Page 88 of Bad Attitude
Declan is shaky as he pulls up outside my apartment block.
He slumps over his tank in relief, doesn’t bother kicking it into neutral with his injured leg, but just hits the stop switch, killing the engine.
I pull my phone out, wanting to ensure Kurt knows where to send Steven, our doctor for jobs like this. It’s still dead. I’d forgotten I hadn’t powered it back on.
Declan hasn’t moved.
“Are you all right?”
His shoulders tense. “I don’t think I can get off by myself.”
“Shit. One second.” My phone has just come awake, a string of texts arriving. Most of them are from Declan—the ones I’ve been avoiding—but now I want to peek. Instead, I save them for later, opening Kurt’s.
Assume Tujunga? Steven enroute. ETA 11. Let me know if elsewhere.
Thank God. He called him straight away, and we only have half an hour to wait.
“The doctor’s coming,” I tell him as I shove my gloves in my lid and hook it on my bike. I don’t really want to leave it here, but I know I’ll need both hands. Declan easily weighs half as much again as I do.
“Handy.”
At least he’s still making jokes.
He hasn’t even kicked his side stand down, and I do it for him, making sure it’s locked before I take his arm. “All right… I guess… lean on me and swing your good leg?”
“If you drop me, I’m doubling your punishment.”
Why does that affect me as much as it does?
I run with it. He needs the distraction. “Is that a deterrent or an incentive?”
Declan goes still, long enough that I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Then he laughs. “You hellcat. I’d be fucking hard right now if I had any blood left.”
That’s not helping, not one little bit. My jacket suddenly feels too tight, my stomach’s doing that flipping thing, and I don’t want to think about how wet I am. Worse, my legs have gone weak, and I’m about to support him off his bike.
And despite it all, I almostwantto get punished, just to find out what turns him on so much.
“Let’s… focus on one thing at a time,” I say, struggling to do that myself. “I need to get you upstairs before the doctor arrives.”
“It might be better to wait until he does.”
“You can’t sit here for the next half hour. We need to get you lying down, and elevate your leg.”
“Half an hour?” He doesn’t sound happy about it. “All right, let’s do this thing.”
He removes his gloves, then reaches for his chin strap with fingers that tremble. More worrying than anything up to this point. He’s further gone than I thought, and I’m concerned he could go into shock or something. I’m not a medic; I don’t know. I just know he needs to be lying down before he falls down, because I sure as hell can’t get him up there if he’s unconscious. And he can’t stay here, bleeding from a goddamngunshot.
I’m about to offer to do it for him when he finally gets the strap open, pulling his lid off. He’s paler than I’ve ever seen him, face almost ashen.
Fuck.
“Good,” I say, with forced bonhomie, taking it off him and resting it on my bike. Then I step in close, sliding beneath his arm. “Okay, let’s do this.”
I brace myself as best I can, but when he swings his leg over his bike, my legs buckle, and it’s all I can do to keep from going down. He’s fuckingheavy. The movement rubs my injured arm and I grit my teeth, not wanting to make any noise when he’s so much worse off than me. Then his right leg hits the ground, and I hold back a sigh of relief. Declan hisses a breath, standing with his weight on his good leg, eyes closed and mouth pressed tight.
“Difficult bit done,” I tell him, trying to keep upmy enthusiasm and not let my worry come through. “We just have to hop to the elevator.”
He gives a jerky nod, braces his arm on my shoulders, and takes a pace. His left leg is almost useless to him, and touching it to the ground makes him wince every time. Each step is a battle, his body tense with pain.
