Chapter 7 #2
I turn down another street, darker this time. Residential. Quiet. I’m close to my safe house, but my vision swims at the edges. Adrenaline’s crashing hard now, leaving nothing but pain and exhaustion.
“Pull over,” she says.
“No.”
“You’re going to pass out and crash this piece of shit, and then we’re both dead.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding all over my car seat, you moron.”
I grit my teeth. She’s right. I fucking hate that.
I ease the car to the curb, throw it in park. My hands shake when I pull them off the wheel.
She’s out of the car before I can say anything, circling around to my side. She yanks open the door.
“Move over,” she orders.
“What?”
“You heard me. Move. Over.”
I stare at her. This slip of a girl with a gun she knows how to use and zero fear in her eyes.
Something stirs in my chest. Something dangerous.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask again.
“Someone who doesn’t want to die next to you. Now move.”
I should shoot her. Leave her on the curb and drive away.
But I don’t.
I slide into the passenger seat, every muscle screaming. She takes the wheel, checks the mirrors, and pulls back onto the road like she does this every day.
“Where am I taking you?” she asks.
“My safe house. it’s just a mile up ahead.”
I point at the upcoming street. “Turn left there.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Just takes the turn smooth and controlled, like she’s been driving getaway cars her whole life.
My eyes want to close. I blink hard, force myself to focus. Can’t pass out. Not yet. Definitely not in front of her.
“You’re shaking,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. It’s not getting more convincing.”
I press my hand against my ribs, feel the wet warmth spreading there. Fuck. The road rash is bad, but there might be something worse underneath. A bullet wound maybe. Hard to tell right now.
She glances at me, and for a split second, something shifts in her expression. Not quite concern, but not indifference either.
“Which house?” she asks.
“Gray one. End of the block.”
She pulls up to the curb, kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. My ears are still ringing from gunfire.
I reach for the door handle, but my hand won’t cooperate. Fingers slipping, strength draining fast.
“Here.” She’s out and around to my side before I can protest.
When she opens the door, I nearly fall out. She catches me—or tries to. I’m twice her size, but she braces herself, gets a shoulder under my arm.
“Christ, you’re heavy,” she mutters.
“Thanks.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
We make it up the steps somehow. I fumble for my keys, drop them twice before she takes them from me.
“Which one?”
“Silver. No, the other—yeah, that one.”
She gets the door open, and we stumble inside. The place is dark, smells like dust and stale air. I haven’t been here in weeks.
She flips the light switch. Nothing happens.
“Fantastic,” she breathes.
“Breaker’s in the kitchen. Left cabinet.”
She helps me to the couch first, dumps me there roughly, then disappears. I hear her moving around, opening cabinets. A minute later, the lights flicker on.
She comes back, and I get my first clear look at her under the harsh overhead light.
Younger than I thought. Early twenties, maybe. Dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in days. A bruise on her jaw that’s a few days old, yellowing at the edges. And that scent—that fucking marshmallow scent that shouldn’t make my head spin the way it does.
“Take off your shirt,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Buy me dinner first.”
She doesn’t smile. “You need to see how bad it is. And I need to see if I’m about to watch you bleed out on this couch. If you do, maybe point me in the direction of where you keep your cash.”
I let out a harsh laugh that stings.
“You’re a thief huh?” I exhale with an exhausted smirk.
“Shirt off or die.”
I try to pull my shirt off, but my shoulder screams in protest. She sighs, steps closer, and helps me. Her fingers brush against my skin—cool, steady, that scent intensifies.
Marshmallows and something else underneath. Something warm.
Focus, Maksim.
She peels the fabric away carefully, and I hear her sharp intake of breath.
“Like the ink?” I manage, voice rough.
“You’ve got road rash from your shoulder to your elbow, and—” She leans closer, examining my ribs. “Yeah, that’s a bullet graze. Shallow, but you’re going to need stitches.”
She pauses, her cold fingers grazing lower. She sighs.
“You got hit.”
Fuck.
“No hospitals.”
“I heard you the first time.” She straightens, hands on her hips. “You got a first aid kit in this place?”
“Bathroom down the hall. Under the sink.”
She disappears again. I lean back against the couch, let my eyes close for just a second.
That’s when it hits me.
This girl’s in the life.
Has to be.
