Seared on my Soul Page 4

  My heart fires against my ribs like rounds from an AK-47. “Hang tight. I’m just going to get my phone.” I’m not in the desert. I mentally recite the words over and over as I turn and walk back to my bike.

  “Where are you going? You’re not leaving me, are you?” His voice chokes with panic. “I’ll die!”

  I grunt. “I’m getting my cell phone to call for help. You’re not going to die—at least not today. If you keeping drinking and driving, though, your number’s going to be up sooner than later.”

  He’s quiet for several seconds. I’m halfway to my bike when I hear him mutter, “This is all that girl’s fault.”

  Ice shoots up my spine and I slowly turn around, certain I’ve misheard. “What did you say?”

  “The girl!” he moans. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if she hadn’t talked me into coming home with her.”

  “There’s a girl?” I glance back at the car and see flames shooting out from under the hood. I say a silent prayer this dumb fuck is too drunk to know what he’s talking about.

  “Yeah. She was in the car with me.” He pauses. “Hey, man. Aren’t you going to get your phone? My arm really hurts.”

  The anger coursing through me burns away any lingering pain, and I march back to the asshole faster than I have since my injury. I bend down, grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him off the ground. The orange glow of the fire illuminates his wide eyes. “Where is the girl now?” I spit between clenched teeth, giving him a shake for emphasis.

  He winces. “I-I don’t know. She was in the car with me.”

  I throw him back to the ground and he lets out a yelp. “And you didn’t think to look for her?”

  “I’m hurt!” he whines.

  What a worthless sack of skin. It takes everything in me not to kick the shit out of him right here and now. Lucky for him, I’ve got a girl to look for.

  To keep my strength up, I lift at the gym every other day. But after having my kneecap blown to bits by helicopter debris, cardio isn’t exactly my strong suit. Still, I force myself into a stiff, half skip half jog. And while adrenaline keeps me from feeling the pain, I have no doubt tomorrow I’m going to pay dearly for the extra exertion.

  The closer I get the more the smell of gasoline burns my nostrils and the thick smoke scratches my throat. The front end of the car is angled down into the steep ditch so that one of its back tires doesn’t touch the ground. Several inches of metal are folded back from the front end and flames curl around the hood, blistering the red paint black. It looks like the fire is contained to the hood, but I know that won’t last long.

  I’m vaguely aware of the sour tang of fear on the back of my tongue, but it’s not enough to stop me from approaching the passenger door. In the military, we’re taught to swallow terror like chunks of broken glass. Don’t think. Just swallow. Even as it’s ripping down your throat, slicing into your stomach, and leaving a thousand cuts in its wake.

  Don’t think.

  The heat from the hood sears into my skin like pinpricks from a needle. But I don’t flinch. Not even knowing the car could explode at any second gives me pause. Once the switch is flipped, fear and pain are merely obstacles between me and my mission.

  And my mission is to save Chad.

  I pause, my hand stretched toward the passenger door. No. That’s not right. Chad is gone. I shake my head as if to rid myself of the ghost of him, but I know I’ll never be free. And I don’t deserve to be. Especially not if I fail again.

  I try the handle, but the jammed door refuses to budge. “Damn it!” I snarl under my breath. I know I have minutes, maybe only seconds, before the flames spread. I pull on the handle again and again, until I feel as if my own arms will be ripped from my body. Finally, with a squeal of protest, the door gives, and I fling it open.

  The platinum-haired girl dangles over her seatbelt like a puppet with severed strings. Tattoos and blood cover her visible skin, making it impossible to pinpoint her injuries. Unfortunately, due to the fire, I don’t have the option of leaving her for the paramedics.

  Working as quickly as my bum knee allows, I push the deflated remains of the airbag off of her, unfasten her seatbelt, and hoist her over my shoulder.

  There’s no time to check her vitals, so I say a quick prayer that she’s breathing as I stumble away from the wreckage. Because maybe, just maybe, there’s absolution in saving a life. Maybe by saving her, I can save a piece of myself.

  I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes. I don’t deserve forgiveness and I sure as hell don’t deserve saving. Every demon haunting me is a demon earned. And if I have to spend my whole life running from them, isn’t that a better fate than Chad’s?

  An explosion sounds behind me, the force of it driving me to my knees. The pain is like a wave of acid, washing over me and eating into my skin. Still, I hold onto the girl. I won’t fail her, too.

