Page 59
Chapter Nineteen
THIS IS ME TRYING
Charlee
The ice-cold water is the first thing I register. It’s cold. So, so cold. The swift current pushes me in and out of the torrent, and I have to grip a jagged rock to stay clear of the rapids. Searing pain shoots through my hand, and I swallow a cry as blood trickles down my palm before washing into the water.
“Charlee!”
It’s the second time Oliver has screamed my name in the span of a minute. The first time was just a heartbeat after I started falling. This time, it’s as he scurries through the vegetation surrounding the riverbank and plunges knee-deep into the freezing water.
“Char, take my hand.”
I hoist myself as best as I can onto the sharp rock, my hands screaming with the strength of my grip against the roughness of the surface.
“Come on, Char.” The panic in his voice overrides the deafening sound of the water roaring all around me. It’s enough to make me push through the pain in my ankle as I use the rock to haul myself and my backpack up.
Stifling another cry, I extend my hand to him, and just like that, I’m hoisted up and slammed into a wall of muscle before we fall onto the riverbank, Oliver’s body cushioning the landing.
Not a second later, his hands are cupping my cheeks, his gaze roaming my face frantically. “Are you okay? Charlee, are you okay?”
Our chests are rising and falling hard, both of us struggling to catch our breath.
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m okay.”
But Oliver doesn’t let go, as if he’s afraid I’ll break into tiny pieces. I’m not sure I won’t. I’m still lying on top of him, too scared to move and take stock of the damage to my body.
His thumb brushes my cheek softly, tentatively, his eyes fixed on mine with so much worry, it threatens to make me sob. “I thought you—”
“Charlee, oh my god, are you all right?” Emma pants as she rushes toward us.
Oliver’s hands fall to his sides as he lays his head back on the grass.
I clear my throat. “I’m okay, I think.”
She braces her hands on her knees, breathing hard. “Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.”
“That’ll make for good bloopers,” I wheeze harshly, forcing a smile. Slowly, I move off Oliver and roll onto my side, then push myself up on my knees. I wince at the sharp sting in my left hand. “Ow!”
Oliver is at my side in a heartbeat, lifting me to him effortlessly. He takes my hand in his and turns it over so he can examine the wound. The slice in my palm is pretty deep. I’ll probably need stitches for it, and now that the water isn’t washing the blood away, red oozes between my fingers and stains the grass, my clothes, my bag.
“Wrap this tightly around your palm for now,” he says as he rips—rips—a part of his shirt like he’s tearing a paper towel. “Emma, can you get the med kit from my bag, please?”
“Sure thing.” Emma runs toward Trevor and the rest of the crew as Oliver waits for me to grab the piece of his shirt.
I shrug him off. “It’s okay, Oli, I—”
“Charlee.”
One word, low and sharp, as if his patience is hanging by a thread. Not a warning. No, he’s past that point. A command. The crackle of his voice grates over my skin like a match on the striker.
His eyes bore into mine, as if growling my name wasn’t enough. I don’t know what lights the fire in my core more: the unexpected roughness he emanates or the worry marring every inch of his face.
I grab the ripped fabric and roll my eyes. “Whatever.” Better he think that I’m a brat than let him see the effect he has on me.
I tie the scrap around my palm in a secure knot, and instantly, the blood soaks through the material.
“This is not working.”
