16. Orion
Orion
Imay not look like I follow rules, but when it comes down to it, I’ve always lived my life by a set of guidelines.
When I was a kid and still living under my father’s house, they were the rules my father made up.
Strict and unbendable, they centered on me and my mom always doing exactly what he told us to, and guessing what he might want when we didn’t know for sure.
Our only job was to obey him and keep him happy, and if we didn’t do that–if we stepped out of line–then God help us.
The punishments were almost as bad as the tension of knowing when they were coming.
Once I left, the rails that kept my life on track changed.
They were still about survival, of course, but no longer moved along someone else’s idea of what that meant.
Out on the streets on my own, I got to make my own rules.
Decide for myself what safety and security meant, and how to achieve them.
When I was running with the syndicate I had to follow their rules, of course, but even then it was my decision.
I needed food and money, and the syndicate provided those if I followed their rules.
Coming to Hawke’s Wood meant a different set of guidelines, more friendly ones, but through it all, no matter where I’ve been, one thing has been true: When it comes down to it, rules are most important when you’re in a life-or-death situation.
Those are the times when logic and intent have to rule the day, because thinking clearly is how you get yourself out of a bad situation alive.
Right now, with Arden in my arms, her head slumped against my chest and her form completely limp, I try every trick in the book to get my brain to kick in and give me the cold, logical facts about how to get her to safety quickly and easily.
My brain refuses to cooperate. It’s too busy chanting ‘my girl, my girl, my girl,’ like it’s some sort of mantra.
Like that’s going to somehow fucking save her.
So instead of making for one of the cars or bikes we have in the parking lot, I find myself sprinting through town toward the house with one tiny girl in my arms, a tiny part of my brain screaming that this is the stupidest possible way to do it.
I’m at least twenty blocks from the house and will have to cross train tracks and half of town to get home.
On foot.
With human cargo.
It doesn’t matter. My feet are moving faster than they ever have, my legs pumping away and my lungs telling me I have plenty of oxygen for the run. And this way, I never have to put her down.
I hold her tighter, blocking out the sound of people shouting behind me–no doubt asking me what the fuck I’m doing–and bend so my mouth is right against her ear.
“Hold on, baby. I’m gonna get you home.”
I don’t know what happened or what’s wrong with her, but I know if I can get her back to the house, we can get it fixed.
We have to.
I skid into the driveway to find the entire gang already there, milling about the space like they’re all brand new dads waiting for their wives to finish giving birth.
And no wonder, honestly; Arden has been here a matter of days and has already gone through the entire crew, taking names and fluttering her eyelashes.
At this point, she might as well be the club mascot.
Mars bursts through the door of the house and stalks toward me.
“Finally get here? What the fuck are you doing running? We have bikes, you know.”
I shoulder him aside and run for the steps. “Not now, Mars. I don’t want to hear it. Rookie, get Doc Mason. Now.”
I don’t wait to see whether they react to my suddenly giving orders and pushing Mars to the side. I want to get Arden upstairs and into her own bed. I want her warm and safe and away from prying eyes.
And yes, there’s a part of me that’s watching, confused, as I sell my own reputation to take care of this girl and murmurs something about me saving her the way someone should have saved me when I was a kid.
I don’t listen to that voice.
I don’t have time.
I hammer up the stairs with Mars right on my heels and turn right, then turn again into the room he gave her.
It’s the best guest room in the house, but it already feels like her in here.
Clothes are spread across the desk, mingling with the pictures there, and I at least three surfaces are covered with stacks of books.
She’s turned the quilt over to use the side that has more green than blue, and the room smells like her.
I hadn’t even realized she had a smell, but now that I know, I can’t stop smelling it.
God, I sound crazy.
I lay her gently in the bed and step back, then turn to look at Mars. “Is she going to be okay?”
The question is quiet and vulnerable and I hate that, but I can’t seem to change it. I don’t want to be one of those people constantly asking Mars to fix something for them.
But I need someone else to tell me that she’s going to wake up and be fine.
Mars looks at me like he understands all of this, and his shoulders get straight and firm. “She’ll be okay,” he says gently. “Just need to get the doctor here to wake her up so she can tell us what the fuck is going on.”
Rookie and the doctor show up then, both of them trying to come through door at the same time, and for a moment there’s a scuffling scrabble there, a struggle, until Rookie physically pushes John Mason back and shoots through the door.
He drops to his knees next to Arden and turns terrified eyes up at me.
“What happened?” he asks. “Why did she fall? Did someone hit her? Is she going to be okay?”
And God, sometimes I forget how fucking young and sheltered he is.
“She’s gonna be okay,” I say, though I have no way of knowing it. “Just need the doc here to take care of her.”
John manages to get through the door now and sits on the bed next to her. He takes her arm and holds two fingers to her wrist, checking for a pulse, then frowns and tips his head. He moves to her other wrist and takes her pulse again, and then puts fingers to her neck.
“What is it?” I ask sharply.
He looks up at me, takes in my expression, and quickly clears his own face of concern. “Nothing,” he says. “Just a quick heartbeat. Probably due to the fact that you ran here with her.”
I feel the flush creeping up my neck and realize I’m going to need to come up with a reason I did that or the guys will tease me about it for weeks.
“You ran here with me?”
I jump at the question, but then grin.
“You’re awake.”
Arden narrows her eyes at me like this is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. “Yes. Answer the question. You ran here with me?”
“I was in a hurry.”
She scoffs. “And you thought running was better than taking a car?”
Mars steps into the argument and puts his hand on her shoulder. “Girl, you went down like a sack of rocks. What happened? Are you okay?” He glances at John like he already knows Arden is going to lie to him. “Is she okay?”
There’s panic in his voice, and I add that to the list of firsts. I’ve known Mars ten years and I’ve never heard him frightened.
“I’m fine,” Arden snaps. “I just fainted. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Not the end of the world?” Mars snorts. “You fainted!”
“Yes, and it’s happened before. I’m sure it’ll happen again,” she says, waving this off. “It’s just stress.”
“Stress?” I ask. “We were in the middle of a mud fight that you started!”
She levels a rather cold look at me. “And yet I’ve spent the last four months in a rather stressful position. You don’t think my body might still be reacting to that?”
I don’t believe her.
I don’t believe a word of it.
I mean yes, I know she’s been in a bad position for months, and that we haven’t actually even talked about what happened to her when she was in captivity. I don’t know what she went through or what it might have done to her body.
But she’s been healthy since we brought her home. She’s been laughing and teasing us, and just tonight, rolling down hills and slinging mud. She hasn’t acted like someone who’s on the edge of fainting.
And when I look at her, I see a guarded, secretive glint in her eye. Her lips are pressed together like she’s holding something back rather than telling the whole truth. This isn’t a girl who’s giving us the real story.
She’s given us a story, for certain. And she’s waiting to see whether we buy it.
And I have exactly no way to make her tell me the truth. She’s too stubborn and too protective of herself to give it up–especially if she thinks it’s going to worry us.
“Well then,” I say. “Guess there’s no reason for us all to be up here worrying about you. Glad you’re awake.”
I leave the room without another glance, her stare burning holes in my back as I walk away. But I don’t turn, and I don’t go back.
Because I don’t like how upset I am about this whole episode.
I don’t like how much it hurts to know she’s hiding things from me.
And it’ll be a whole lot easier to ignore that emotion if I’m not standing next to her, her scent in my nose and her voice in my ears, my body yearning to take her in my arms again and shake her. Tell her to be more careful. Tell her to let me take care of her.
Tell her I won’t be able to stand it if she leaves me, too.