She comes back with the kit, sets it on the coffee table, and starts pulling out supplies. Antiseptic, gauze, medical tape. Her movements are efficient, practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
She doesn’t look up. “Haven’t we all?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Nope it’s not.”
She soaks a gauze pad in antiseptic and presses it to my shoulder without warning.
Fire explodes across my skin. I hiss through my teeth, fist clenching.
“Hold still,” she says.
“You could warn a guy.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m going to have to dig out that bullet,” I grit.
“I can do it.”
I still and watch her work. Eyes set in determination as she cleans my wounds.
“What’s your name?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Ayla. You got sutures in here for the graze?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on her face. There’s something about the way she moves—efficient, controlled, like she’s done this in worse conditions than my dusty safe house.
“Should be in there,” I say, gesturing to the kit with my chin.
She digs through it, pulls out the suture kit, and sets it beside the antiseptic. Her hands don’t shake. Not even a tremor.
Most people would be losing their shit right now.
“You’re calm,” I observe.
“Would you prefer I panic?” She threads the needle with ease.
“No. Just... interesting.”
She glances up at me, those dark eyes sharp. “Do you want a drink?”
“I mean maybe tomorrow night—”
“No.” She pours more antiseptic on a fresh gauze pad. “For before I cut into you.”
Oh.
She’s definitely not civilian.
“Who do you work for?” I ask, voice dropping low. Dangerous.
She meets my eyes without flinching. “Myself.”
“Bullshit.”
“Think what you want.” She presses the gauze to my ribs harder than necessary. I grunt. “But I’m just a girl trying to make rent, and your little gang war almost got me killed.”
“You had a gun in your glove compartment.”
“This is America. Everyone has a gun.”
“Not like that. You knew how to use it. You didn’t hesitate.”
She’s quiet for a moment, jaw working. Then she sets down the gauze and picks up a scalpel from the kit.
“Drink or not? Because this is going to hurt,” she says.
“I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure you have.” She positions the blade over the bullet wound. “Deep breath.”
I inhale.
She cuts.
Pain explodes white-hot through my side. I grip the couch cushion hard enough to tear the fabric, teeth grinding so hard I taste blood. But I don’t make a sound.
Won’t give her the satisfaction.
Her fingers work quickly, digging into the wound. I feel the pressure, the burn, the wrongness of it. Sweat breaks out across my forehead.
“Almost there.”
The scent of marshmallows mixed with my blood is making my head spin. Or maybe that’s the blood loss. Hard to tell.
“Got it.” She holds up the bullet, slick with blood, then drops it on the table. “You’re lucky. Half an inch to the left and I’d be dragging your body to the trash.”
“Lucky,” I repeat, voice rough.
She cleans the wound again, then starts stitching. Her hands are steady, movements precise. I watch her face, the concentration there, the slight furrow between her brows.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” I ask.
“The internet.”
I laugh, then immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my ribs.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Then don’t ask stupid questions.” She ties off the first stitch. “I learned because I had to. Same reason everyone learns anything in this life.”
There it is. Confirmation.
She’s in the life. Maybe not deep, but deep enough.
“The graze will be easier to stitch. I’ll do that then get out of here. You have anyone you want me to call?”
“Why were you parked there tonight?”
She ties off her stitch and begin to string a new one. “I needed a job.”
“Smash and Sugar?”
She nods.
“Big guy said there was no openings so I left. Then you opened my door.”
“What big guy? Ivan?”
“I didn’t ask his name,” she ties off the last suture. “Anyone you need me to call?”
I shake my head. My eyes heavy.
A job.
I don’t believe her.
I should get off this couch and snap her neck. Dump her body.
But I won’t.
Something about her makes me curious. Dangerously so.
“No one,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nods, packs up the first aid kit with the same efficiency she used to patch me up. Blood—my blood—stains her fingers, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“You should rest,” she says, standing. “Change those bandages in twelve hours. Keep the wounds clean. If you get a fever—”
“I know the drill.”
She heads for the door, and I watch her go. My lungs ache.
“Ayla,” I call out.
She stops, hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn around.
“I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do.” She glances back over her shoulder, and for a split second, I catch something in her expression. Vulnerability, maybe. Or exhaustion. “So I’m cashing in now. Don’t look for me.”