Page 39 of Reckless

I sat at the table and stared at the tea I didn’t remember making.

God only knew how long I would have sat there if someone hadn’t knocked on my door.

Chapter 13

ROBBIE

The barge groaned against the jetty like it was as tired as I was, and I stood at the rail with my T-shirt bunched against the right side of my head. The gash behind my ear had bled like a stuck pig for most of the crossing. I’d pressed the fabric against it until the fibres stuck, then let it dry there, forming a makeshift seal that probably wasn’t doing me any favours but at least stopped people from staring. One of the blokes from the barge had asked if I was alright, once, early on. I’d grunted something that might have been a yes and turned my face to the sea. Elias Dinsmore had sat at the end of the row of seats with his dog and said nothing at all. Which was, at least, one thing I could count on Elias for.

Now the jetty rose up to meet me, and I didn’t want to step off the barge. I wanted to stay here, on the water, where the swaying matched the inside of my skull and nobody expected me to be anything other than what I was: a man who had made a very stupid decision and was now paying for it.

I stepped off anyway. My boots hit the timber and the island tilted under me—not really, I knew that, but my body hadn’t got the memo. I stood still for a long moment, letting the world settle, feeling the blood pump behind my eyes with every heartbeat.

Dauntless spread out before me in the grey light of an overcast day. The same jetty. The same path up to the road. The same familiar cluster of buildings that had been here for two hundred years and would probably be here for two hundred more. I’d grown up on this island. I knew every stone, every fence post, every patch of mud that turned to soup in the rain. And right now, I didn’t know a single thing about any of it.

Elias Dinsmore and his dog strode ahead of me. The dog turned around once to look at me, maybe to check if I was following—we were both bloodied and hurt, so maybe the dog figured we were pack now—but Elias didn’t.

My legs carried me down the length of the jetty without much input from my brain. Up the path. Past the familiar buildings, the whitewashed walls glowing faintly in the overcast light. I didn’t know where I was going until I got there, and then I was standing at the bottom of the path that led up to the old mill, and I was looking at the door that belonged to the island’s new doctor.

I hadn’t meant to come here. I’d meant to go home. To crawl into my bed and sleep off the rest of the alcohol and the shame and pretend the last twenty-four hours had never happened. But my feet had brought me here instead, because some part of me—the part that had been paying attention, the part that remembered the weight of his hand on my back and the quiet way he’d said I do hope that you’ll be careful—had decided this was where I needed to be.

I was not well. I knew that. And as much as I wanted to believe I could make my way back to the farm and sleep it off in my own bed, I didn’t think that was an option. For one thing, I could barely walk. For another, there was kind of a lot of blood. On my shirt, my sweatshirt, and dried bits flaking off my neck. Also, the side of my head still felt sticky where the gash was. At the very least, I should probably get my head examined, right?

In more ways than one.

I should never have gone to that club in Newcastle. And it was especially stupid to go just because I’d been pissed off at Alastair. I wasn’t really pissed off at him. But I’d wanted something he wasn’t giving me, that he’d never promised to give me, and that made me stupid, and selfish, and now I was paying the price. But I wasn’t sure I wanted the price to be a brain bleed, so somehow—I still wasn’t exactly sure how—here I was at the old mill. And knocking on Alastair’s door before I could talk myself out of it.

The door opened faster than I’d expected. Alastair stood in the doorway in his pullover and his pressed slacks, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. He hadn’t been up, that much I could tell even through my hungover/still drunk/possible concussion mashup. But even though he appeared dog tired, he still looked cool and collected, and I did manage not to throw up on him, which I considered a win. And when he saw me, something flickered across his face—surprise, then concern, then something else I couldn’t name and didn’t have the energy to try.

“Robbie.”

“Hey.” My voice came out rough and cracked. “I, uh. I need⁠—”

“I can see that.” He stepped back, holding the door open. “Come in.”

The clinic was warm and quiet. The white walls gleamed faintly, and the smell of antiseptic hung in the air, clean and sharp. I stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, not sure what to do with my hands. I was still holding the bloodied T-shirt against my head, and now that I was here, in this clean space with this clean man, I felt the full weight of how I must look. Pretty sure I also stank of blood and booze.

“Sit down,” he said, and his voice was steady, professional, the voice of a man who had seen worse and would see worse again. He gestured to the examination table. “Let me see what we’re dealing with.”

I sat. The paper crinkled under me. I let my hands drop to my lap and sat there, head bowed, while he moved around the room, gathering supplies. The click of a lamp being switched on. The rustle of a paper packet being torn open. The soft clink of metal against metal.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He was standing beside me now, close enough that I could smell the sleep on him, the warm scent of cotton and skin. He held a penlight in one hand.

“I fell.”

“Fell where?”

“Down some stairs.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, very quietly, “Look at me, please.”

I looked up. The light hit my eyes and I flinched, the flare of pain lancing through my skull. He made a soft sound, almost a hum, and adjusted the angle.

“Pupils are reactive,” he murmured. “Good. Follow the light with your eyes. Don’t move your head.”

I obeyed. Left. Right. Up. Down. The light traced arcs through my vision, leaving afterimages burned into the dark. His face was close to mine, close enough that I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the grey threading through his dark hair, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He looked tired. He looked like he hadn’t eaten properly in days. And he was looking at me with an intensity that made my chest feel tight.

“When did you last eat?” he asked.