I shift my fingers and search the road for help.Any ambulances nearby? A medical examiner, maybe?
“M-mister?” I look him up and down and take stock of the mess I made; bleeding nose, gravel-rash from his temple to his jaw, and his left arm, pointed in a direction not entirely copacetic with how I’d expect a normal, functional appendage to go. “Please don’t be dead,” I moan. “Gen Pop won’t work out for me.”
He grabs me with lightning-fast reflexes, wrapping his handaround my wrist, and then he moves my fingers about six inches to the left. “Pulse is over here, silly.”
“Agh!” Screaming, I jump to my feet and shake my arm like his grip is a fucking spider on my hand. Still, he’s stronger than me, so he pulls me back down and grunts when my free hand slams to his probably-tender stomach. “Oh my gosh.” I hyperventilate. Iwheeze.“Y-you’re alive!?”
“You’re loud.” His forehead wrinkles, visible under the shift of his beanie, then his eyes open—slowly, torturously—revealing a pair not necessarily brown, but not some other color, either.
Which makes no sense at all.
They’re milky and light, like coffee on a Sunday morning withwaytoo much milk added in.
His not-exactly-brown stare scans my face all over, from the top of my mahogany hair, tied in two braids to keep loose strands out of the way, down to my wildly pulsing throat.
I’m going to prison. Probably.“A-are you okay?” I groan. “That was pretty freakin’ bad.”
“You hit me?”
Never admit guilt! Come on, Anna. You know what to do! “Uh…” I swallow the nauseating lump of grossness in my throat. “Y-yeah, I did. But it was an accident.”
His lips curl into a small grin, wrinkled and—surely—moving exclusively because of the shock taking control of his central nervous system. “Are you an angel?” he murmurs, his words almost a drunken slur. “I wished for you, which probably makes this one of those Christmas stories where my angel teaches me to be a better man.” He digs his head back and uses the snow as a pillow. “You’re pretty as hell.”
“I’m not an angel!” I yank free of his firm grip and plop ontomy butt, bumping his poor ribs as I bring my knees up and rest my elbows on top. “You’re alive. I’m not going to prison.”It’s gonna be fine. It’s fine!“Oh my God. I won’t miss Mel’s wedding.”
“Uh…” He pushes up with his good arm. Fuck me, the other dangles at a wholly unnatural angle. “I understand this is a tough time for you, but I don’t suppose you could set your crisis aside for a sec and pay attention to me, could you?”
“I’m sorry… I…” I drop my legs to the side and bang the poor bastard with my knee. “Shit!”
A pained hiss sprints along his throat.
“I’m sorry!” I spring to my knees, condemning the uncoordinated weapons to the frozen road so I can’t hit him anymore, then I place one hand under his elbow.Good one, Anna! That’ll fix it.“Tell me what you want me to do. Please, could you?—”
“I didn’t realize Christmas angels were supposed to drive like they stole a hundred and one Dalmatian puppies.” With a pained grunt, he twists to the right and places his hand on the ground, his bleeding knuckles becoming beacons amidst the crisp white snow. He’s a mess of dirty scrapes. Torn jeans. A bubbling goose egg on his forehead.Oh God. I’m in so much trouble!“That’s a reckless driving charge,” he moans. “Even angels’ve gotta follow the law, don’t they?”
“Ar-are you okay?”
He focuses on his breath for a beat. One in. One out. Another in. Another out. His tongue darts forward, licking his dry lips, then he scrunches his eyes shut and pushes to his knees.
Oh God.
Swaying, he forces his left foot into place. Then the right.
Scrambling up after him, I hold his arm and pray he doesn’t collapse and make this way, way worse. “W-what do…” I swallow the puke-flavored spit lodged in my throat. “What do you want me to do?”
“Not drive like a maniac?” He extends to his full height, straightening his back and expanding his chest. He must be six and a half feet, easily towering over my five-four. A long line of blood rolls from his nostril, cutting a track over the swell of his lips and through the short stubble under his jaw.
The guy islarge. Like,a wounded-bear-in-the-woodslarge, and I’m the dummy all alone with him on a dark, deserted road.
“Um…”Danger, Will Robinson. Danger!“I-I should get my phone… call an ambulance.” I take a step back and release his injured arm. “If you could just?—”
“Argh!” He wraps his meaty palm around my wrist and yanks me back in, his eyes firing with anger. Pain. Fear. Maybe a little impatience. “Fuck!” he groans. “Don’t let it go.”
“But it’s… it’s…” I gulp. “Broken, probably. We need help.”
“Not broken.” He drags my trapped hand along his arm and down to his elbow, wordlessly forcing my palm beneath the point, then bringing my second hand up, he sets it on his bicep.Hisextremely muscular bicep. “Hold on tight.” He grits his teeth, the skin around his lips paling despite the liquid ring of red circling the plump swells. “I’m gonna turn that way.” He pokes his thumb to the right. “You’re gonna stay really fuckin’ still.” He pats my bicep-holding hand. “Don’t let go.”
“But—”
