After what feels like minutes later instead of actually an hour, the driver shakes me awake. I jerk, then groan. All the pain returns with renewed vigor. This sucks balls.
“We’re here,” he says, yet again stating the obvious.
The smell of baked goods makes me gag. My stomach is still too tender. Rubbing sleep off my eyes, I open the door and slide out. I breathe in and cringe, preparing myself for the walk home. I wave at the driver kind enough to get me here, and he gives me a look of pity. Without waiting for him to comment about my need for services provided by an emergency room, I start moving down the sidewalk toward the garage in a wobbly gait. Thank the racing gods it’s not uphill. That would surely kill me.
I’m bleeding from somewhere. Drops create a trail behind me on the pavement. The gash on my head has scabbed, so it can’t be that. I know as much since one eye no longer paints the world red. I soon forget about the open wound because each step sends new kinds of pain all over my body. By the fifth block, I’m just about ready to fall to my knees and give the universe the finger. Sadly, I don’t have that luxury. I have work to do. Tightening my grip on my side, I grit my teeth and focus on the sidewalk. One step at a time. If I keep things simple and take just one step after another, I will eventually get to where I’m going. The people who pass me give me strange looks. Some ignore me while others pause, thinking if they should give me help. I keep moving because if I stop, I know I won’t be able to start again.
Blue-and-purple dots swim in front of my eyes by the time I reach the garage entrance. My home. My sanctuary. I’m so tired I don’t even have the strength to feel relief. I crumple against the shutter frame. My legs have lost all feeling during the last block. My knees are shaking. Hell, I’m shaking all over so hard I’m pretty much vibrating. My gaze drops to the legs sticking out from under a raised Impreza.
“Trevor,” I croak. His name sounds weak to my ears, let alone to the ears of an old man. Dehydration is getting the best of me. I clear my raw throat and try again. Louder. “Trevor!”
The legs twitch. He pushes out of the Impreza, wrench in hand. His eyes bulge at the sight of me sagging to the ground.
“Get.” I inhale. “Screw.”
On swift feet I never expected from a man his age, Trevor hurries deeper into the garage. In seconds Screw comes charging toward me like an enraged gorilla. He kneels before me and takes in the situation. Then, as gently as a summer breeze, the wall of him gathers me into capable arms. Despite his care, his hold jostles me. Unable to bite down, I whimper.
“What happened to you?” he asks softly.
“I think I have broken ribs.” I rest my head on his muscular chest. “And maybe a cut somewhere. I don’t know anymore.”
“What happened with Bedlam?”
His question confirms my suspicions. They asked Brody. Also they did know about my relationship with him. I sigh in exasperation and say, “The first aid kit.”
“Mac!” Screw hollers.
My garage manager wheels out of his office, takes one look at me, and barks, “Take her to your room. I’ll bring the kit.”
Screw kicks in the door to his room and arranges me on the immaculately made bed. I feel delirium hover over me. Thoughts seem less coherent by the second. But I hold on to one question.
“Where’s Zamara?”
Rolling his eyes at me, Screw says, “Brody picked her up yesterday.”
I finally feel relief wash over me. I sag deeper into the bed. “I think I’m bleeding on your sheets.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Mac rolls in, a red-crossed white box sat on his lap. “Take off her pants,” he instructs.
“This is going to hurt,” I joke because I’m masochistic like that.
Without hesitation, Screw unbuttons my jeans and peels off the filthy garment. I cry out. The sound tapers off as a moan. Mac pulls out a pair of scissors from the kit and cuts away my once white T-shirt. He and Screw share a hiss. I’m in too much pain to care about modesty. So what if I’m naked in front of them?
Mac clucks. “You’re black, blue, yellow, and everything in between.”
“What the hell happened to you?” For the first time, Screw stretches to his full height. His clenched fists seem ready to ram into whoever roughed me up. Affection for him dulls some of the fire and brimstone coursing through my veins.
“A GT-R ran me off the road last night.” I watch Mac take out salve and gauze from the box.
He pokes at my side and I recoil, baring my teeth at him. “You definitely have cracked ribs.”
“Genius,” I hiss.
“Shouldn’t you have been with Bedlam?” He rubs cool salve all over my torso, ignoring the curses I aim at him. “You’re gonna need to sit up if you want me to bind you.” He
