by Jordan Ford
“No.” He forces his eyes open and looks straight into mine. His sky-blue gaze draws me in, making me want to believe him. “Runaway,” he finally murmurs. “Can’t be found.”
My heart seizes for a second.
He’s just like me.
Closing my eyes with a heavy sigh, I wrestle with the silent battle raging in my mind. I should call Keith. I don’t want to deal with this.
But Karl’s in my arms. He’s hurting. And maybe I’m the only person who can help him right now.
Biting my lips together, I finally give in with a reluctant huff. “Where do you live? Can I take you home?”
“Motel about three miles from here.” He points into the sky.
“I can’t take you that far.”
His slurred words and vague pointing gives me zero hope that even if I could, he’d be able to show me the way.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I tell myself to stop being such a chicken. If I were lying on the ice, bleeding and in pain, I’d want someone to take me home and look after me. I can’t just leave him here, and I can’t betray him to the police. Not if his runaway story is true. If it were the other way around, I’d want him to stay quiet for me.
I’ll find out his reasons in the morning. For now, I need to get him off this ice.
“Come on.” I struggle to stand and bring him with me at the same time.
He’s a big guy, and I feel like a midget beside him.
“Come on,” I grunt, begging him to put in a little effort.
He bears some of his weight, easing the strain on my body, but as soon as he’s upright, he starts to fold like a rag doll. I dip beneath his arm, holding his waist and nearly losing my balance.
“Help me out,” I murmur, not expecting him to respond.
His snicker is wispy and weak but then with another groan, he shuffles forward. Thankfully we’re close to the wall. He uses it as a crutch while we work our way slowly to the gate.
It’s a struggle to make it up the ramp. We finally reach the door and my body is already aching. Thank God I only live a few blocks from here.
It usually takes me five to ten minutes to get home—well, what passes for home right now. Tonight it takes nearly twenty. We stick to the shadows, taking the long way through the darkened park. My heart is racing a million miles per minute as we inch across the grass. I don’t know who beat Karl to a bloody pulp, but they still might be lurking around.
My shoulders are tense and throbbing by the time we reach my small garage apartment. Karl leans against the wall while I dig the keys from my bag. My hands are trembling. Unlocking the door turns into a huge challenge. I have to stop and pull in a breath before trying again and finally succeeding. Dumping my keys on the table, I grab Karl as he stumbles through the door and guide him to the bed.
We no doubt look like a clowning duo as we kind of run/stumble across the room and flop onto the bed. I wriggle my arm out from beneath Karl’s back and stand up, stretching my aching muscles before bending down to remove his boots. His jeans are saturated from lying on the ice. I need to get him undressed and warm.
With a nervous gulp, I shakily unbutton his pants. He doesn’t even flinch; with his head on my pillow, he’s already drifting into oblivion. Tugging down his jeans, I grunt and huff, trying to undress his sleepy body. It’s an effort, his lax limbs doing me no favors. With a final huff, I pull them off his ankles. His phone clunks onto the floor.
I pick it up, running my thumb over the crack in the screen. It still seems to be working though. I place it on the nightstand and then glance at Karl’s long body splayed across my tiny bed.
I try to avert my gaze from his strong thighs, but it’s impossible not to check him out. His muscles are so long and sinewy. So obviously powerful.
The hair on his legs is pale brown, nothing like the hair on his head.
There’s a boot-shaped bruise on his right thigh. I gently touch it with my index finger. No doubt an excuse to brush my hand across his naked legs.
The pads of my fingers start to buzz and something is happening to my insides. They’re curling, zinging, electrifying me with things that should not be felt.
I jerk my hand away, running it over my head before forming a fist at my side.
“Would you just get on with it?” I grit out the words, once again annoyed by my desire. I hate that I’m attracted to him. In my current state, I shouldn’t be attracted to anyone.
Attraction leads to nothing but trouble.
“Get him well, then kick him out the door,” I whisper. “It’s for your own good.”
Unzipping his hoody, I struggle to take the rest of his clothes off. I’m worried I’m hurting him by wrenching his arms at funny angles, but he’s asleep and it looks like a couple of arm twists are not about to wake him. With a final yank, I pull his T-shirt off and he flops back onto the bed.
Closing my eyes with a weary sigh, I tug the covers out from beneath Karl, then maneuver him back into position on the bed. He weighs a ton and my already weary body is screaming at me by the time I’m finally finished.
I pull the covers over him and then rub my lower back. He looks like Goliath in my little bed.
For some reason, that makes me smile.
Gently brushing the dark locks off his face, I glide the back of my finger down his swollen cheek.
Who would beat him up like this?
And why?
It makes me nervous.
I’ve probably gone and made the worst decision of my life. Bringing a stranger into my little haven? What the hell am I doing?
I’m becoming an expert in stupidity.
Closing my eyes, I squeeze the bridge of my nose and fight the stinging tears. It hurts to swallow as I walk back to the door and lock it. I then head to the bathroom and pull out the first aid kit Mrs. Whitmore left in the bottom cabinet. It’s probably decades old and everything in it has expired, but it’ll have to do.
