“N-n-noooo,” she breathed, her blood galloping through her veins, her poor head about to explode, even as Tripp took her to the ground with him. The second her butt hit the curb, she took her hand back, crossed her arms over her knees, and buried her face in her shirtsleeves, mortified. It was happening again, and she was an idiot for thinking she could be brave. She should’ve stayed home, where she was safe.
“I hate you,” she murmured.
“That’s okay,” Tripp answered easily. “I hate me too somedays. Like right now. Sure sorry I made you freak out. I press too hard sometimes, but I’m a guy, and I was Army. I’m used to giving orders, and I talk too much when I’m nervous, but you scared the shit out of me. I’m sorry. Take all the time you—”
“I was talking to myself,” she interrupted, dizzy as heck, but not going to pass out. Not out here on the street, darn it. That would only put her at more risk. “Me. I hate me. That I can’t do what I want to do when I want to do it. That… That this… I hate this. No matter how hard I try, I still end up making a fool of myself!”
Great, now she was on her way to full-blown hysteria. With Tripp’s arm securely around both shoulders, she turned spineless. There was no longer any choice. She couldn’t hold herself upright. Right on schedule, the tears drenching her face dripped off her nose. Then her chin. What a loser he must think she was. She wished the ground would swallow her whole.
Just that fast, Mother Earth complied. Ashley’s heart stopped pounding. Everything turned black, as she collapsed into a puddle of nothingness.
A whispered, “Oh, fu-u-udge,” breathed out of her.
Chapter Nine
“Ashley. Ashley!” Tripp anchored his arm under her and cupped the back of her head. She’d passed out. Shit!
“I’m so damned sorry,” he said as he hit the remote on his key fob to lock his truck. Lifting Ashley’s hair out of his way with his free hand, he searched for a medical alert dog tag around her neck that would explain her passing out. Finding nothing, he dug one-handed into her bag, hoping she carried an inhaler or something. Instead, he came up with that same cylinder of mace from Friday night. She probably carried it everywhere with her. That was why the bag. Great. She really didn’t think much of him, did she? He’d deal with that bullshit later.
Damn Trish for being a flaming ass all the time! This was her fault. But he couldn’t just sit around and wait until Ashley came to. Balancing her limp body against him with one hand at her back, Tripp situated her bag onto her stomach with his other hand. Then, easing an arm under her knees, he lifted to his feet and pulled her up with him. At the apartment complex entry, he paused long enough to dig his wallet out of his rear pocket, then waved it over the scanner, letting it detect the embedded code that allowed entry. After the door opened, he maneuvered Ashley carefully into the empty lobby. In several quick steps, they were inside the elevator on their way to the fourth floor.
“Faster,” he urged the slower than shit contraption, watching the indicator light over the door blink at a snail’s pace as it passed the second level and headed to third. Finally, the door opened on his floor. With long, urgent strides, Tripp strode past Ashley’s place to his, sure that once he got her lying flat on her back on his couch, her lungs would relax, and she’d come to. Most people fainted from simple lack of oxygen. He kept his A/C set on low. The cooler air should help, too.
With Ashley still out cold and limp in his arms, he flashed his keycard at his apartment door’s reader. The instant the lock disengaged, he kicked the door open and angled her into what was probably the last place on Earth she wanted to be. His place.
Butt-bumping the door shut, he crossed his living room to the couch and gently laid her down. Carefully, he lifted her head and finagled the strap to her bag out from under her hair. He set the bag beside the couch, within reach if she thought she needed to mace him when she came to.
His mom had stress-crocheted like a maniac while he’d been deployed. As a result, he had thick, plush afghans to spare. Tugging the camouflage-colored one with the black fringe off the back of his couch, he covered Ashley with it, in case the cooler air was too much. Then, carefully lifting her head, he eased another smaller, folded afghan under her for a pillow. She hadn’t banged her head when she’d fallen, and she hadn’t had a seizure. That much was good. But she might have a concussion. She’d been attacked only days ago, and she should still be at home resting, and—
Shit, this was all his fault. Blowing out a gut full of regret for being deaf, dumb, and blind to her panic attack, Tripp made a quick pass through his apartment to conceal anything that might connect him to his nighttime job. Finding nothing incriminating, other than dirty black clothes, which he had in abundance, he folded his long legs and sat on the floor, facing his unwilling houseguest.
Man, she was pretty, so innocent-looking when she was asleep. This woman was a hundred pounds, maybe. A little over five feet tall, but not by much. Peaches and cream skin. No freckles. No scars. No tattoos. No wrinkles. The laugh lines radiating out from the corners of her closed eyes didn’t count. Glossy, straight black hair, and the bluest eyes. Not just blue, but dark, sparkling blue. Like sapphires in sunlight, they shone when she smiled.
