Shit.She passed out.
I ease her down gently, careful not to jar her hand, and grab the dish towel I know she keeps in the top drawer by the sink. I press it to the cut and keep talking to her in a calm voice, trying to make her come to again without putting her in a full-blown panic. “Hey, Jules. It’s okay. I got you, all right? I’m here.” And the entiretime, I keep monitoring her hand. It’s still bleeding, even with the pressure I’m putting on it. So much so that I have to switch towels.
“Ace?” She stirs a few moments later. Her lashes flutter as her eyes meet mine. “Did I pass out?”
“Yep, babe. You did. Full drama-queen blackout,” I say softly, giving her a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. You still looked hot doing it.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to laugh but isn’t sure she can.
“I forgot…” she breathes. “I hate blood.”
“I know. It’s okay.” To me, none of this is a shock. I’ve seen Julia pass out several times over the years. One time, when we decided to try a blood oath when we were, like, six. One time when Barry Donahue skinned his knee so bad that blood was dripping into his gym shoe. And one time when her late dog Stan got a stick stuck in his paw.
I inspect her hand again, and I’m not liking what I’m seeing at all. I didn’t get a great look at it, but I know the cut is pretty deep and the bleeding doesn’t appear to want to stop anytime soon.
Her head rests against the cabinet behind her. Her color is still all wrong.
“Julia, where’s Yoko?” I ask when I realize I haven’t seen or heard him the entire time I’ve been in here.
“He took a little road trip with my grandma and grandpa in the trailer.”
“Okay, here’s the plan.” I tighten the towel with careful pressure. “I’m going to pick you up.”
“No,” she mutters. “Just the couch. I can—”
“You could.” I nod. “But I got a new couch over at my place. It’s practically ergonomic. NASA technology. Reclines. Heated. Sings lullabies.”
She blinks up at me, unconvinced.
But I ease one arm behind her back, the other under her knees, and lift her gently into my arms.
She doesn’t resist. She just rests her head on my shoulder like it’s instinct.
I grab her phone and purse from the counter, and I hook it over my shoulder like it’s mine and carry her to the door.
She starts to stir again as I press the elevator button.
Her brow furrows. “Where are we going?”
I don’t answer right away.
I glance down. Blood’s already soaking through the towel again. Not pouring, but enough.
She follows my gaze. Sees the red.
Her breath catches. “Oh God—”
And then she’s out cold again.
Shit.
St. Luke’s Hospital ER wasn’t busy, and they got Julia back and into a room in no time at all.
Now, she has six stitches in her hand, and I’m pretty sure I have permanent nerve damage in mine from how hard she gripped it during the procedure.
She passed out twice—once in the elevator and again when the nurse unwrapped her hand. Then she damn near bit a chunk out of my arm when they numbed the area. Not on purpose, of course. Julia’s never been great with blood. Even worse with her own.
Thankfully, before the doctor started stitching, they gave her something to calm her nerves—something mild, but it hit herhard.
