Page 43 of Wraith

“Wraith, what the hell?”

“We can’t.” I shift my weight and the room does a small, unwelcome tilt. “Even if Molly didn’t recognize me earlier, someone at the Devils will. They do intel. They have files on known Sons. Photos. Background. At a minimum, your brother will recognize me. And then we’re dealing with a different problem.”

“So what? You’re just going to bleed out because you’re too proud to ask for help?”

“I will not bleed out. And it’s not pride. It’s strategy.” I meet her eyes. “We do this alone. Together. Just us.”

“Fine,” she says. “But you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not about to pass out.”

I sway.

Just slightly. Just enough that she notices, and her hand shoots out to steady me, her fingers wrapping around my biceps with a grip that’s surprisingly strong.

“You were saying?” she says.

I don’t have a suitable response to that. The room is doing things. Gentle, circular things.

“I have an idea,” June says. Her voice has changed. Gone firmer. More focused. “But I need you to trust me.”

I hesitate. Mostly from the wound.

“I trust you.”

“No, I mean, really trust me. I need you to let me drive.”

The words hit me wrong. Or right. Or some third thing that‘s both at once. Letting her drive means giving up control. Means sitting in the passenger seat — literally and metaphorically — while someone else makes the decisions. It’s not something I do. It’s not something I’ve ever done with her. Control is how you survive. Control is how you don’t end up at someone else‘s mercy.

But my side is bleeding, and my head is swimming, and June is standing in front of me in her underwear with her hand on my arm and her eyes are clear and focused, and I realize I don’t have a choice.

Not if I want to live.

Not if I want her to live.

“Keys are in my jeans. Truck’s parked about a block away. Alley behind the hardware store.”

“Okay.” She’s already moving, already grabbing our scattered clothes from the floor. “Get dressed. Fast.”

Getting dressed while bleeding and dizzy turns out to be harder than it should be. My jeans fight me. My shirt has opinions about which hole my head should go through. June finishes before I do, and then she’s there, her hands on my shirt, pulling it down over my torso with an efficiency that’s both practical and strangely intimate.

“Lift your arms,” she says.

I lift my arms. She tugs the shirt into place, her fingers brushing against my skin, and I have the deeply inappropriate thought that this is the most tender anyone has been with me in years. Maybe ever.

She grabs the duffel bag the Devils left for her, shoves our scattered belongings into it — the whip, the cuffs, the wine bottles for some reason — and then we’re moving toward the door, stepping over Bruiser’s unconscious form.

We make it to the truck. I hand her the keys, and then I’m climbing into the passenger seat, and my side screams about it, and the world does another gentle rotation.

June slides into the driver’s seat. Adjusts the mirrors. Starts the engine. The truck rumbles to life, and she pulls out of the alley without hesitation, her hands steady on the wheel.

I lean my head back against the seat and press my hand harder against the wound. The bleeding hasn’t stopped. Hasn’t gotten worse, but hasn’t stopped.

“Where are we going?” I say.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.”