a couple of weeks. But right now, you need to leave.” Her voice is strong. If I wasn’t looking at her, I’d never know she was hurt.
“Looks like you can’t even take care of yourself.” I cross my arms, nodding my head toward the endless pile of shit next to her.
“I’m fine,” she says between her teeth. Her nostrils flare wide, and I don’t know if it’s from pain or anger.
“Why didn’t you go to the hospital?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on her.
“I did. I got a DUI too. Does that make you happy?”
“They didn’t keep you?”
She rolls her eyes. When she lets out an exasperated breath, she flinches, then speaks again through her teeth. “They did. I left. Nothing they could do for me there. I didn’t want to humiliate myself any more than I already had. I work with hospitals, remember?” Leaning over, she fumbles for a bottle of water. It falls from the table, rolling just out of her reach. Instinctively, I move in to grab it. But when I look up, her gun is once again trained on my face. This time, it’s an inch from my head.
“Zeke, you need to leave. I won’t tell you again.” The threat is real. She doesn’t want to shoot me, but for some reason, she feels like she has to. But I’ve taken enough shit off of her to last me a lifetime. So, just when she thinks I’m retreating, and she starts to let down her guard, I easily bend her wrist and grab the gun from her fingers.
For a split second, she looks relieved. But her walls come back up and she glares at me. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. Her lip trembles slightly. But she pulls it between her teeth, biting hard enough to bring blood. It’s then I notice she hasn’t moved her hand.
Placing the gun in the back of my jeans, I gently take her hand in mine to examine it. I expect her to pull back, but she doesn’t. She just lays there, letting me run my thumbs over the small bones. Tears leak out the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t blink. This is someone who’s endured pain before.
“It’s not broken,” I say, now caressing the inside of her wrist.
“I know that. I know all of my injuries. And I’m fine. I just need some time to heal.” She’s so determined. So independent. So fucking stubborn.
“Where else you hurting?”
“Leave,” she snaps, ignoring me.
I look around again. It’s clear that she’s the only one who’s been here. “Have your friends not come by to check on you?” I ask, feeling my anger shift from her to the motherfuckers who left her here to suffer.
“I don’t have friends.”
“You had a shitload of them the night you called me.” At the reminder of her stealing my truck, her friends are forgotten and my anger is focused solely on her once again.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t even know those people. I met them in a bar. Just like I met you. Which reminds me, I don’t really know you either. And I don’t want you here. Seriously,” she adds, giving me a lethal look.
“I didn’t want you to steal my truck, but you did. I guess that makes us even.” But we’re not even. Even would be me leaving her here to suffer on her own. And for some reason I just can’t do that. I’d never physically harm a woman. I guess I can’t stand to see one hurt either.
“That’s right, Zeke. So hate me. Hate me for stealing your truck. For mind fucking you. Hate me. Just leave.” I catch a hint of fear in her voice. My suspicions rise immediately. If this girl is in trouble, I don’t need to get involved. I have enough shit going on in my life. But if I left and something happened to her, I would never be able to forgive myself. I’m struggling enough with that as it is.
I don’t allow myself time to really think about what I’m doing. I just go with my gut. I do need to leave. But I’m taking her with me.
I walk down the hall, ignoring the protests she screams at my back. I open doors until I find a room that looks like hers. In the closet, I grab a handful of clothes and move shit until I find a duffel bag. I stuff it with more clothes from her dresser until it’s full. When I get back out into the hallway, she’s made it off the couch, leaning heavily on the wall.
Bypassing her, I rummage through the shit on the table, but can’t find any medication. Only prescriptions that haven’t been filled. Shoving them in my pocket, I walk out to the car, trying to block out her voice. She’s calling me every motherfucker in the book. I come back empty-handed, and walk directly up to her. She’s too pissed to let the pain stop her from trying to fight back.