The Crash Course

1. Reese

1

REESE

It’s ten minutes past closing time, and I’m waiting for the group of obnoxious teenagers to leave so The Little Roast can finally close up for the night.

They’ve been here for hours, coasting on a five-dollar coffee purchase that they consumed and discarded long ago, using the Wi-Fi to look at God knows what.

The impatient side of me wants to clear my throat loudly and shoo them out with the crappy broom Mr. Auster has left in the supply closet. However, Rational Reese knows that it’s best to ask them politely to leave, again , for the twenty-third time tonight.

Mainly because Mr. Auster has a customer is always right policy. Any negative review will give that man an ulcer and have him unleash hell on the few employees masochistic enough to willingly stick around. Work is already unbearable enough as it is.

Thankfully, I’m on the way out myself. My two weeks’ notice has already been turned in. I need the paycheck, but life’s too short for me to subject myself to more verbal abuse from him.

I can work anywhere else. There are plenty of jobs on campus. I don’t have to put up with this. Especially not after he ignored my one request to not have me work the closing shift all by myself.

Still, I need Mr. Auster to give me a glowing recommendation for any future employment opportunities that I’m going to keep sweet for whatever time I have left here. Therefore, I stand there behind the counter and wait impatiently, dreading every minute that passes by as I mentally do the math and wonder if it’s still even possible to catch the bus back to my apartment.

Verdict: it is not .

I need them to leave, so I can count the register, clean up the cafe, and take out the trash—within the next ten minutes if I don’t want to miss the last bus. There’s a higher chance of Caleb Marsden barging through the door and confessing his unyielding love for me than me catching the bus tonight.

For a brief moment, I entertain the idea of Caleb, with his dreamy smile, telling me he thinks I’m swell. My brain is apparently on a thirties kick tonight, purposely obtuse to the fact that a cute frat guy like him would ever notice a girl like me.

A loud honk pulls me out of my daydream, my shoulders tensing at the sudden sound. The teenagers buzz with loud chatter as they all rush to collect their things, leaving behind a copious number of balled-up napkins and spitballs for me to clean up.

I quietly groan to myself as I lock the front door and double-check the padlock twice, then once more for good measure. I tug on the door from the inside, satisfied that it can’t be opened, and then get to work.

As I’m wiping down the tables, something rumbles in the distance and sets off a cascade of dog howls. The sound of squealing tires immediately follows. Loud. Deafening. Much closer than I expected, and I freeze in place like a spooked cat.

Vaguely registering the headlights shining brightly through the windows, the car guns past the cafe just then, going at least ten over the speed limit, rattling the glass, and launching my heart into the stratosphere.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve reminded myself the area is the safest place I’ve ever set foot in; my heart is still easily spooked.

With a slow and steady intake of breath, I do a cursory glance. Everything looks just clean enough that it might pass Mr. Auster’s ridiculous standards. Not wanting to stick around, I grab the bulky bag full of trash and dart to the back of the store.

Barely exiting the back door, my body staggers backward in surprise when I’m instantly met with blinding LED lights that would be fatal to vampires.

The trash bag slips out of my grasp. My hand flies to my mace clipped to the belt loop of my jeans. There’s a black car parked in the alleyway behind the store, its bright headlights aimed directly at me.

I’m beyond terrified. So afraid for my own life that it takes a long, long moment to register what’s happening just a few yards away from me. Beside the commercial dumpster, two men are kicking the crap out of the third one on the ground. His body is curled, his arms flanked above his head to shield himself from the ongoing onslaught.

My breath drags raggedly through my chest, panic seizing me the moment I see something glint in the dim streetlight.

“Stop it,” I choke out, the tremble in my words only outmatched by the tremor in my hands. “ Stop it .” My words are louder this time. Firmer. “ Please . Stop. Stop hurting him ! I’m calling 911 !”

Time expands before me as the crowbar clanks loudly against the asphalt, echoing through the alleyway. My throat constricts, a frisson of anxiety racing down my spine as my brain entertains the idea of what could have happened—of what was just averted.

I barely tear my gaze away from the metal bar, scuttling backward as the car bulldozes past me, whipping my hair violently across my face.

The heat of the vehicle is still warm on my skin as I let out a shaky exhale, spitting the strands of hair out of my mouth. A split second later, my hands land on my knees as I bend over, trying to get ahold of myself to no avail.

That could have been bad. So, so bad. My stomach churns, more tears filling my eyes when I tense at a sudden noise— a sluggish groan . One that sends my heart plummeting like an anchor in the fathomless sea. Renewed terror and adrenaline course through my veins as I lift my head and look over. My knees almost give out on me when I see him still curled up on the ground.

Making haste, I skirt around the bag of spilled trash and nearly trip over what appears to be a bashed-in helmet, sprinting toward the dumpster while fishing my phone out of my pocket.

“Are you all right?” Such a dumb question to ask . I toggle my phone’s flashlight on, and my grip slackens when the light illuminates his face.

Blood. So much blood . So many bruises . Oh God .

