“I’ve got you,” I say, adrenaline spiking. “My car is right here. It needs a jump, but I have a starter.”
This should get reverse karma off my ass—good deed of the year award.
I don’t know how I do it. Hysterical strength is a real thing. I manage to haul him up, his arm draped heavy over my shoulders, his groans making me wince. I practically drag him to Bessie and shove him into the passenger seat.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” he mutters.
I cringe at the blood staining the tragic beige upholstery. “Getting blood out is a nightmare.”
I slam his door and pop the hood. I use the portable jumper, pray to the car gods, and turn the key.
Bessie sputters, coughs, and roars to life.
“Yes!” I hop into the driver’s seat. “Okay, don’t worry. There’s a hospital four blocks down?—”
His hand, large and crimson-stained, seizes my wrist. His grip is shockingly strong.
“No hospital,” he grits out.
“Excuse me? Sir, you’re bleeding from places people shouldn’t. You have a stab wound and probably broken ribs.”
“I said,” he wheezes, his eyes flashing dangerous fire, “no hospital.”
“But—”
“Take me to a hospital,” he tightens his hold to near bruising, “and you won’t live to see another morning.”
I freeze. He reaches into his jacket, where I see the glint of metal. A gun.
Oh. My. God.
Icy fear chills my bone marrow.
“Okay!” I squeak, raising my hands. “No hospital. Message received.”
His head lolls back against the headrest. “Good…”
Any minute now, he’ll likely pass out. But somehow, he keeps a firm hold of the gun.
Taking some deep breaths, I merge onto the empty street. Great. I have an armed, incredibly hot, and probably criminal in my passenger seat. Karma must be really pissed at me.
Nana won’t believe this one.
I can’t dump him. I can’t take him to the ER.
My apartment. It’s the only option. Secluded, and I have a mini-ER in the hall closet.
Getting him into the apartment is a comedy of errors. I park in the loading zone, pray the meter maids are asleep, and haul him out. He shoves the gun inside his coat, hand lingering there as he stumbles.
“You,” I huff, draping his arm over me as we hit the elevator, “are absurdly heavy. Steel and bad decisions?”
We stagger inside my one-bedroom apartment. It’s clean, filled with a jungle of hanging pothos and ferns. He slips from my grip, landing with a thump on the kitchen linoleum. He’s out cold.
“Of course,” I pant, hands on my knees. “Of course, you had to pass out right on my kitchen floor.”
I pat him down, feeling dirty and terrified at the same time. “Where is it…?”
My fingers brush cold steel. I pull the gun out. “Ew!” Yeah. Blood and guts don’t bother me. Guns? I hold it like it’s got rabies.
