5. Easton #2
He wouldn’t win this, though. None of them would. It was my last battleground, and I would hold on to it until my last breath if I had to. They would have to pry my mouth open before my tongue touched the filth of the sidewalk.
“Shit,” someone whispered. “He’s passing out.”
“Stop.”
“What do we do?”
“Hey!”
The voices echoed and blurred. I didn’t know who said what or who called out. My gorge was rising at the thought of all the feet that had stepped on this sidewalk, the trash, the rats…
I was going to be sick.
The scattering around me was so quick that I didn’t realize it was happening. It was only the absence of pain that told me the guys had stopped beating me.
“No,” I said, my voice as rough as I could make it. “Can’t. No.”
Their hands were still on me, turning me around. One hand slapped me, but not hard like before. It was not one slap but several, done in quick succession.
As my consciousness slipped away from me, light shone into my eyes. Were they open? Was I going to die with my eyes open? Mother was going to be heartbroken.
The light disappeared, and the slaps continued. They didn’t ache at all. Perhaps I was above and beyond pain. Perhaps I’d managed to divest myself from my body. There. I didn’t need to worry about it anymore. Except…
I coughed hard, wheezing as I inhaled. The surface wasn’t so hard under my head. I was on something soft. But the relentless little taps of a hand against my scratched face woke up a flare of fury deep within me. For fuck’s sake, would it ever stop?
I jerked. My arms were free, and I slapped the annoying hand away.
“There you are,” the voice said clearly.
The fury that had pulled me back from the brink of the abyss of unconsciousness faded only to be replaced by such profound shame that I wished I’d passed out.
“Whoa,” he said as I lifted myself to a sitting position with a grunt, facing away from him. The entire street tilted, and my left eye was wet, my vision blurry. “Easy.”
I was glad my back was turned to him. I couldn’t stand anyone seeing me like this, least of all him. But the spinning, tilting, swaying world around me wouldn’t stop. It was like I had been catapulted to the deck of a ship in the middle of a vicious storm.
“One step at a time,” he said in an infuriatingly gentle tone. I hated it. I hated the pity in his voice. “Don’t get up right away.”
The swaying steadied a little. Now, I needed something to wash out the taste of blood. And I needed him to disappear, to leave me alone in my shame. But, of course, the universe had sent him here to witness me at my lowest. “Are you…” I croaked and cleared my throat. “Are you following me?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate.
Perfect. Fucking perfect. “Why?” I huffed.
He was silent for a little while, scooting closer. “You made some enemies.”
I snapped my head around to face him, the world falling out of focus. “And what’s that to you, Jace?”
He held his gaze on my eyes for a few moments as if reading the fury from my face.
Then, the fucker smirked. “See, I believe a lot of disagreements can be settled with fists,” he said in an almost lazy drawl.
“But four masked guys against one in a dark alley? Nah, bro. I don’t stand for shit like that. ”
I would have laughed, but my throat was sore, and my lip was split. “How did you…?”
“You need to stop talking,” Jace said, his decisive tone enough to make me sit up straight.
“I was running,” I said bitterly. “Are you fucking following me everywhere I go?”
“Of course not,” Jace said as if I was the crazy one. “I was waiting for you to come back, and I heard you cry out.”
Oh, fucking wonderful, I thought desperately. My knight in shining armor had heard me crying and came to rescue me.
“Let’s get you inside,” Jace said, getting up and offering me a hand.
I brushed his hand away and pushed myself to my feet. Dizziness worried me, but my body reacted poorly to all movements, pain flaring up angrily everywhere at once.
When I stumbled, Jace remained still, probably sulking that I wouldn’t accept his help. His arms were wrapped around his torso, straps of a backpack cutting into his shoulders, and his T-shirt was oversized, just like his baggy pants.
I paused and steadied myself before pushing on. I limped, my ankle burning under the weight of my body, and Jace stepped closer. He didn’t touch me. I almost found it in my heart to be grateful to him for not touching me. Now was not the time to push my buttons.