Acid burns in my throat. My vision blurs at the edges, more dread creeping up my spine as my gaze cuts to his eyes. “Let me call 91?—”

“No,” he wheezes before he turns over and coughs, spraying droplets of blood across the black concrete.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

More panic catches hold of my breath as images of that one terrifying night flicker into my head. My eyes screw shut as I remind myself to focus. To stay in the present. To stop panicking. To fucking get it together and fucking help him out.

“I’m fine,” he spits out.

I blanch as he wipes his bloodied lip with the pad of his thumb, and I swallow hard. “You’re hurt.”

“Just a scratch,” he grunts. His movement is painstakingly sluggish as he pushes himself up. His hand smacks against the dumpster for purchase while he slowly rises to his feet. “See?”

Just a scratch? Just a scratch ?

I’m barely keeping it together as I stare at him incredulously, taking inventory of what I can make out in the near dark that’s not just a scratch. His torn white shirt. His blue jeans grimy with dirt. The dark bruises peeking through the ripped fabric when my phone’s flashlight shines over his torso.

A cold sense of dismay washes over me when the beam of light lands on the stained collar of his shirt.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, but I almost don’t hear him. All I see for a moment is an unshakable image of him lying flat on his back, blood gurgling out of his mouth, clutching desperately at his bleeding neck.

The sound of shattered glass repeats in my ears like a broken record.

It takes all my conscious effort to remind myself that we’re in the alleyway. There’s no shattered glass in sight. He’s not bleeding to death. He wasn’t choking on his blood. What I’m imagining isn’t real. Everything will be okay.

It does little to halt the ball of distress forming deep in my chest, especially when I see blood seeping through his tattered shirt. My fingers tighten around my phone as an icy shiver races down my spine.

Silently urging myself to remain calm now and panic the fuck out later when I’m in the safety of my apartment, I shudder out a quiet breath. “I have first aid.”

Or rather, the cafe does, but I don’t think now is the appropriate time to bring up semantics. I half expect him to decline, to play it off, if anything, so I’m surprised when he nods.

“Don’t call 911,” he wheezes.

“Okay,” I whisper back. Gesturing ahead, I take one careful step, keeping an eye on him to see if he’ll follow. If he can follow.

His hand moves from the dumpster, and in a heartbeat, his body nearly crumples to the ground. Within seconds, I’m at his side, tucking myself under his arm and supporting his weight the best I can.

The guy is so much taller than my five-one frame that I’m struggling to keep him upright. A foot taller, at least. Every muscle in my body burns in protest as I shoulder his weight. There’s a tightness to my jaw as I grit my teeth and focus on bringing him inside without the both of us falling and face-planting.

Somehow, we manage to cross the threshold. It’s nothing short of a miracle. He untangles himself from me and staggers against the wall, panting heavily as he clutches his side and leans his head back.

I flick all the lights on, lock the back door, triple-check it in case his friends decide to come back for him—check once more for good measure—and frantically sprint toward the supply closet.

Then I rush back, spilling an armful of clean towels and first aid onto a nearby counter.

“This is going to sting,” I warn, running a clean towel under cold water. I turn to face him, and I’m stock-still as the gravity of this situation hits me all at once.

Get it together now , freak the fuck out later .

“Can’t be worse than this.” His words are a harsh, gritty whisper as his eyes fall shut.

Steeling myself, I press the wet towel to a bloody laceration on his face, trepidation filling my every vein when he expels a low hiss. Besides a few groans here and there, he’s silent while his body shakes before me.

There’s a burning ache in my calves as I remain on my tiptoes, tending to every wound on his face I come across. God . There are so many .

“You go to Belford?” he mumbles, his breathing still ragged. Heavy.

I lift my head to see his pale blue eyes looking at my baseball cap. There’s a limp strand of hair in his right eye, and my fingers are twice as gentle when I brush it to the side.

“Yes,” I respond, swallowing the bile creeping up my throat when my line of sight catches the faint smudge of crimson on the corner of his lips.

I avert my gaze and try to focus on something more positive—anything to keep me distracted from the recurring imagery of shattered glass playing in my head.

Replacing the bloodied towel with a fresh one, I wait until my hands stop trembling to face him again. “Now, take off your shirt.”

He huffs a low, gritty scoff. “Without buying me dinner first?”

Maybe he’s trying to be cheeky, but his attempt is thwarted when he staggers before me. A humorless chuckle rumbles from his chest as he struggles to tear his shirt off—his arms too stiff, his movements too awkward.

Once rid of his shirt, he leans back, his face marred with overexertion, and clenches his jaw tight.

He doesn’t make another cheeky comment, just a rough exhale as I clean up every inch of dried blood I catch sight of. It requires every ounce of sheer willpower to keep my hands from shaking with each wound I find.

“Do you go to Belford?” Small talk isn’t my thing, but we could both use a distraction.

He lets out a snort.

“No?” I guess, pulling my head back to peer at his face. The limp strand of hair is back in his eyes.

