“Need help finding something?” a skeptical voice cuts through the silence.
Shit. I can only imagine what the attendant thought the moment I came striding in here, black hoodie covering my face. He probably thinks I’m about to steal everything in sight, but if I don’t respond, I’ll look even more suspicious.
“First aid,” I call back, scooping up a few bottles of water as I pass.
“Next aisle over. To your right.”
I nod and loop around to the next aisle before finding exactly what I need. Bandages. Wraps. Alcohol wipes. Tweezers. Thank God.
I start piling them into my arms, only not knowing how much I need, I just keep grabbing them, filling my arms until I have no choice but to lift the hem of the oversized hoodie and use it as a basket. Everything gets dropped in, including the water, and I struggle to hold on to it all.
Getting everything I need, I head to the counter when I pass by the cold section and find some reduced pre-packaged sandwiches. I’m sure they’re probably a day or two old, but I grab everything that’s on the shelf. When Stone wakes, he’s going to need to eat, and whatever scraps I can put together from the back of the Charger isn’t going to cut it.
Finally reaching the counter, I dump out the contents of my makeshift hoodie basket and watch as the attendant raises his brows. “That everything?” he asks, trying to get a good look at my face, but I turn away, glancing back at the aisle and pausing.
“Ummm, no,” I say, turning on my heel and realizing that I might not get a better chance than this. As the dude starts scanning the items, I hurry through the aisles, collecting all the basics: soap, both men’s and women’s deodorant, tampons, and of course, toothpaste and brushes. We’re out of luck on mouthwash, but that’s a necessity I’ll have to live without.
I grab baby wipes for those times where we might find ourselves without running water, and even manage to score a three-pack of women’s black underwear. I mean, shit. What are my chances? I’m not so lucky in the men’s section, but Stone’s comfortable going commando. As for me, I enjoy properly packaged goods, you know, not only being emotionally supported, but physically supported as well.
Dumping everything onto the counter, I awkwardly wait as everything is put into plastic shopping bags. “So, uhh . . . You a runaway or something?” the guy asks, his gaze narrowed.
“Something like that,” I say, glancing away.
He nods. “Your boyfriend hit you?” he asks, clearly noticing the blood dried on my face.
“No.”
He nods again, probably not believing me, but that’s fine. I’d rather he assumed that than discover the truth. “There’s a women’s shelter on Sixth Street. It’s not amazing, but it’ll get you through the night.”
I keep my head so low that I’m practically staring at my feet. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he says, pointing toward the register. “A hundred and thirty-eight, fifty.”
He narrows his gaze, almost as though expecting me not to have a cent on me, but I quickly pull out the cash and hand it over, eager to get back to Stone, and the minute he’s finished doing his thing, he shoves the bags toward me, and I hastily collect them in my arms.
With everything we could need to get us through the next few weeks, I scurry out of the gas station and hightail it back to Stone, looping around the opposite side of the block to avoid passing the nightclub again. I can’t risk running into those girls. If they’ve noticed the purse missing, then I’ll be at the top of their suspect list, and I’m already at the top of too many of those to risk another.
It’s a longer walk, and it almost wipes me out, but I keep my pace up, determined to get back to Stone and check on him. I can deal with the fallout of my injuries later, but for now, I need to focus on him, the same way he would do for me.
Reaching the Charger, I sigh with relief, finding him exactly where I left him, and I quickly unlock it before opening the backpassenger door and shoving everything in. My gaze settles on Stone’s face, but I can’t waste these precious seconds and dive back into the driver’s seat before checking his pulse again.
“Shit.”
He’s not looking good. His skin is clammy, and his pulse is barely there. I was hoping I could take him somewhere to do this, but it’s now or never.
Reaching up, I turn on the car’s internal lights as I reach into the back and grab all the first aid products I just bought. I settle it into the center before grabbing the gym towel and pulling it off him.
I climb right into his lap, straddling him as I search through the bag, finding the tweezers. There’s still a bullet lodged in his shoulder, and before I can even begin to help him, I need to remove it.
Finding the tweezers at the very bottom of the bag, I tear into the packaging before looking over Stone again. This isn’t going to be easy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the pain had him regaining consciousness and clocking me right in the face. But if there’s ever a good time to do this, it’s now while he’s out cold.
Leaning over him, I grab his shirt over the bullet wound and shove my fingers into the blood-soaked hole in the fabric before tearing it away and giving myself better access. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do.
I look over it, the car lighting not making it very easy, but I can only work with what I’ve got, and after grabbing a few alcohol wipes and wiping over the open wound, I push my finger right into the hole, needing to know exactly what I’m working with.
I easily locate the bullet, and from what I can tell, it’s lodged mainly into the muscle, but from what I’m feeling, it nicked his collarbone. “Okay, Stone,” I say, wiping my bloodied finger on the used alcohol wipe and grabbing the tweezers again. “Please don’t wake up.”
Realizing the quicker I get this over and done with, the better, I swallow the lump in my throat and go for it, digging into the wound like I’m digging for gold. The tip of the tweezers quickly hits the bullet, and I work as quickly as I can, trying to get the edges around it, but the muscle is so dense that it’s hard to work with. That’s probably why the bullet didn’t get much further.
