It’s the exact opposite of what he looks like. All dark wrapping with the nails, the eyes, the hair. Almost like a yin and yang thing going on.
The popping in front of my face intensifies and I give another twitch.
I wonder what color his eyes were.
I rear back from the visual my own head throws my way, its picture filled with blond hair and pale skin that carried a darkness beyond anything the eyes could see, but the knowing couldfeel.
An aura that screamed hard nights and even gloomier days.
Dragging in a sharp breath, I snatch open the microwave before it ends and just stare at the puffed bag of popcorn sizzling inside.
I never think about a patient after hours.
That shit gets left back at the firehouse when I strip off the uniform and shower the grit of a shitty day from my skin.
But there was something abouthimthat’s got me unsettled.
Is he still as alone as he was on that bathroom floor?
“Bro,” Hatley calls out. “You don’t have to grow and dry the corn yourself. C’mon.”
“C-coming!”
Snagging the still hot bag, I divide it between two bowls and find my way back to the far end of the couch. The show has started and though I normally love watching the creatures and myths the Winchester brothers chase, I find that my mind keeps wandering. Spinning. Floating away from Dean’s version of a blue-steel effect to a lithe body lying limp on my gurney.
What color are his fucking eyes?
And worse than that …
Did he fucking make it or give up?
I suck in a breath when the credits roll, and Hat reaches blindly for the remote to start the next episode.
He’s not even watching it; his face is buried in his friend’s neck.
I need to know.
It’s the last thing I should do, yet I can’t stop this spiral that’s got me pushing to my feet. Abandoning my full bowl on the coffee table and heading back to my room. Switching my sweats for jeans, filling my pockets, and grabbing my leather jacket.
“I’m heading out,” I announce to Lemon’s back because apparently me vacating the couch opened it up to straddling my bestie. “Wear a fucking condom and don’t mess up the couch.”
Hat grumbles something that sounds too close to a moan and I’m carrying my boots out the door with me before I hear anymore.
“Love you, too!” he calls through the thin walls after I slam the door closed and drop my boots on the porch to step into them.
I’m rolling my eyes as I palm my keys, huffing as I sidestep the truck from work taking up the driveway and sidle up next to my bike. It’s an almost street-legal dirt bike with the license plate hammered around the tail and a plexiglass windshield that’sbeen zip tied on. But it’s a smooth dark green, rides like a rough dream, and I won it in a race when some dumb rich kid bet his pink slips for it.
The gas gauge screams that it’s almost on eat shit when I pull into the hospital parking lot and kill the engine before walking us into a spot closer to the ER. With the bike perched and my helmet secured, I walk beneath the emergency sign, only to pause at the glass doors.
You don’t go past the glass.
I understand the logic behind the unwritten rule. That this has to bejust a jobin order for us to keep moving. To stay vigilant for the next one. To keep our heads screwed on tight and not get attached or distracted. But right now, I’m not on duty. Not even sure I’ll ever be back to cover the streets of Barren Ridge and there’s something abouthimthat felt too real.
Too close to home.
Blowing out a breath, I push away my trainer’s words and step inside.
I need to know if he made it.
