22. Reaper
22
I wake up to the sensation of falling, barely catching myself before rolling off the platform and into the fucking river. Jesus.
The river's still rushing by, not looking any more inviting. Mila’s asleep next to me, wearing nothing but my t-shirt and using some of our less damp clothes to soften the concrete bed. Her sexy as fuck ass is peeking out of the bottom of the shirt, and I can’t resist the temptation to run a hand over her soft skin. Daylight gone, the doubts creep in. As confident as I sounded last night that the others will find us, I can't rule out that it might take a while. Even if Mack and Scrapper made it back to the club, they might not have seen what happened. If they think we were grabbed, they could be chasing the wrong lead.
Mila's hip is hot under my palm. She doesn’t wake up when I touch her, but she makes restless, unhappy little noises. Bad dream, maybe? She coughs, and it rattles deep in her throat.
Fuck. Feels like a fever, and that’s the last thing we fucking need out here.
She opens her bleary eyes and frowns at me. “I don't feel good,” she moans, and not in the way I like to hear.
“I know. How bad is it?”
“My chest is on fire. I feel like I'm burning up, and I'm cold, and ugh. I can't even decide.” She looks around as much as she can without lifting her head. “Still stuck, huh? I was”—she winces before starting again—”I was hoping that was a dream.”
“Sorry. I’m doing my best to—what do they call it?—manifest a boat, but no luck so far.” I grab her much smaller shirt and dip it in the water. I'd rather have a faucet that’s clean, but she needs cooling down. I fold it up. “Put this on your forehead. Try to cool you down a little.”
“That was my shirt. You just want to keep me naked,” she mumbles, but she obeys.
“Girl, you're not wrong, but that's not what this is about. I'll fuck you silly when you're well again and we have a bed, but for now you just do what I fucking tell you.”
“Ooo, you're being bossy. Maybe I like that.” She’s grumpy and not feeling good, but I appreciate that there's a little spirit left in her. She's not the kind to break easy, but fuck, this is a far from ideal situation.
I look at the water, considering my chances. If I can get to shore, I can find help. The only reason we’re doing as well as we are is because it’s summer, but with no food and only polluted, muddy river water to drink, we aren’t going to get any stronger than we are right now. I told her the club wouldn’t stop until they find us, and I still believe it, but there are a lot of variables that could mean it takes too fucking long. The memory of getting tossed around like driftwood in the river is still fresh and the bank looks impossibly far away, but I think I have a decent shot at making it.
But it'd mean leaving her here, and that thought fucking kills me. It sounds like she got dirty water in her lungs and her body’s fighting with everything it's got. Fevered and alone in the middle of a river sounds like fucking hell to me. And what if she rolls into the fucking water?
What if the cough gets worse and the fever fries her brain while I just fucking sit here? I'm not a fucking doctor and without a phone, I can't even call Doc or Emily.
Damned if I do, damned if I fucking don't.
“You still in there?”
It takes a moment, but she nods, then winces like she regrets it immediately. “My brain hurts,” she moans. “Everything hurts.”
Fuck.
“Mila, I need you to listen to me.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I'm here.”
“You need help.”
For just a short moment, her lips curl into the tiniest of smiles. “No shit,” she mumbles.
I draw a deep breath, not liking what I have to say. “I need to get you help.”
Her eyes shoot open at that and she peers at me. “No! You can’t leave me alone! You said you wouldn’t!”
My heart fucking breaks. “I know, baby. I fucking know. I don't wanna fucking do this either, but I’m still feeling pretty good. If I wait, and you get worse, my chances will be lower because I’ll be weaker. Not an option. I’m not asking for permission to try, but I wanna make sure you understand what's happening. I don't want you to be scared.”
She wets her lips, then nods. “I understand. I hate it, but I understand.”
Part of me wants her to break down, to convince me to stay. I'm not afraid of the fucking river. I survived it once. I'll do it again, but I don't wanna leave her here. The thought of her afraid and alone stabs me right through the fucking heart. I pick up my jacket. “Here, this is mostly dry. Keep it over you, and stay as far from the edge as you can. I'm gonna find help, and get you the hell outta here.”
She nods, very gently. “I believe you.”
Her trust humbles me.
I briefly look over my boots and the rest of my clothes. Half of it is somewhere between soaked and damp, and all of it’s going to be deadweight in the water. I pick up my boxers, and drop 'em again. They hit the concrete with a sloppy thud. Oh well. Not the first time in my life I've had my dick out.
Looking over at Mila makes me wanna say something I've never had the urge to fucking say to anyone before, but I pick something a little more neutral. “I'm gonna be back for you, girl. I fucking promise.”
“I know,” she mutters, eyes still closed.
I nod. Then I turn and dive into the cold water.
It sucks. I could go on about how fucking cold it is, how the water tastes like muddy shit, and how I tore a nasty gash in my shin against who the fuck knows what, but by letting the current carry me when it’s strong, and swimming hard when it lets up, I finally manage to get to the bank probably a mile down from where I went in. I pull myself up through the rocks and mud like a fucking swamp monster. The muck on the bottom sucks at my feet, and I want to shower for a week.
A woman screams. She’s clutching her phone and holding the handle of a baby carriage. “D—Do you need help?”
I look down at myself in all my muddy glory and put a hand over my junk. “Your phone. I need to borrow it.”
Her eyes are as big as dinner plates. From the look on her face, she can’t quite decide how to feel about her view. I get it. I know what I've got. “You… you're?—”
“I fucking know, okay? This isn’t my best morning either. Just throw it over.”
She does, along with a travel pack of baby wipes.
I debate who to call. Eagle-eye or King—our VP—would make the most sense, but I gotta know.
“Who the fuck is this? If you have them, I’m gonna?—”
A breath I didn’t know I was holding, finally releases. “Mack, it’s me.”