  Another blast thrusts me chest-first to the ground. I try to get up, but after everything I put it through, my knee refuses to cooperate. Something warm trickles down my face and no matter how many times I blink, I can’t bring my vision into focus. Still, I reach my hand in front of me, searching the ground until I find a warm, slender arm. A pulse beats faintly beneath my fingers.

  A knot of tension unwinds inside my gut. Still alive. Thank God.

  The momentary silence is broken by the sound of sobs from several yards away.

  “Get your bitch ass up, get to my bike, and grab my cell phone!” I scream. There’s little more I can do at this point. Still, I refuse to be worthless. I scoot myself as close to the girl as I can, curling my body against hers, and shielding her with my back from the raging inferno behind us. Tattooed rose petals peek out from the collar of her shirt—familiar rose petals. The realization is slow to surface. I know this girl. She’s the loud-mouthed barista who makes my morning coffee.

  Thanks to my shitty leg, it’s all I can do until help arrives. I wrap my arms around her body, silently praying I’m not jostling broken bones or ruptured organs. The girl is sticky with blood. A sense of helplessness washes over me as I cradle her smaller form. I’ve been here before, left alone with a body and nothing but my prayers to keep it alive.

  This time, I hope they’re enough.

  Chapter Five

  Emily

  My world becomes nothing but pain.

  Every breath is a mixture of blood, smoke, and gasoline. From far away, I hear sirens and muffled voices that can’t quite penetrate the darkness I’ve fallen into. Blood, tasting of copper, trickles down my throat. A searing ache, like barbed wire, rips into every inch of my body.

  Am I dying?

  Terror coils around my gut and I flail in the darkness inside my mind, desperate for anything to hold onto, an object to keep me grounded so I won’t fall away. My fingers brush against something soft and I grab hold, twisting the fabric into my fist.

  It doesn’t take me long to realize the fabric is attached to something—or rather someone—because seconds later a pair of muscular arms snake around my shoulders and press me against an equally firm chest.

  It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t been held this way since Daddy died nearly a decade ago.

  “Can you hear me?” The unfamiliar voice sounds distant, echoing inside my head like a cavern.

  I try to answer, but my throat is tight and blood coats my tongue. Instead, I hold tighter, pressing my knotted fingers against his chest. His warmth bleeds into my skin, loosening the fear twisted around my ribs just enough for me to breathe—only it comes as a gasp. “I don’t want to die.” The words are a surprise, but I realize they’re the truest words I’ve ever spoken.

  Unconsciousness tugs at me with velvety fingers, pulling me deeper inside myself. I clutch the fabric in my hands, suddenly terrified that if I’m pulled away, I might not be able to find my way back.

  The darkness presses against me, smashing me beneath a wall of endless satin. My fingers lose their grip on the man’s shirt, and I can feel myse
lf slipping. Fear rises inside my throat, a jagged lump I can barely breathe around. “Don’t,” I manage to choke. My voice sounds far away—almost as if it were coming from outside my body. Or maybe I’m the one outside my body.

  The thought sends an icy wave of terror crashing over me.

  “Don’t what?” the man asks, sounding farther away than before. Even so, the panic in his voice is unmistakable.

  The darkness grows heavier, and I am too weak to fight. Even my fear ebbs under the crushing weight of exhaustion.

  It takes all my remaining strength, but I manage to breathe life into the words tangled on my tongue before unconsciousness consumes me.

  “Don’t let me go.”

  Before I even open my eyes, I sense a change. Gone is the tang of blood and acrid stench of smoke. Instead, the smell of antiseptic and bleach burn my nostrils and fill my lungs. I cough, and then cry out, as pain ricochets beneath my ribs with enough force to make my eyes fly open.

  Even before I can fully take in the room around me, broken images of the previous night flash through my mind like fragments of a nightmare. Bar. Drummer. Deer. Tree. A blinding flash of pain. The sweet copper taste of blood on my tongue. Smoke. And then a body, cradling mine as I clung to his shirt.

  Don’t let me go.

  My own words echo inside my head, marching in beat to the migraine throbbing beneath my right temple. I press my palm against my head to ease the pain but end up knocking the plastic clip off my index finger. A machine in the corner rings out, its alarm piercing through my skull as the line spiking across a small screen runs flat.

  Movement from the corner of the room catches my eye, and I turn my head to see my mother jerk upright, her eyes wide. She’s wearing a button-down flannel nightgown over a pair of jeans. Her surprise lasts only a moment before she stands. Her eyes narrow and she moves toward my bed in swift strides.

  Shit.