My body is moving slowly, exhaustion still tugging at my limbs, but I can’t rest yet.
I fill a bowl with water, grab a towel, and head back to Karl’s side. Pulling a chair up to the bed, I perch on it and get to work tending to his wounds. I start with his face. There’s not much I can do except clean it. His nose doesn’t look crooked or broken, which seems miraculous. His left eye has now swollen shut, and I secure the gash on his eyebrow with a couple of butterfly bandages before moving on to the nasty lump on his right cheekbone. I wipe away the blood, being careful not to hurt him. But he’s seriously out for the count. I hope he doesn’t have a concussion.
He needs a hospital. I should be insisting, but I have a sinking feeling I won’t win.
I wipe salve over the cut on his face and dab a little on his grazed chin and split lip. The cream expired two years ago, but I’ve got nothing else and figure it can’t hurt to rub a little on. Those nicks usually heal quite quickly. It’s the deep bruising I’m most worried about.
Pulling back the covers, I tentatively check the ugly bruises on his torso as well. There’s no way he doesn’t have a broken rib or two.
I remember the time Dad broke one of Mom’s ribs. She lied and told the doctor she slipped down the stairs. I sat beside her, biting my lips together. It was so damn hard not to blurt out the truth, but she was squeezing my hand, reminding me to stay silent. The doctor told her to strap it and take it easy.
That’s what Karl will have to do as well.
Pulling the covers back up, I figure that’ll be a job made easier in the morning, when he can sit up. For now, I’ll let him sleep.
Grabbing the spare blanket off the sofa, I drape it over him for extra warmth. His skin is still cold to the touch.
As I tuck the blanket securely over him, I get a flash of my mother, on the nights Dad really lost his temper and I had to play nursemaid for a while. She was always so stoic, and I have a feeling Karl will be too.
Unable to resist, I lightly brush his jawline. His face, usually so handsome and strong, is distorted an
d ugly, but there’s still something about him that draws me in.
“What’s your story?” I whisper, wondering if I’ll ever find out the truth.
#12:
Moving Sucks
Kade
Everything hurts. A dull pain radiates through my entire body. My limbs are planks of wood, my muscles are knots, and my head is an anvil. It weighs a ton as I try to lift it off the pillow and look around.
Where the hell am I?
My good eye works overtime, trying to answer my question in the dim morning light.
I’m on a squishy, narrow bed, buried beneath a mountain of blankets. Beside me is a small square table with two wooden chairs. The pale yellow curtains look kind of threadbare, which will not be helping with the fridge-like temperature in this concrete box. The wall beside me is kind of rough and gives off this icy dampness. No wonder the bed needs so many blankets.
I crane my head to look over the table and spot the sofa against the opposite wall.
I can see a splash of dark hair splayed over a bright orange cushion.
Jules.
That’s right. She brought me back to her place last night.
I lick my split lip. It’s really hard to see out of my swollen eye, but I still manage to survey the rest of the tiny apartment. It smells like fresh baking and in spite of the chill in the air, it has a warmth about it. Jules has made this shoebox into a home.
Easing up a little higher, I gaze across at her. She’s on the couch, curled into a ball. Her hands are nestled beneath her cheek and her lips are slightly parted. A very faint snore whistles out of her cute little nose, but she doesn’t look completely relaxed in her sleep. There’s no way the thin blanket draped over her legs is warm enough.
I glance down at my mound of blankets, feeling both guilty and humbled.
Clenching my teeth, I move carefully, not wanting to wake her. I stifle a groan as a laser-sharp pain sears my torso. Cradling my ribcage, I mutter a curse, convinced something is broken.
Those fucking assholes.
I battle self-pity, along with a hard resentment and sour anger. It’s taking everything in me not to call Trey and tell him what happened. He’d be down here in a heartbeat, his fists at the ready.
But I forfeited that right the second I bailed on him.
He hasn’t spoken to me since I left. I know he’s doing okay because Riley told me so, but that doesn’t change the fact that I miss my friend. He always had my back, was always the first to be there for me.
And now I have no one.
My eyes track back to Jules. She lightly sniffs in her sleep, wriggling on the couch and looking kind of uncomfortable in the squished space. There are dark smudges under her eyes.
She works too hard.
And she’s too sweet to walk away from guys like me. She should have called Keith, an ambulance…anything to not make me her problem.
But she didn’t.
She gave up her bed for me, took me in…played the good Samaritan. People don’t do that kind of thing for me, and it’s making my throat swell.
I snap my eyes away from her and move to get up. It’s impossible to mask my groan as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Gripping the mattress, I fight the spots in front of my eyes, breathing through the wave of pain that’s reminding me of each and every one of my bruises. Working my jaw to the side, I gently rub my chin and wonder how long it’ll take to move without hurting.
My torso is mottled black and blue. I’ve even got a boot-shaped bruise on my thigh. It’s only then that I notice I’m basically naked. Glancing around the room, I find my jeans neatly drying on a rack by the kitchen sink.
She really did take care of me last night.
And it suddenly hurts to swallow.
