Chapter 2 #2
Moving.
The instant she spots me, there’s a flash of recognition.
I knock on the glass, signaling to her. I gesture at the backseat headrest, motioning for her to remove it. I’m not going to be able to get the doors open, not with the water pressing on them. But if she can use the metal rods from the headrest to break the glass…
At first, she frowns at me in confusion. I motion to the headrest again, then mimic myself jabbing it at the side window. After a moment, she shakes her head.
Shit. Is she concussed? Can she understand what I’m telling her to do?
My lungs are starting to burn, but there’s no way I’m leaving her.
Hazel holds her hand out to me, unfurling her fingers to display a small yellow tool in her palm. Then she wraps her fingers around it and slams the tool against the glass.
Tiny cracks appear. Just a tiny spiderweb of them, but enough to make me realize what she has.
It’s one of those multi-tools that’s supposed to help you escape from a car. I’ve seen them online—little devices with a spring-loaded punch end and a blade that’s supposed to be able to slice through a seatbelt.
Hope sparks inside me.
If she can break the glass, I can get her out. Swim her to the surface.
Hazel hits the windshield again, and more cracks spread across it.
Hope fans to a flame.
If she can weaken the glass just a little more…
On the third blow, the cracks radiate outward, transforming the glass into hundreds of tiny fractures. Hazel cocks her arm back to hit the windshield again, but I wave my hand at her to stop. Then I motion for her to cover her face, and once she does it, I turn so I can kick the glass in.
The water diminishes the strength of my blow, but I refuse to let that stop me.
I kick at the windshield hard—once, twice, three times—before it finally gives way.
Water rushes into the car, and immediately it starts to sink faster.
But there’s a gaping hole in the windshield now, and that’s all I need.
Heart pounding, lungs straining, I lunge forward and grasp one of Hazel’s outstretched hands.
As I pull her free, she tries to help me, kicking hard and paddling with her free arm.
A flicker of a thought strikes me.
She’s so incredibly strong.
Not just physically—it can’t have been easy for her to break the glass—but to keep her cool like that. Not to panic, but keep her wits about her enough to remember the tool and find the best route of escape.
Once we’re both a safe distance from the car, I swim as hard as I can, holding onto Hazel’s hand with a vise grip. Thankfully, the river runs low this time of year, so it doesn’t take long before we reach the surface.
I pull Hazel against me as we gasp for air, keeping both of us afloat with my legs. She shudders in my arms. On a shaky whisper, she says, “Alec. My car—”
“It’s going to be okay,” I soothe. Conversations about cars and whatever happened that caused her to go into the water can be saved for another time. Preferably when we’re not both in a fifty-degree river with the air temperature only slightly above that.
And even though Hazel’s not trapped in her car anymore, that doesn’t mean the danger is over. I have no idea how badly she’s hurt; she could have broken bones, internal injuries… I’ve seen plenty of men—and women—with catastrophic injuries who were still able to keep going on sheer adrenaline.
Until their injuries caught up with them, that is. Like Garrett. We thought he was okay until—
Stop.
Now is not the time for a visit to the unpleasant past.
Instead, I need to focus on getting Hazel to shore, warming her up, and giving first aid before the police and paramedics get here.
Are they close?
As I paddle to the river’s edge with Hazel still held tightly against me, I listen for the familiar rise and fall of sirens approaching. But there’s nothing. Just the soft lap of waves and the harsh sounds of our breathing.
And poor Hazel… she’s still trying to help, but it’s obvious the cold is sapping the energy from her body.
By the time I drag both of us onto the shore, she’s barely able to stand.
After only a few steps, she stumbles and makes a frustrated noise.
“I’m sorry,” she says through chattering teeth. “My legs…”
Our breath comes in silvery puffs in the chilled night air. In the moonlit darkness, Hazel’s face is nearly white, and her lips are tinged blue. She’s shaking so badly, I can hear her teeth clacking together.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, the reassurance just as much for myself as it is for her. Scooping her into my arms, I hold her high against my chest. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you to my car, get you warmed up. The police should be here soon. And an ambulance.”
She stiffens, and for a moment, I think she’s about to insist on walking by herself.
But a beat later, she sags against me and drops her head to my shoulder. “Okay.”
It’s the oddest thing. As I jog back to my car, I don’t feel cold anymore.
Maybe it’s just that my body is entering the early stages of hypothermia. But logic tells me it’s too soon for that.
Or maybe it’s the woman in my arms. The one trusting me to take care of her.
Once I get to the car, I open the driver’s side door and pop the trunk. Then I open the backseat and set Hazel inside, promising, “I’ll just be a second.”
Though I’m loath to leave her for a second, I know she can’t stay in her wet clothes. Neither can I, but I’ll worry about myself later.
