Chapter 3
Tristen
Everything hurts .
The scratch of my eyes when I fight the puffy lids open sends a shock of pain straight to my brain.
“Ouch,” I grumble through a crack and squeeze them closed again.
My throat is dry and aching, my limbs burning, pits damp.
“C’mon, bro. It’s been twelve hours.”
Huffing at the hollering on the other side of my door, I groan and force myself to roll over, swiping the sweat from my forehead as I go.
The ceiling stares back at me when I finally crack open an eye and blink through the fog.
It’s dark and looming, cast in shadows that make my already tight chest twist up.
Oh, fuck, it’s dark out.
Scrambling across the bed, my foot gets caught in the twisted-up sheet and my heart pounds hard behind my ribs. Reaching long, I slam around on the milk crate I’m using as a nightstand until I hit the touch lamp and light up my room in a warm glow.
My breath rushes, filling my chest with relief as I squeeze my eyes closed and tap my forehead on my closed fist against the bed.
“Teeeeeeen, it’s Winchester time,” Hatley calls on the other side of my door, and I puff up my cheeks.
“Coming,” I croak out, then try again when he just pounds on the door. “Coming.”
It takes some time to sit myself up, to regulate my breathing and get my bare feet on the floor. The cool hardwood is like a shock beneath my soles, the snap of chill running up my legs and pulling me to its surface.
I drag in a deep breath, the first in way too long, and stand.
Knees pop and my spine cracks.
Even my hip clicks when I take the first step.
Blowing out all the air in my lungs, I snag a white shirt from the random chair in the corner that’s just there to collect not-dirty clothes and shrug it on.
The lights are dimmed but on when I step around the creaking boards into the living room and pass Hatley sitting comfortably on the couch with a person in his lap.
Shaking my head, I follow the glow of the light we keep on over the kitchen sink to fill a glass from the tap.
It goes down smoothly and quickly enough for me to fill it a second time.
Then a third.
The soft groan from the other room has me bracing against the sink, palms digging into the metal. My head hangs on my shoulders when there’s another sound I’d rather not hearing coming from my best friend.
“Dude,” I say to the drain. “Rule number three.”
“What’d you say, man?” The husk to his voice has me rolling my eyes and pushing off from the sink.
I don’t look when I make it to the living room and plop into the far end of the couch.
“Rule three.”
“Right,” Hat mumbles, then clears his throat. “My bad.”
“What’s rule three?” his guest asks, the voice a deeper bravado than I was expecting as he slides mostly off my best friend’s lap.
“No fucking in shared spaces,” I answer when Hat is too quiet. “Why’d you call me out here if you were just gonna make out with …” I gesture in the general vicinity, my eyes glued on the TV as I snag the remote.
“Lemon. My name’s Lemon.”
I’ve been trying to give them privacy. And not scar myself for life by seeing something I’m not meant to see.
But when the guy says a literal fruit for a name, I can’t stop my head from snapping their direction.
“The fuck?” Hatley’s brow furrows at my reaction, but his buddy just giggles. “What kind of name is that?”
Lemon arches up and settles back in Hat’s lap, reaching across the empty cushion between us. “A nickname, hunny bunny. You must be Tristen?”
I shake his dainty hand, not missing the fact that his nails are painted black, and nod.
He’s small. Thin. Got wispy black hair that falls over his brown eyes and an innocence about him that has my eyes narrowing.
“And how old are you, Lemon?”
“Okay, now,” Hatley finally cuts in and throws me a look from behind his lap partner. His hand is wrapped around Lemon’s waist, his other settled high on a knee and something in my chest pinches.
Not in a bad way. I trust my best friend.
But … in enough of a way that I rub at the yearning behind it.
“Just lookin’ out, bro,” I say to Hat then turn to Lemon. “ID.”
“Sometimes, I love being a twink,” he answers and gestures to the table with a grin. “It’s already out.”
“Told you he’d ask.”
I huff and snag the plastic from the ring-littered coffee table. Flick the corners. Hold it up to the light. Double check all the dates and printing to make sure it’s not a fucking fake.
It’s not. The guy is literally older than me.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Are we watching this shit or what?”
“After you make some damn popcorn.”
Grumbling, I queue up Supernatural on the TV, then drag my tired ass back into the kitchen.
I don’t even realize I’ve zoned out in front of the microwave until the first pop makes me jump. Clearing my throat, I rub my chest and blink at the mesh inside the door. The bag goes round and round along with my thoughts.
What kind of name is Lemon?
It’s the exact opposite of what he looks like. All dark wrapping with the nails, the eyes, the hair. Almost like a yin and yang thing going on.
The popping in front of my face intensifies and I give another twitch.
I wonder what color his eyes were.
I rear back from the visual my own head throws my way, its picture filled with blond hair and pale skin that carried a darkness beyond anything the eyes could see, but the knowing could feel.
An aura that screamed hard nights and even gloomier days.
Dragging in a sharp breath, I snatch open the microwave before it ends and just stare at the puffed bag of popcorn sizzling inside.
I never think about a patient after hours.
That shit gets left back at the firehouse when I strip off the uniform and shower the grit of a shitty day from my skin.
But there was something about him that’s got me unsettled.
Is he still as alone as he was on that bathroom floor?
“Bro,” Hatley calls out. “You don’t have to grow and dry the corn yourself. C’mon.”
“C-coming!”
Snagging the still hot bag, I divide it between two bowls and find my way back to the far end of the couch.
The show has started and though I normally love watching the creatures and myths the Winchester brothers chase, I find that my mind keeps wandering.
Spinning. Floating away from Dean’s version of a blue-steel effect to a lithe body lying limp on my gurney.
What color are his fucking eyes?
And worse than that …
Did he fucking make it or give up?
I suck in a breath when the credits roll, and Hat reaches blindly for the remote to start the next episode.
He’s not even watching it; his face is buried in his friend’s neck.
I need to know.
It’s the last thing I should do, yet I can’t stop this spiral that’s got me pushing to my feet. Abandoning my full bowl on the coffee table and heading back to my room. Switching my sweats for jeans, filling my pockets, and grabbing my leather jacket.
“I’m heading out,” I announce to Lemon’s back because apparently me vacating the couch opened it up to straddling my bestie. “Wear a fucking condom and don’t mess up the couch.”
Hat grumbles something that sounds too close to a moan and I’m carrying my boots out the door with me before I hear anymore.
“Love you, too!” he calls through the thin walls after I slam the door closed and drop my boots on the porch to step into them.
I’m rolling my eyes as I palm my keys, huffing as I sidestep the truck from work taking up the driveway and sidle up next to my bike.
It’s an almost street-legal dirt bike with the license plate hammered around the tail and a plexiglass windshield that’s been zip tied on.
But it’s a smooth dark green, rides like a rough dream, and I won it in a race when some dumb rich kid bet his pink slips for it.
The gas gauge screams that it’s almost on eat shit when I pull into the hospital parking lot and kill the engine before walking us into a spot closer to the ER. With the bike perched and my helmet secured, I walk beneath the emergency sign, only to pause at the glass doors.
You don’t go past the glass.
I understand the logic behind the unwritten rule.
That this has to be just a job in order for us to keep moving.
To stay vigilant for the next one. To keep our heads screwed on tight and not get attached or distracted.
But right now, I’m not on duty. Not even sure I’ll ever be back to cover the streets of Barren Ridge and there’s something about him that felt too real.
Too close to home.
Blowing out a breath, I push away my trainer’s words and step inside.
I need to know if he made it.