Sleep.
And I did.
—
I woke up to a hot breath on my face and a terrible pressure across my throat.
“What the fuck happened?” Max asked, his blue eyes inches from mine. His forearm across my throat.
I opened my mouth to tell him to let me up. To tell him that I couldn’t breathe, but I couldn’t even get a breath to say that.
I bucked my body, pushed at his arm, but he slipped his body over mine. Controlling my hips with his. Fuck he was heavy. Big.
“Can’t…” I gasped. “Breathe…”
“Where is Rabbit?” Max whispered, his eyes darting up toward the door and then around the room like we were surrounded by his enemies. Like any moment they could storm in.
“Are you working with him?” he asked.
Fuck this. There were stars behind my eyes, so I ducked my head and bit him. Not with all my strength, but enough of it.
He hissed and jerked and I shoved him away, rolling to the side of the bed and falling on the floor.
“Max!” I got to my feet but kept my distance from the bed.
“Where’s my gun,” he muttered, sitting up in the bed, even though it clearly cost him. He was holding his ribs, like he could cup the pain in his hands. And under the bruises, his face was a snarling wince.
I held my hand out like I was a lion tamer with a chair and a whip, instead of a stripper in my underwear. “Max?”
“Where’s my fucking gun!” he yelled, and then as if that roar had drained the last of his reserves, he flopped back on the bed. “What happened to me? Why…why am I here?”
“Poor life choices, probably. A lack of proper role models?”
His head rolled and he faced me, his blue eyes burning in a flushed, bruised face.
I grabbed the edge of my black plastic luggage and dragged it across the light-blue carpet to my feet.
With one eye on him, I pulled out the handcuffs waiting for my moment.
“What did you do to me?” His face wrinkled, and then he winced as all the bruises pulled and tugged. He tried to get up again, no doubt to beat me to death or something equally biker, but he couldn’t even lift his head.
“Shhhh. You’ve been hurt. You’re safe.”
“God.” His eyes drifted shut. “Tired.”
He was out again, his tall, pale body still on the bed.
As fast as I could, I got one handcuff around his wrist and the other around one of the metal spindles of the old cast-iron bed.
I jerked back, waiting for him to rear up but he didn’t even moan. Didn’t even twitch.
“It’s for your own good, Max,” I said. “And mine. So you don’t…you know…kill me accidentally. Basically it’s for me.”
I put shaking fingers on the muscle of his shoulder. Hot. His skin was burning up. I touched his forehead with the back of my hand.
Fever.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to his inert figure. The bright sun was no longer slicing between the blinds and the shadows were thick and fuzzy. The skin of his chest and shoulders, taut and pale over his sleek muscles looked like moonlight. The black ink of his tattoos stood out in vivid relief and I nearly reached down to touch the swirl beneath the words “Brothers In Arms” beneath his collarbone. Like it might be soft.
Like one of those touch and feel books from the library when I was a kid.
Feel the soft little bunny.
Feel the dangerous biker.
“Oh God, Max…I’m really sorry.” I should have taken the bullet out in Atlanta. I shouldn’t have waited. And now he had a fever, and I’d lived with Fern just long enough and had just enough nursing school to know that wasn’t good.
Adrenaline had me fully awake, so I pulled on some cutoffs and went back into the living room and kitchen. There was an old rotary phone sitting on top of the kitchen counter. For a second I stared at it, trying to remember if I’d actually ever seen one outside of old movies.
I hadn’t. It was like a saber-toothed tiger or something.
And dead like one, too; when I picked up the receiver I didn’t get a dial tone. I had to go out to my car
And I did.
—
I woke up to a hot breath on my face and a terrible pressure across my throat.
“What the fuck happened?” Max asked, his blue eyes inches from mine. His forearm across my throat.
I opened my mouth to tell him to let me up. To tell him that I couldn’t breathe, but I couldn’t even get a breath to say that.
I bucked my body, pushed at his arm, but he slipped his body over mine. Controlling my hips with his. Fuck he was heavy. Big.
“Can’t…” I gasped. “Breathe…”
“Where is Rabbit?” Max whispered, his eyes darting up toward the door and then around the room like we were surrounded by his enemies. Like any moment they could storm in.
“Are you working with him?” he asked.
Fuck this. There were stars behind my eyes, so I ducked my head and bit him. Not with all my strength, but enough of it.
He hissed and jerked and I shoved him away, rolling to the side of the bed and falling on the floor.
“Max!” I got to my feet but kept my distance from the bed.
“Where’s my gun,” he muttered, sitting up in the bed, even though it clearly cost him. He was holding his ribs, like he could cup the pain in his hands. And under the bruises, his face was a snarling wince.
I held my hand out like I was a lion tamer with a chair and a whip, instead of a stripper in my underwear. “Max?”
“Where’s my fucking gun!” he yelled, and then as if that roar had drained the last of his reserves, he flopped back on the bed. “What happened to me? Why…why am I here?”
“Poor life choices, probably. A lack of proper role models?”
His head rolled and he faced me, his blue eyes burning in a flushed, bruised face.
I grabbed the edge of my black plastic luggage and dragged it across the light-blue carpet to my feet.
With one eye on him, I pulled out the handcuffs waiting for my moment.
“What did you do to me?” His face wrinkled, and then he winced as all the bruises pulled and tugged. He tried to get up again, no doubt to beat me to death or something equally biker, but he couldn’t even lift his head.
“Shhhh. You’ve been hurt. You’re safe.”
“God.” His eyes drifted shut. “Tired.”
He was out again, his tall, pale body still on the bed.
As fast as I could, I got one handcuff around his wrist and the other around one of the metal spindles of the old cast-iron bed.
I jerked back, waiting for him to rear up but he didn’t even moan. Didn’t even twitch.
“It’s for your own good, Max,” I said. “And mine. So you don’t…you know…kill me accidentally. Basically it’s for me.”
I put shaking fingers on the muscle of his shoulder. Hot. His skin was burning up. I touched his forehead with the back of my hand.
Fever.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to his inert figure. The bright sun was no longer slicing between the blinds and the shadows were thick and fuzzy. The skin of his chest and shoulders, taut and pale over his sleek muscles looked like moonlight. The black ink of his tattoos stood out in vivid relief and I nearly reached down to touch the swirl beneath the words “Brothers In Arms” beneath his collarbone. Like it might be soft.
Like one of those touch and feel books from the library when I was a kid.
Feel the soft little bunny.
Feel the dangerous biker.
“Oh God, Max…I’m really sorry.” I should have taken the bullet out in Atlanta. I shouldn’t have waited. And now he had a fever, and I’d lived with Fern just long enough and had just enough nursing school to know that wasn’t good.
Adrenaline had me fully awake, so I pulled on some cutoffs and went back into the living room and kitchen. There was an old rotary phone sitting on top of the kitchen counter. For a second I stared at it, trying to remember if I’d actually ever seen one outside of old movies.
I hadn’t. It was like a saber-toothed tiger or something.
And dead like one, too; when I picked up the receiver I didn’t get a dial tone. I had to go out to my car
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