Chapter 2 Anna
TWO
ANNA
“Shit! Damn. Ouch!” I bang my elbow against my car door and struggle under Dean’s at least two hundred pounds.
He’s the muscular kind of heavy. The has-an-at-home-gym kind.
And for right now, he’s only about ten percent lucid, which leaves me carrying ninety percent of his heft.
“Mr. Warner? Dean?” I drag his feet out of my car, place his boots on my snow-covered driveway, and straddle his thick thighs.
He lies across my backseat, his body twisted to make my two-door access workable.
He’s soaked to the bone after his nap in the snow, and bruises continue to sprout with each minute we place between our collision and now.
God. I’m totally going to prison!
I dig my arms under his broad body and drag him closer. “You don’t get to declare no hospital, then force me to carry you the whole time. I need your help!”
He wraps his arms around my shoulders and yanks me down.
I land against his chest with a grunt, push up until my back strains under his load, and ignore the incessant vibration of my phone in the front seat.
“Dean!” I smack his ribs—bad Anna!—and try again.
“I need you to work with me, dude. I can’t carry you on my own, and if we stay in my yard much longer, the cops are gonna come by. I’m serious—”
He drives me back with a hand on my shoulder, wiggles out from his awkward S-shaped position in the back, and surges to his feet. Spinning with a groan and pressing his good arm to the roof of my car, he sways dangerously to the left.
“O-okay.” I step in his way and provide a bookend for him to lean against. “Good. We’re out.” I glance along the street and spy Mel’s front door just three houses down. The porch light is still on, and Nick’s old-as-Eve truck sits on the road. Then I peek the other way.
The local cops patrol our street every damn night, cruising through the dark like clockwork, and Jesus-take-the-wheel, I just know it’s about that time of the evening. If they catch us out here, they’re gonna ask who Dean is. After that, they’ll ask why he looks like he’s been hit by a car.
Because he was!
“You’re doing great. Come on.” I grab his hips and carefully pull him away from the car. Sliding under his good arm, I take his weight and risk a hernia. Maybe deviated discs in my back. “Let’s get you inside. Maybe take an ibuprofen or something.”
Yeah. That’ll fix it.
“Why were you walking in the street, anyway?”
He licks his lips, dazed and green-skinned as we stumble through my front yard and onto my porch steps. I grab onto the railing, desperately clinging to the rickety wood, and bring us up together.
“The snow destroys visibility, Mr. Warner. It’s dark out.
It’s Friday night, so folks are tired and hardly paying attention.
” I carry the dude to the very top step and release the railing for one perilous second to tuck my hair out of my eyes.
In that time, Dean’s frame tilts, and his knees turn weak.
“Shit!” I grab the rail and cling on for dear life.
“This was a bad idea. Terrible idea!” I limp onto the porch and drag him across the wooden surface.
Arriving at my door, I push his broad back against the wall, pinning him there with my shoulder pressed to his chest.
It’s not a great system. But it’s a system.
“If you can’t even stand on your own, then we really should head to the hospital.
” I jam my thumb against the keypad on my hundred-and-ninety-nine-dollar fancy-pants doorknob, unlocking it with a beep and flashing green lights, then I slide under Dean’s weight again and trudge through the door.
“You’re not cognitively capable of making sound decisions right now, Mr. Warner, which means your request not to call an ambulance becomes moot.
Therefore, bringing you to my house is akin to kidnapping. ”
“Jesus,” he drawls, the word turning to a slurring lisp. “What are you? A lawyer?”
“Yes, actually.” I slap my living room lights on and kick my door closed. The locks re-engage with a satisfying buzz. “I am a lawyer, and the law says bringing you here is a freakin’ crime!”
I huff under his weight, walking us three-legged-style toward my couch. I bang my shin on the coffee table, hissing as pain radiates up through my leg, then I swear something pops in my back as I tilt forward and not-so-carefully slide out from beneath his arm.
He falls onto the sofa with a grunt, his chin hitting his chest and his bad shoulder slouching forward. He remains sitting up for all of three seconds, then he tips to the side and grunts.
“This is a really, really bad plan, Mr. Warner. Traffic incidents like ours must be reported to the police. By failing to do so—”
“I’m the victim in this instance.” He closes his eyes and releases a long, pained groan. “Hitting others and not reporting it is bad, but since I’m the one who was hit, I get to decide if we call the cops.”
“Mister W—”
“Just call me Dean.” He blindly snags a cushion and smushes it under his cheek. “Mr. Warner was my father, and he beat my mom way too often for me to like that name.”
“He—” Stunned, I snap my lips closed and study the fresh new bruises coloring his jaw.
His nose. His eye socket on the left side.
Oh God. Is that where his face hit my car?
His torso remains wrapped in his thick jacket, but his left shoulder hurts more than anything else.
His left leg. His left foot. “Y-you don’t want to go to the hospital because your dad hurt your mom? ”
He scoffs. “I don’t wanna go, cos my arm isn’t broken. It’ll be better by morning.”
“You could have internal injuries!”
“Internal injuries go away on their own, too.” His lips quirk up on one side.
Puffy and swollen, and irritatingly cute, especially while he dozes in that in-between place, not yet asleep and not quite awake.
“My dad beat me as often as he beat my mom, which means I know firsthand bruised kidneys heal themselves so long as I rest and drink plenty of water.” His eyes flicker open and stop on mine, electric and determined.
“I don’t wanna go to the hospital. We’re not making a police report.
And you don’t have permission to discuss my medical business with anyone besides me. ”
“But—”
Grunting, he pats his hip and searches his pockets with his good hand, sleepy and uncoordinated until, with an exhale of victory, he finds his phone and wallet.
“What are you…” I gulp as he slaps the leather against my palm. “Dean—”
“Open that for me?”
“Uh…” I open the wallet with shaking hands. “What do you want me to—”
“Any money in there?” He drops his hand again, too tired to do much for himself. “I got a fiver, right?”
“Er…” I peel the pockets open and find a bunch of bills. Ones. Fives. Twenties. A fifty. “You’ve got a few to choose from. What do you need?”
“Take out a five for me?”
“S-sure.” I select a five-dollar bill and fold the wallet again. “What do you want me to—”
He grabs my hand, wrapping his palm around my fingers and closing my fist around the money. Then he grins and releases a noisy, trembling sigh. “You’re my lawyer now. We just exchanged cash, which means I get attorney-client privilege.”
“No! That’s not how—”
“No hospital.” He shuts his eyes and drifts toward unconsciousness. “No police. No reports.”
And then he’s gone, comatose and snoring while his five dollars burn a hole in my palm.
“Shit!”