I can’t see that far.
Bullet whines again, and I plop down on the edge of the bed. He slowly makes his way to me and then curls up, resting his head on my forearm. I pet his head, focusing on the way his fur feels beneath my fingers, rather than the way the walls of the motel room feel like they’re closing in on me.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I say softly. “And you’re going to take care of her when I can’t.”
Like I’ve ever even taken care of her. What a fucking delusion.
A deep, sick feeling churns in my gut, and I squeeze my eyes shut again. All I ever wanted in my life was to be the good guy in a sea of really fucked up ones—just like my dad. Now, I don’t know what I am.
Which is why Rue needs to go and heal. And fucking forget me. It’s not like I was ever on track to be something great, anyway.
“And maybe I’ll go live in the jungle or something.”
As the words leave my lips in a mumble, the bathroom door swings open. I whip my head in the direction of Rue, taking in the sight of her in fresh gray pajama pants and a loose white T-shirt. Her wet hair is bleeding moisture onto her shoulders, turning the material see-through. My jaw tenses, my body aching to feel her close again.
“I think I’m going to shower, too,” I clear my throat, pushing myself up to standing. I grab the duffle bag and carry it with me—like I’m not going to just put the same clothes right back on.
Rue nods, lingering in the small space between the bathroom and the bed.
“What?” I hesitate, my hand on the bathroom doorknob.
“Do you need help with that?” She points to the bandage on my arm. “It probably needs to be redressed, or whatever he told you to do with it.”
I glance down at it. “I can take care of it. Go get some sleep.”
She holds my gaze, her lips pursed and face unreadable. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.” I push the door and disappear in the bathroom. The scent of coconut and vanilla overwhelms me as I step inside, and I almost walk right back out.
Just get the shower over with.
I kick on the water, and then strip down, gritting through the pain in my arm and overall soreness. I’ve put my body throughabsolute fucking hell since I ran over a week ago. No amount of prison workouts could’ve prepared me for this.
I run my hand over my head before stepping in, feeling the length of my hair. It’s grown. It’s grown a lot in a week. I need to shave, too, but that’s for another time.
Before I step into the warm stream of water, I carefully remove the bandage around my arm. It’s stitched closed, and honestly, it doesn’tlooklike a bullet wound. It doesn’t really look like anything, honestly. I brush my fingertips over the wound, the skin still sensitive and burned around the entry point.
It’ll probably scar.
I don’t care, though. Just as long as it can’t identify me. I step under the water and reach for the shitty motel soap, setting behind the soap that Rue left on the edge of the white plastic shower.
I don’t linger, even though the warm water massages my muscles. It feels like there’s an internal timer that runs in my head when it comes to showering now. I can’t take my time. I cannevertake my time.
Never again, probably.
Once I’m convinced I’m clean and I’ve washed the grime of the lake from my body, I shut off the water and step out. I grab a white towel and soak up as much moisture as I can from my skin.
“Fuck,” I mutter as the coarse material crosses a couple of open cuts on my abdomen. I don’t recall getting them, but I’m sure it was the debris in the dark waters I swam out of.
I should’ve never made it out.But I did.
I toss the towel aside and pull my clothes back on, actively avoiding the mirror. I don’t give a shit what I look like. It won’t change the way I feel about myself.
Which is just…numb.
Fucking survival warrants no emotion.
Dipping back into the bag, I pull out the fresh gauze. I wrap and tape the wound quickly, even though it doesn’t appear to be oozing any blood anymore. Still, the last thing I need to do is leave blood on the sheets.
