Chapter 31 – Marlowe
Chapter Thirty-One
MARLOWE
Ipress down on the wound with all my strength, my hands soaked and slick with his blood. I’m kneeling over him in the backseat, my knees digging into his thick thighs, my arms shaking from the effort.
He doesn’t move. His eyes are shut, face pale, lips tinged gray.
“Come on,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Damian, stay with me. Please.”
He stays silent.
I adjust my grip and press harder, trying to remember anything I’ve ever learned about how to stop bleeding, which is abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
My adrenaline is spiking so high it’s making me nauseous.
“Go faster!” I yell at Bridger. “We have to get him to a hospital. He’s losing too much blood! ”
Bridger doesn’t say anything. He’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to tear it off, eyes locked on the road as the speedometer climbs.
Neve is in the front seat, her phone to her ear, voice low but urgent. “It’s bad. We’re like two minutes away. He’s out cold.”
I want to ask who she’s talking to. I want to know where we’re going.
But I’m too scared to open my mouth again in case I start screaming and don’t stop.
Damian shifts under me with a groan, his head lolling to the side, blood staining the collar of his shirt deeper.
I adjust the pressure and feel warm stickiness soaking through another layer.
“Please,” I whisper again. “Please don’t die.”
The SUV jerks as Bridger takes a sharp exit, tires squealing as we fly down a side road, then another, then onto a cracked, narrow path lined with chain-link fences.
No other cars. Just us. My heart hammers harder.
Buildings appear. Long and bricked. It looks like a strip mall full of stores. Bridger pulls around to the back of the last one. A security light flickers above its back door. Another car is already parked back here. A sleek, black Jaguar.
Bridger slams the SUV into park.
Before I can blink, the side door of the brick building opens and a man steps out. Tall. Broad shoulders. Clean cut. Too calm. Too put together for what this night has been. He moves like someone used to pressure. He opens the back door without a word and reaches for Damian.
Bridger meets him at open door and they move in sync, grabbing Damian by the shoulders and legs. They’ve done this before.
Before they lift him all the way out, Damian stirs. He blinks blearily, head rolling forward, eyes unfocused. “I can walk,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He shoves their hands off him, trying to stand, and instantly collapses. His knees buckle and he hits the pavement with a sickening thud.
I immediately start to cry.
Neve reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”
Bridger and the other man drop down beside him, grabbing his arms, calling his name, checking his pulse. And all I can do is sit frozen in the backseat, hands still coated in his blood, heart hammering in my chest.
Bridger’s voice barks through the open door. “Stay here!”
I freeze for a second, staring after him as he and the mystery man carry Damian’s limp body inside the brick building.
Neve turns toward me, then glances back at the SUV—toward the rear, toward the trunk, where Zero’s body lies, crumpled and unmoving.
“Yeah, no. I’m not staying in a car with a dead guy. Hell no,” I say, scrambling out of the SUV, scraping my palms against the broken glass.
Neve doesn’t argue. “Let’s go in,” she says, already walking toward the side door. “But stay out of their way. Okay?”
I nod, ready to follow her when something tugs at my thoughts: the bag of money. I spin on my heels, rush back to the SUV, and pull it out. The weight tugs on my shoulder as I jog toward the building.
Inside, it’s blinding. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bouncing off linoleum floors that smell strongly of bleach and something else.
Wet fur. It smells like wet dog.
A sharp bark comes from somewhere down the hall. I look at Neve. “Is that . . .?”
“Come on,” she says, gesturing for me to follow.
We walk down a long hallway lined with pictures of cats and dogs with cute slogans in cartoon fonts, paw prints painted along the baseboards.
“Are we in a . . .?” I start to ask, but lose my words when we pass an open door.
Inside, Damian is sitting upright on a metal table, half-leaning against the wall, his shirt folded up, bandages half-wrapped around his side.
His face is drawn tight with pain, but he’s alive.