A phone beside the bed buzzes and then starts to ring. I hustle to answer it, not wanting to wake Jules.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Oh good, you’re not dead.”
“What?” I’m scrambling to place the voice, even pulling the phone away so I can see if it’s mine.
It is, and the screen’s cracked. Shit!
I put it back to my ear.
“I arrive this morning to find the rink unlocked and blood all over the ice. What the hell happened last night?”
Keith. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Um… Sorry.”
He huffs. “Please explain.”
“I just…” I lick my lips, trying to figure out if truth or fiction will serve me better. “I must have forgotten to lock up. I started feeling kinda sick and left early.”
“Were you drunk?”
“No.” I frown.
“Because you left your bike behind as well. And that still doesn’t explain the blood.”
I wince.
I should just tell him, but for some reason a lie pops out. “I get bloody noses sometimes…when I don’t feel well.”
His voice drops suddenly, the anger replaced with concern. “Do you need me to take you to the doctor?”
“No, I just need a couple of days to get my energy back.” I rub my forehead, trying to figure out what the hell I’m saying. “It must have been bad food or something.”
“Bad food gave you a bloody nose?”
“No, I…” Shit, I’m screwing this up big time. The easy charm that usually gets me out of anything has gone into hiding. I swallow and try again. “When I’m rundown, I’m prone to bloody noses. It’s no big deal. I’m sorry I didn’t lock up…and I’m sorry about the blood. I’ll clean it up as soon as I’m better.”
Keith’s huff becomes a sigh. “Don’t sweat it, kid. I’ll sort it out. Just take a few days to get better.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Keith grunts. “I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
I place the phone back on the bedside table and scrub a hand down my face.
“You must think bruises heal quicker than I do.”
I glance across the room at Jules. She’s still lying on the couch but her keen gaze is staring right through me.
My forehead wrinkles. “Excuse me?”
She rolls her eyes and sits up, crossing her arms over her waist and kind of hunching over. “Unless Keith just told you to take a couple of weeks off, which I’m pretty sure he didn’t, how are you going to explain your bruises on Tuesday?”
I groan and droop my head.
“I know I only heard half the conversation, but seriously? Why didn’t you just tell him the truth?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “The lie just popped out.”
Her thin eyebrows wrinkle. She’s looking pretty skeptical as she stands, tugs down her sweater, and shuffles to the bathroom.
I watch her go, studying the way her legs move, mesmerized by the slight sway of her hips. There’s nothing sultry about her, yet she’s alluring. Such a shame about those monster sweaters she insists on wearing. As far as I can tell, she has no boyfriend, so I seriously don’t know why she wears men’s clothing. It’s not like she needs to hide anything.
I caught a glimpse of her ass last week, when she was reaching to put something away, and it looks pretty squeezable to me.
I grin, but my stinging split lip puts a quick end to it.
I finger the wound, then rise from the bed when she comes out again. She stops by the couch, her eyes darting down my body. She grimaces and looks away.
Okay, not the reaction I’m used to, but I guess I look like a punching bag right now. Cradling my ribs, I shuffle to the bathroom. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a freaking mess. My swollen eye makes me look like I’m growing a tumor. There are butterfly bandages holding the gash on my eyebrow together, and she’s put some kind of salve on the cut along my other cheekbone.
Damn. I look like shit.
When I get out, Jules is standing by the little square table waiting for me.
“Sit here.” She points at the chair.
There’s something so sweet about her. She makes it easy to follow her soft command.
“I’m pretty sure your ribs are broken. There’s nothing you can do except strap them and take it easy for a few weeks. No hockey. No heavy lifting.”
I nod and lean forward so she can start winding the bandage around me. Her hair tickles my bare shoulder. She smells like vanilla.
It takes everything in me not to run my fingers through those long, shiny locks.
I thought broken ribs were making it hard to breathe, but maybe it’s her.
Clearing my throat, I look away from temptation and focus on the sound of the bandage winding around me, the soft shuffle of her body as she plays nurse.
“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask.
She goes still for a second, her gaze darting to mine before hitting the floor. Her headshake is subtle and makes my eyes narrow.
“How old are you?”
Her shoulders tense, her delicate nose twitching as she wipes her top lip with the back of her hand. “Eighteen.”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Finishing up the bandage, she steps back, crossing her arms and glaring down at me. “Not everyone gets to graduate high school, you know.”
My mouth goes dry in an instant and I can’t maintain eye contact. Eventually I murmur a soft, “I know.”
Because I do.
Because I should be at Eton right now, finishing up the school year, applying for colleges.
Party time with my bros.
So much for that.
I clench my jaw, not wanting to think about it.
“How old are you, then?” Jules starts packing away her first aid kit.
I eye her carefully and lie. “Twenty-one.”
She scoffs and shakes her head, walking away to store the medical supplies.
“Hey, I’ve got an ID that says I am.”
“Oh, do you now?” She snickers, glancing over her shoulder.
I smirk and start searching for my bag, ready to pull out my proof and show her.
Wait. Where is it?
Glancing under the table, I scan the floor for signs of my stuff.
“You okay?” Jules asks.
“Yeah, I’m just looking for my bag.”