“But, man, you can tell me if you need to.”
My brow feels like it takes a year to show him my confusion.
“Okay.”
He nods like that’s all he needed and hops out of the vehicle like it’s not a sixteen-foot drop—it’s not—and runs around to my side.
How is he so fast?
“You’re like the Flash.”
When did we make it back to the firehouse?
He snorts and hooks a hand around my armpit to keep me steady.
“We’re leaving the bikes here. I’ll steal somebody’s truck.”
Who knew my best friend was a thief?
He really is a good best friend.
Chapter 3
Tristen
Everything hurts.
The scratch of my eyes when I fight the puffy lids open sends a shock of pain straight to my brain.
“Ouch,” I grumble through a crack and squeeze them closed again.
My throat is dry and aching, my limbs burning, pits damp.
“C’mon, bro. It’s been twelvehours.”
Huffing at the hollering on the other side of my door, I groan and force myself to roll over, swiping the sweat from my forehead as I go. The ceiling stares back at me when I finally crack open an eye and blink through the fog. It’s dark and looming, cast in shadows that make my already tight chest twist up.
Oh, fuck, it’s dark out.
Scrambling across the bed, my foot gets caught in the twisted-up sheet and my heart pounds hard behind my ribs. Reaching long, I slam around on the milk crate I’m using as a nightstand until I hit the touch lamp and light up my room in a warm glow.
My breath rushes, filling my chest with relief as I squeeze my eyes closed and tap my forehead on my closed fist against the bed.
“Teeeeeeen, it’s Winchester time,” Hatley calls on the other side of my door, and I puff up my cheeks.
“Coming,” I croak out, then try again when he just pounds on the door. “Coming.”
It takes some time to sit myself up, to regulate my breathing and get my bare feet on the floor. The cool hardwood is like a shock beneath my soles, the snap of chill running up my legs and pulling me to its surface.
I drag in a deep breath, the first in way too long, and stand.
Knees pop and my spine cracks.
Even my hip clicks when I take the first step.
Blowing out all the air in my lungs, I snag a white shirt from the random chair in the corner that’s just there to collect not-dirty clothes and shrug it on.
The lights are dimmed but on when I step around the creaking boards into the living room and pass Hatley sitting comfortably on the couch with a person in his lap. Shaking my head, I follow the glow of the light we keep on over the kitchen sink to fill a glass from the tap. It goes down smoothly and quickly enough for me to fill it a second time.