Jace walked alongside me as I neared the entrance of my building. I slipped a hand into my pocket, and my heart sank. My keys. I’d dropped my keys. Not on the run, I hoped, but when they toppled me on the ground. Even those twenty paces seemed like too far to return and look for them.
A jingle sounded from Jace as he lifted his hand. “You dropped these.”
“Of course.” My lip stung from speaking. I rolled my eyes, although my left was still bloodied and shut.
I snatched the keys off Jace’s finger and unlocked the door. He followed me upstairs to the top landing and waited at the door as I pushed the key into the lock.
I held a breath for a few moments, holding my hand on the key. “I’m fine now.”
“Sure you are,” Jace said.
Silence. We stood there, me at the door, Jace behind my back, and waited for something to break. “I don’t need babysitting.”
“Good. I’m not a babysitter,” Jace said.
I swallowed and turned the damned key. This was my space. This was my home. Letting him enter was like surrendering it to him completely unless I played my cards right.
Part of me knew that I owed him. Those guys would have gone on for much longer, trying to get me to lick the sidewalk, unless Jace had scared them off. How he had done it, I had no clue, but I suspected that their priority had been stealth. Jace’s presence put them at risk.
I pushed the door in and flicked on the lights in the living room. They were so bright that pain slashed through my skull for a moment. I stumbled and leaned against the wall, but the wall slipped away from me.
Jace grabbed me under my arm, shut the door with his foot, and led me through the open door into my bedroom.
“Easton,” he said, his voice dark and low, seething with anger. “I know a vet who owes me. I could get him to come over here and check you out.”
“Fuck off, Jace,” I said, too tired for his bullshit.
He helped me sit on the edge of the bed and leaned in, taking my face in both hands. I had avoided looking at him, but he forced me. Typical. “I’m not kidding, fuckface,” he said roughly. “He’s done a lot for some friends of mine.”
My lips curled in anger. “I don’t want to be a part of your zoo.” Blinking through the blood in my eyes, I added, “I’m fine.”
“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head and looked at me.
“Then stop bleeding all over my hands.” Anger flared in Jace’s eyes, but he stayed still for a moment.
It was odd to see someone remaining so forcefully calm.
Was that what I looked like? “Fine,” he said, his tone and facial expression clearly telling me it wasn’t fine at all.
“Be like that.” He straightened and turned away from me. In a matter of moments, he was gone.
Nausea was passing slowly, but I still worried I might be sick. I didn’t think they hit me anywhere so hard that I needed to worry except, maybe, my head. I’d slammed against the concrete hard enough to revere the word “concussion.” But I put it out of my mind.
I yanked the sweaty, bloody T-shirt off my torso and threw it on the dark hardwood floor, thankfully missing the armchair with cream upholstery.
I looked at the right side of my rib cage and found an angry red bruise spilling above my ribs.
It didn’t hurt to breathe in and out. If a rib was fractured, it wasn’t broken.
Jace walked briskly into my bedroom without an announcement, finding me where he had left me. “That’s a nasty one,” he said, dropping some things onto the bed. “But I can’t do anything about it. You’ll just have to suffer.”
I expected no less.
“Your supplies are shit,” he pointed out, unscrewing an old bottle of iodine and pouring some of the hospital-smelling liquid over makeshift pads he’d fashioned out of toilet paper.
He set the messy stuff on the side and lifted a white towel.
“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice telling me he wouldn’t tolerate an argument.
The towel was wet and no longer white after the first touch with my face.
Jace’s hand was surprisingly light as he wiped the blood off my face. He didn’t bother telling me to bite my teeth before he lifted the iodine-soaked pad and pressed it against the cuts. My left eyebrow stung the worst, and I jerked my head back.
“Grow a pair,” Jace muttered, cupping the back of my head and pressing the tissue against my eyebrow. It was a deep and bloody cut, and the stinging reached deep into my head. It felt like a tree sent its root through my brain, but the root was on fire.
When he was satisfied with it, Jace removed the tissue and winced at the sight of my face.
“There’s a scar in the making,” he said. “But I don’t think it needs stitches.”