I hesitate; I’m about to disappoint a pretty woman and, though there’s a first time for everything, this is not one of those firsts I will cherish.
“No.”
Her eyes widen. Then narrow to angry slits. “What? Why?”
“After this morning, I’m going to be on a wanted list. Wouldn’t be surprised if my handsome mug was circulating through every hospital, police station, and post office in the county and making every woman who sees it stop in their tracks and pray they get to be the lucky one to spot me.”
“You are insane. Take me to a hospital,” she says. “I do not want to die.”
Her voice is fading by the second and what little anger she had summoned up earlier is now nothing more than irritated pleading.
“I can’t,” I say. Then I stand up and lock my hands behind my head and start pacing. “But I will not let you die. I promise.”
“You’re not instilling me with much confidence, Blaze,” she says.
I ignore her. Keep pacing. Keep thinking. There’s no way I will let her die — as much as it pains me to admit it, I need her help if I’m going to save my mom from being evicted, or worse.
“I have an idea,” I say and then, rather than explain it and have to deal with her objections or smart alec remarks, I scoop her up into my arms and start carrying her outside.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re going for a ride.”
“So you can hasten my death? I’m not in any condition to be on your motorcycle. Call an ambulance.”
“I’m going to. Just not here.”
“What? Why?”
“Wanted list, remember? I still need a place to hide out and, if I call the paramedics here, I’ll have to find somewhere new. And I like this cabin, I have a lot of good memories here.”
She huffs. It’s weak, but she’s still got enough haughtiness to turn her nose up at me.
“So where are you going to take me?”
Still holding her, I open the cargo compartment on my bike and take out a length of cordage. Then I set her down, gently, and wrap the cord around her, take my place on the bike, and tie the same cord around my chest, securing her in place. There’s no way I’m letting this woman fall — she might be my only hope to get out of this mess.
“There’s a gas station a long ways back. Far enough they shouldn’t be able to trace me back here.”
“You’re going to leave me at a gas station? I could die of an infected foot at Bob’s Gas & Gulp?”
Taking her hand in mind, I give it a squeeze. “I won’t let you die. I promise you. Now, be quiet, I need to focus.”
Strange enough, she keeps her full lips closed. As the miles go slowly by and I ride with more focus than I’ve ridden in a long time just to keep from spilling the both of us on the highway, she leans into me. First, it’s light, just a gentle press of her tits against my back but, as time goes on, she’s leaning into me more and more. Harder. Until her weight is full against me, and I can feel the strength leaving her body. There’s not much time left.
“Hang on, Tiffany,” I mutter, my voice getting lost in the wind as we speed down the highway.
When we reach the gas station, I throw one hand behind me, clutching her by her ass and pressing her tight against my back as I stand up. She’s light and, though it’s awkward as hell grabbing her by her ass and having to keep my focus on saving her life instead of enjoying how plump her ass is, I get her off the bike and, after untying her, lay her gently down on the sidewalk next to the sliding door entrance to the gas station.
She opens two heavy-lidded eyes and smiles at me.
“We didn’t die.”
“Not yet. And not any time soon, either. I’m going to take care of you, Tiffany.”
“Just call the ambulance and go. I’ll be fine,” she says. Then Tiffany slumps, going limp for a second before regaining her consciousness and sitting back up straight. Gritting my teeth, I take another look at her foot.
It’s bad. And getting worse by the minute.
“This might be the first time in your life that you’ve heard this, but you look like shit.”
The sliding doors open and a guy in a Gas & Gulp shirt steps outside. He’s in his late thirties, with a patchy, red-fringed spot of baldness atop his head, a goatee that looks like it was taken from a shower drain, and an unjustifiably smarmy look on his face.
“You can’t go overdosing or whatever the hell you’re doing in my parking lot. So, buddy, you and your druggie whore need to get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”
I stand. Two steps gets me face to face with him. I look down into his beady brown eyes.
“Call her a whore again and I’ll rip your throat out,” I say. “She’s hurt. I need to use your phone.”
The man flinches and takes three steps back.
“I’m sorry, man. Phone’s behind the counter. Help yourself. Just please don’t hurt me.”
“Then keep your fucking mouth shut and go get her some water. Now.”
There’s a television mounted on the wall behind the register and it chatters at me as I pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1. I have a curt conversation with the operator; Gas & Gulp, injured woman, infected wound, hurry the fuck up, please and thank you.
I slam the phone down before she can tell me in her too-calm voice