In the trunk, I rummage through my go-bag until I find the emergency blanket tucked at the bottom. Then I rush back to Hazel, relieved to find her still conscious and alert. Yes, I know I was only gone for twenty seconds, max, but still. Anything could have happened.
I reach in and pull Hazel out, propping her up against me. “I’m sorry. But we need to get your clothes off. I’m going to do it, since I don’t think you can. Is that alright?”
I’m doing it anyway. I have to. But I’d much rather she give me permission first.
Hazel stares at me for a few seconds. Then she nods.
Permission granted, I peel her clothes off quickly, trying hard not to notice what she looks like.
Yes, I’ve thought about her naked. But never like this. Never when she’s in shock, likely injured, and on the verge of hypothermia.
But damn, she’s gorgeous.
Once she’s stripped down, I wrap the crinkly silver blanket around her, burrito style, and lift her back into my arms. Then I hurry to the driver’s seat and sit down in it, cuddling her against me.
I crank the heat up to max and tuck her icy face into my neck, hoping the skin-to-skin contact will warm her a little.
And shit, if it doesn’t feel right, holding her like this.
Not the keeping her from freezing part. But protecting her. Caring for her. Feeling her body nestled against me. Feeling her soft breaths brushing my skin.
“Alec,” she murmurs. Her voice is slow. Drowsy. “You’re going to freeze.”
“I won’t.” I may end up getting a touch of hypothermia, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“You’re still in your wet clothes.” One small hand pokes out from beneath the blanket and flattens on my chest. “You need to change.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her while tucking her hand back under the blanket. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
And true to my words, a high-pitched wail finally sounds in the distance. Maybe a mile or so out, but close enough to feel reassured by it.
“Are you feeling any warmer?” I ask. With the heat pumping at full power, I know I am. But I have a lot more muscle than Hazel. And she’s much smaller than me; at least half a foot shorter and easily fifty pounds less.
Hazel lifts her head from my neck to look at me. “Yes. I’m feeling better.”
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
Her brow wrinkles as she thinks. “Just my face. From the airbag hitting it. And my chest.”
“Your chest?” My voice rises as scenarios involving fractured ribs and bruised lungs and ruptured spleens rush through my mind. “Did something hit it? Can you breathe okay? Shit. I shouldn’t be holding you like this if your ribs—”
“Just the seatbelt,” she interrupts. “From when I hit the water. But I don’t think it’s anything worse than that.”
I carefully adjust Hazel on my lap so her chest isn’t constricted. “We need to be careful. Until the doctors take a look at you…”
“I think I’m okay.” A beat, and then, “Cold. Sore. Shaky. But I think I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
“Not thanks to me. You’re the one who broke the windshield.”
“My dad gave me that tool. The last Christmas we had together. He always liked to give me useful things like that. A paracord bracelet. Pepper spray disguised as lipstick. The escape tool…”
Trailing off, her expression turns sad. “He’d be really glad to know it helped me.”
My heart twists. Stroking a lock of wet hair back from her forehead, I reply, “I bet he would be.”
As the sirens draw closer, we stop talking, both of us caught in our thoughts.
Then Hazel says, “Alec.” Her eyebrows pull into a little V. “Is that Taylor Swift you’re listening to?”
Shit.
I hadn’t noticed before, but yes, it is. Not loudly—I’m not one to blast music in my car; it’s far too distracting—but her voice is clearly distinguishable.
I could follow that up with some excuse, like I’d been scanning the stations on my radio and just happened to land on this when I pulled over. Or I could tell her the truth.
“It is,” I admit. “My sister loves Taylor Swift. Has for years. I actually brought her—my sister, Andrea, that is—to a concert in Boston. After hearing the music for so long, it kind of grew on me. The lyrics are good. And the harmonies.”
Hazel stares at me. Her lips quirk. “I wouldn’t have put you down as a Taylor Swift fan.”
“Oh? What do you think I’d listen to?”
“Classic rock? Or old-school metal?”
“Those are good, too,” I agree. “But sometimes I like a little Taylor Swift.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “Me too.”
And there’s that warmth coursing through me again.
Warmth I shouldn’t be feeling, considering the circumstances.
As a distraction, I ask, “What happened? Did you hit a slick spot on the road? Or did a deer run out in front of you?”
Her body tenses. Pressed against me like she is, I can feel her heart racing. “Neither.”
The sirens grow louder.
“What happened, then?”
Hazel shudders. “My brakes. They wouldn’t work.”
Alarm shoots through me. “Your brakes?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Both of them. The regular brakes and the emergency one. I couldn’t get either of them to work. That’s why I went off the road.”
Instinctively, my arms tighten around her.
“The brakes are new,” she continues. “I only got them eight months ago. And I got my car inspected last month. Everything looked fine. I don’t… I don’t know what went wrong.”
Shit.
My gut, which has rarely been wrong in all of my forty years, clenches.
I don’t like the sound of that.
At all.