I shake my head, but he grabs a turkey sandwich anyway, plus a can of Red Bull.
“Bathroom?” I whisper.
He gestures. I fumble my way down the narrow hall, barely making it inside before the nausea hits. I throw up in the sink—nothing but acid and air—and rinse my mouth, blinking at myself in the streaked mirror. My hair is a disaster, matted with sweat and dirt. The wound on my forehead isn’t too bad though. Just a shallow cut, although it is streaked with a bit of grime.
I splash water on my face and try to clean it. I also try to remember something, anything, but all I get are fragments. A hand on my back, pushing me forward. The blinding light of the crash. The sound of a woman laughing, far away, but maybe it’s just the echo of my own voice, gone sharp and brittle.
I want to cry, but I’m too empty for it.
Back in the store, Hunter waits by the register. He’s tall, broad, with a restlessness in his stance, like he’s used to being in charge of things that matter. When he sees me, he sets the food on the counter and pays without a word.
We sit in the car, engine idling, heat on full blast. He passes me the water and Advil, unscrewing the cap for me because my hands are shaking too bad.
“You sure you don’t need the hospital?” he asks again.
I shake my head, then regret it as a wave of dizziness washes over me.
He watches me swallow the pills, then tears open the sandwich and hands it over. I nibble the corner, more to appease him than out of hunger.
“Do you remember anything?” he says after a while.
I stare out the window, at the buzzing sign across the street. No, not at all. Not much, at least.
“I’m Daisy,” I blurt.
He glances at me, blue eyes careful. “That’s your name?” he asks, voice careful.
I nod, almost believing it myself.
“Daisy,” I repeat. “Yes. I think so.”
He says nothing for a long time, just studies me with those azure eyes. Something about the way he looks at me makes my skin go tight, my insides loose.
“Okay, Daisy,” he says, the name strange and familiar at the same time. “I’ll get you somewhere safe.”
I mean to say thank you, but the words stick. I just stare at him, trying to figure out why this stranger is being so nice to me, when every atom in my body is screaming that I don’t deserve it.
He drives slow through empty streets, only stopping once to make a call. He steps out of the car, pacing under the awning, speaking low and urgent. I can’t hear the words, but I know the tone: he’s worried. About me, or about himself, I can’t say.
He comes back in, claps his hands together, then flexes them on the wheel.
“There’s a place I know a few blocks away. They have space, and you can crash for the night.” His eyes flick to my bandage, then away. “After that, we’ll figure out your next move. Sound good?”
I nod, too tired to question anything.
As we pull away, I notice the way his hands grip the wheel—strong, controlled, like he’s holding the whole world in place for me. I wonder if I knew him before tonight. I wonder if we have a history, or if this is just what it looks like when two broken people cross paths in a city that eats the soft ones alive.
We pull up before a huge, granite building in ten minutes. It’s a stately place with an awning, a porte-cochère, and a small garden in front. It looks as impenetrable as a fortress, and also very wealthy.
When we get out of the car, he leads me into the building where a doorman greets him.
“Mr. McCarren,” the man says respectfully, tipping his hat.
“Hey, Miles. I’ll be using one of the guest suites.”
The doorman nods.
“Certainly sir. Genevieve let us know that 701 is ready for your guest.”
