Chapter Three
Leo
Holy fuck, what have I done?
So, it appears that instead of getting my revenge on Vaughn, I’ve gotten revenge on his little brother.
Because I’m fairly sure that’s who’s next to me in the back seat, breathing hard through his pain. He looks too much like Vaughn not to somehow be related to him.
And his friend called him Archie, and I vaguely remember Vaughn mentioning a little brother named Artie or Archie at one point.
The guilt burns through me. The guy is in immense pain, and I caused that.
I’m used to being the solver of problems, not someone who creates them.
And I don’t know what I should do now. Archie’s foot is elevated on my lap, and I’m trying to keep it from being jolted, which feels simultaneously too intimate and not helpful enough. Should I even be here?
I mean, assailants don’t usually accompany their victims to the hospital, do they?
The friend—Billy—keeps shooting me suspicious looks, and the tattooed girl in the front seat is clutching the birthday cakelike she might use it as a weapon. Both of them are definitely radiating “we’re memorizing your face for the police sketch” energy every time I meet their gaze.
I shift slightly, and Archie winces, adding another tick to my guilt scoreboard.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay all of your medical bills, I promise,” I find myself saying.
“It’s okay. I have an NHS card,” he says.
That’s right. I’d forgotten about the NHS, Britain’s radical experiment in treating healthcare like a human right instead of a luxury good.
Part of me finds it philosophically beautiful that both a pauper and a stockbroker receive the same standard of medical care. The other part—the American part that’s been trained to believe money solves everything—is deeply uncomfortable that I can’t buy my way out of this guilt with a platinum hospital package.
“So, you live here in the UK?” I ask uncomfortably.
Archie tilts his head to look at me. It’s still weird seeing someone with Vaughn’s features who is not actually Vaughn.
“Yeah, I moved over from the States five years ago, but I’ve only been in London a year. I’m at the point where I’ve almost figured out which way to look when crossing the street, so my near-death experiences have dropped to only twice a week.” A grin flickers over his face.
Oh god, he’s funny even though he’s in pain.
My guilt grows.
This is not me. This is not who I am. What I am.
I’m Leo, the reliable one. That’s been my role since I turned six and realized I was more responsible than the two people who were supposed to be looking after my younger siblings and me.
I can’t get over the fact that I caused an innocent guy to break his ankle.
What can I do to make it up to him?
When we arrive at the hospital, my internal agonizing manifests itself in my take-charge mode. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, snagging a wheelchair from the entrance bay.
Billy tries to help, but I’m already in the process of transferring Archie from the car to the chair. I keep one hand under his calf to steady the injured leg and the other against his ribs, guiding him down. His shirt has ridden up and my palm lands on bare skin. It’s smooth and warm under my hand. I adjust my grip and focus on the logistics.
“Fuck,” Archie says as he settles his ankle on the footrest.
“You okay?”
“I now understand why swearing was invented,” Archie grits out. “Somewhere in prehistory, someone broke their ankle and the first ‘fuck’ was born.”