He hitches a shoulder, a look of regret crossing his profile a split second later. His hand lifts to the junction of his neck and shoulder as an inaudible hiss expels between his busted lips. “Yes.”

“Have you heard about the car wash?” I whisper, returning my attention to the array of bruises alongside his ribs.

Plenty of cuts—both fresh and old ones, by the looks of it—pepper his lower torso. My throat goes painfully dry. There’s only so much I can do.

“Maybe we should report this?—”

“No,” he cuts in bluntly.

“—to the campus police,” I finish, furrowing my brows.

“No,” he repeats, gritting his teeth again when I dress one of his cuts. “No fucking way. Does it. Look like. We’re. On campus?” he bites out. “ Fuck !”

I finally remove the damp cloth and force my eyes to meet his, hoping that my face is calmer externally than I am internally. “You should go to the hospital.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insists, breathing hard through his nose.

“No insurance?” I guess.

He grumbles something too low for me to hear. I’m going to assume yes. I know how expensive medical bills are, so I can’t fault him for wanting to avoid being saddled with debt.

“How far do you live from here?” When I see the distrust glinting in his eyes, I quickly tack on, “I don’t want you bleeding out in the middle of the street before you get there.”

He says nothing. Awkward silence swells in the small space between us.

I know I should finish patching him up the best I can. Get home and barricade myself in my apartment. Instead, my gaze continues to hold his as my concern, genuine and palpable, grows exponentially with each waking second.

His eyes shut, the lines of his face twisting into something solemn. A weary sigh sounds deep from his chest. “Antarctica.”

Disbelief spears me as I splutter. “Please just tell me.”

I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if I know you’re not going to be okay . The words linger on my tongue as I stare pleadingly into his eyes.

“I’m not telling you jack sh—” An abrupt hiss escapes him, and he extends his elbow toward me as if he’s trying to ward me off. “I can manage.”

It takes a moment for me to realize I’ve inched closer. Blinking, I take a step back. “You can’t even stand properly.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, but the rough-hewn notes of his voice betray him. “Just need a minute.”

“Maybe we should call an Uber.”

“I have my bike,” he protests.

“I don’t think it’s wise to pedal that far?—”

“A motorbike,” he clarifies with an agonized chuckle. “ Motorcycle .”

“Oh.” My cheeks scald with embarrassment. “But still. I don’t think it’s safe to operate a vehicle when you’re seconds away from death.”

“Seconds away from death?” He scoffs. “What do you suggest I should do with the last few seconds left of my life, oh wise one? Walk my ass home?”

There’s a sharp sting to my eyes that I blink away.

He almost got beaten to death with a crowbar , I remind myself. Of course, he’s not going to be in a friendly sort of mood.

Swallowing hard, I plaster an easygoing smile across my lips. “Uber home?—”

“Don’t think any driver would let me in their car with this going on.” His hand gestures to his face in a slow, circular motion.

“Call a friend to pick you up?”

“He’s not back until tomorrow.”

“Do you know anyone nearby?—”

“Here?” Even in his battered state, he manages to sound appalled. “Fuck no.”

“This area isn’t bad,” I quietly protest. “My place is nice.”

He makes a disbelieving noise. “Are you suggesting that I crash at your place?”

“What?” Now I sound appalled. The idea of letting a strange guy—fellow Belford student or not—crash at my apartment is possibly the most reckless and dumbest thing to do.

The rational side of me knows that.

However, the bleeding-heart side of me is already rationalizing that he can take the futon, and I can take his keys as insurance he won’t do anything risky in his current state. Or try anything.

Damn my soft heart. It’s going to lead me into a whole lot of trouble.

“That’s not a no,” he says, and, again, damn my soft heart. It ignores every sound reason in my head, folding so easily like a flimsy house of cards.

“ If ,” I say slowly, holding his gaze, “you give me your bike’s keys.”

“Deal,” he replies, lifting a finger a split second later. His upper body twists as he coughs into his forearm. When he looks my way again, his chest hitches, a heavy weariness already settling across his features.

“I don’t live that far from here. It’s a ten, maybe fifteen-minute walk.” It’s a much faster and safer bus ride, but I know that ship has sailed. “You can lock your bike in the storage area.”

The commercial dumpster is usually locked in a fenced-off area to keep random people from throwing away bulky trash. It’s probably for the best to leave the motorcycle here rather than try to bring it back to my place when he can barely stand without finding himself on the brink of collapsing every few minutes.

His mouth curves into something harsh. I brace myself when he shuts his eyes. “I’ll leave my bike.”

I blink, momentarily stunned. “Okay. Let me close up the cafe.” I nearly groan when I remember the trash I’ve dropped outside, my reluctance to step out in that alleyway twofold. My two weeks’ notice couldn’t have come sooner enough. “And deal with the trash. Then you can crash at my place.”

“Sounds good,” he says. I glance in his direction once more, take in the sight of him wheezing into the crook of his arm, and hope that I’m not about to make the gravest mistake of my life.