Chapter 35
Emmett
When Tristen can barely make it into the cab of the truck after helping me load a busted bike back into the bed without groaning in pain, I know he shouldn’t be driving.
But when we end up at a firehouse back in Barren Ridge, I’m even more shaky. Anxious.
Ready to run the other way.
There’s a grunt when he shifts to park and turns to look at me across the cab.
“I’m not going to apologize for fighting with Ashton. He deserved it, bubs. But I am sorry that you saw it and that it bothers you.”
My jaw flexes with the bite on my knuckle.
“No one deserves to be hurt, Tristen,” I whisper. “Especially just for something they said.”
“He was being really mean if that makes a difference.”
I shake my head. “People say all kinds of mean things.”
The breath he pulls is loud in the quiet of the cab only to end in a sharp whimper. “Fuck, I need to get inside.”
I nod, though I don’t know why, and grab the door handle to get out.
“Here, bubs.”
Stopping short of hopping down, I turn to find Tristen holding out the keys.
“What are these for?”
His brows meet in the middle. “So, you can get home?”
I stare at the offering, swallowing hard against the thickness that builds.
“I-I-I don’t … know … I can’t.”
Shaking my head, I push out of the cab and start walking toward the entrance we used last time we came here.
“Wait, bubs! What do you mean?” he calls after me and it’s not until I hear the crunch of gravel, the slam of the truck door, and his pained grunts getting closer that I stop.
He pinches the sleeve of my hoodie, and I jolt.
I shove my hands into the big pocket at the front of me when he tugs me around and looks at me with another scrunch to his brow.
“What do you mean?”
“I-I don’t know … how.”
His face falls and I think he finally gets it.
Allowing me behind the wheel is not a good idea.
I was never taught how to. No one ever cared enough to show me and now I’m terrified that I’ll wreck a vehicle that doesn’t belong to me. I shouldn’t be behind the wheel of anything.
“Okay, that’s—fuck. Okay, c’mon.” His arm wraps around my shoulder, and he tucks me into his side as we walk across the parking lot.
If he feels me jerk, he doesn’t say anything about it.
“I’ll see if someone is leaving that can take you.
Otherwise, you should be good to set up here for a while until I can take a break. ”
I blink into the brilliant fluorescent lights that take over my vision when Tristen opens the service door at the side of the building. A sudden flash has me flinching again, the accompanying wailing sound so loud that I turn into Tristen’s side and press one ear against him, covering the other.
“Tristen…”
His arm curls around me tighter. “Just give it a second, and it’ll be over.”
A whimper escapes me, and I swallow hard against the tears that build up behind my eyes as we walk farther into the building, the sound getting louder.
It makes my stomach turn.
The roar of an engine echoes in the space, the grinding of metal chains grating down to my bones.
“What is it?” I cry.
His hand migrates higher, pressing over the one I already have on my ear.
“The tone. The engines are leaving. Maybe the bus, too. Just another second.”
It cuts out, the resulting silence almost as piercing as the tone was, and I wiggle my hand just to hear the flex of pressure change.
He must take it as a sign to let me go because his hand drops down to my ribs and I wriggle away from the hold.
Stepping away from him, I suck back a breath in hopes of settling the nausea that rolls over my stomach.
“You need … um …” I swallow down the burning at the back of my throat and wrap my arms around my middle. “Like bandages and cleaner.”
I head toward the kitchen and start poking around the cabinets until Tristen’s chuckle, then subsequent hiss, has me stopping.
“You gonna patch me up, bubbles?”
He manages to make it sound … dirty, even though he’s clearly in pain.
My cheeks flame.
And it’s when I turn to look at him, really look at him, with his wild hair and deep irises, his tattooed throat and pierced nose, high cheekbones and square jaw, that all the blood registers.
There’s an older smear across his cheek that’s cracking and coated in dirt. A fresh red trail runs down his face over top of that, like his cheek busted open all over again. It runs down his neck and across his scarred brow. All over his shirt.
My stomach rolls.
I open my mouth to ask for the bathroom, but words are the last thing that come out.