His eyes focus on me the second I walk in.
I glance around the room. Dog crates stacked in the corners. Shelves of medical supplies. Posters about flea medication and heartworm prevention. “No way,” I whisper. “Is this a vet’s office?”
Damian barks out a short laugh, immediately wincing as he clutches his side. “Don’t make me laugh,” he mutters. “Seriously.”
“Don’t you need a people hospital?” I ask, glancing at the jars of dog treats and the oversized cartoon bone decal on the cabinet.
The man crouched next to Damian looks up, smiling calmly as he works on the wound. “He’ll be fine. It looks like a lot of blood, but it really isn’t.” He flicks a glance toward Damian’s pale, sweating face. “He just passed out because he’s a pussy.”
“Fuck you,” Damian mutters through clenched teeth. “When’s the last time you got shot?”
The guy barely looks up, still focused on Damian’s side with efficient, practiced fingers. “You know exactly when it was, asshole.”
I walk closer, trying to make out how badly he’s hurt, but of course I can’t tell anything. Cleaned of blood, the wound looks pretty small.
The man turns his head and smiles at me, all casual and warm despite the literal blood he’s working through. “Hello,” he says. “And who are you?”
“Lo,” I answer hesitantly.
He tilts his head, eyes twinkling a little. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lo. I’m Arden.”
“Don’t flirt with her,” Damian grunts.
Arden blinks, looking almost surprised. Then a slow smile curves his mouth. “But she’s so pretty,” Arden murmurs. “Hard not to flirt.”
Damian scowls, and Arden chuckles under his breath. He dips back down to Damian’s side and begins covering him up with gauze and bandages.
I look away, arms crossing over my chest, trying to ignore the way my heart’s suddenly doing weird things. Damian’s eyes are still locked on me. I can feel them burning, but I can’t bring myself to look back just yet.
The bag is still strapped to my shoulder.
It digs into my skin, and I realize I’ve been holding it so tight my fingers are cramping.
Actually, it’s more than my fingers that are cramping.
My stomach is too. My body feels foreign—too slow, like I’m stuck underwater, everything around me happening a half second before I can catch up.
I blink up at the wall and find a small clock ticking above a cabinet of dog vaccines and syringes. Midnight.
It’s midnight?
I haven’t slept. Not in…I don’t even know how long.
Bridger walks over to me, quietly, his eyes on the bag. I drop the strap off my shoulder and hand it over. “I didn’t want to just leave it in the truck,” I mutter, my mouth too dry, “with a dead guy.”
Bridger makes a face, already opening the bag to peek inside. “What’d you think the dead guy was going to do with it?”
The jab is meant to be a joke, but it turns my stomach more. I don’t laugh. I feel sick. Actually sick. My stomach rolls. My dress is ruined and I can still see Damian’s blood on my hands and under my fingernails. The tips of my hair are coated in it.
I’m thousands of miles from home.
And I don’t belong with these people. This isn’t my world.
The money might be back where it belongs.
But I’m not. And then it hits me—harder than any of it has all night.
Even if the money is where it belongs, even if Damian somehow doesn’t still hate me for what my father did, I still have to go back.
Back to New Jersey and the bakery.
Back to Vick, if he’s still alive.
Back to deal with Joel and Taylor. They know where I live.
They’ll never let me go. Joel will kill me eventually.
Or worse, they’ll keep pulling me in to play, again and again, until there’s nothing left of me.
The thought slams into me like a freight train.
My throat clenches. I turn away fast, spot a dented silver trash can near the exam table, and yank the lid off.
I barely make it in time. Everything comes up. Fruit Roll-Up. Sushi. Champagne. Fear. It hits hard and fast. My body folds in on itself until I’m done, gagging on nothing.
No one says anything. Neve moves like she might come closer, but I shake my head. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then slide down the wall until my ass hits the floor. And I sit there, knees drawn in, chest tight, pulse thudding in my ears, wishing I could just disappear.