  I fumble with the remote next to my bed, hoping to call a nurse. Surely Mom won’t murder me in front of a witness. But when I press the button, all it does is raise the head of the bed.

  Double shit.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-one and live on my own. Mom’s tight-lipped frown of disapproval still has the ability to make me flinch. My first instinct is to bury myself beneath the thin sheets and hide. But pain blossoms beneath my skin no matter how slight a movement I make, and I realize escape is impossible.

  Without a word, Mom refastens the clip to my finger and the machine quiets. As a retired nurse, she knows her way around a hospital room. I briefly consider pulling out the IV catheter stuck in my arm—anything to keep her distracted. Because Nurse Lauren is infinitely preferable to Mom Lauren in overall pleasantness.

  Mom clutches the bedrail, her knuckles turning white. “Can I get you some water?”

  I shake my head, which is a huge mistake. The room teeters on its side as a wave of nausea washes over me.

  “You should drink some water.” Before I can answer, she grabs a plastic pitcher off a nearby tray and fills a cup. Her hands tremble as she pours.

  Guilt swells inside me, pushing against my ribs until I think I might scream from the crushing pressure. “Mom?”

  She hands me the cup. “How do you feel? Can you tell me what hurts?” Her eyes sweep over my body before she raises two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

  I swallow, and my parched throat burns. Still, I don’t drink the water in my hand. “Mom, stop. I’m okay.” Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. My entire body aches, but I can pinpoint the source of the pain. Still, I have no casts or incisions, so I can only assume that’s a good thing.

  Mom doesn’t look at me. Instead, she turns to the window. Her shoulders tremble. It’s not until the sunlight hits her face that I notice the tears welling in her eyes.

  Shame churns through my stomach.

  “When the hospital called, I was terrified. Did you know the blood alcohol level of the man you were riding with was nearly twice the legal limit?” she says, continuing to stare out the window.

  I blink in response. Actually, this is news to me. I saw the drummer have a few drinks between sets, but I never would have handed my keys over to him if I knew he was drunk. I certainly didn’t remember him acting drunk. Though, admittedly, after that last shot of whiskey, it’s hard to remember much of anything.

  “How is…” Too late, I remember I never learned the drummer’s name. And now I’ve admitted as much with the words dangling in the air. Normally, I couldn’t care less about other people’s opinions of my lifestyle. And by the way Mom’s frown deepens, I can tell hers isn’t favorable. But then again, I can typically walk away from her when she starts in on another one of her lectures. But given the way she tucks the sheets tightly around my waist, it’s becoming clear I don’t have the option today.

  “Alive,” Mom answers, still fussing with the sheet. “Despite his stupidity to get behind the wheel while inebriated, or yours to give him the keys. You know, you’d probably be dead if that man hadn’t come by to help. Your guardian angel must have really been looking out for you.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. If guardian angels existed, where the hell was my dad’s the night he got shot? At the thought of him, I reflexively bring my hand to my throat, fingers searching for the necklace—a small silver star—he gave me before he died.

  It’s not there.

  Panic swells inside me like a balloon on the verge of bursting. That necklace is the only thing I had left of Daddy. It was a birthday gift because he told me, “You’re the brightest star in my sky, Emmy.” I must have lost it during the accident.

  As if I didn’t already feel like a fuckup. I need to find that necklace. “When can I go home?” I try and sit up, but the world rolls around me in nauseous waves, forcing me to lie back down.

  Mom gives a little laugh. “If I were you, I’d want to stay in this hospital as long as possible. The sooner you get out, the sooner you have to face your brother.”

  Oh damn. I flinch. The necklace will have to wait. “Lane knows?”

  “Of course he knows, Em.” She throws her hands in the air. “Who do you think drove me here because I was too panicked to drive? You’re just lucky Ashlyn kept him in the waiting room until he calmed down. I thought he was going to search the entire hospital for that drunk boyfriend of yours, and Lord only knows what Lane would have done if he found him.”

  I make a face at her use of “boyfriend” but don’t bother to correct her.

  “God, Em.” She sweeps her fingers through her hair. “You’re a smart girl. Why on earth would you get in the car with a drunk driver? I already lost your father; I can’t lose you, too.”

  Her words dig the knife of guilt deeper into my heart. “Mom, I—”

  “Were you trying to get yourself killed?” Tears finally break free and stream down her cheeks. “Explain it to me, please, Emily. Because I don’t understand why you would do something like this.”

  Heat flushes my cheeks, and I can feel my face crumple. I sure as hell didn’t feel like the smart girl she said I was. I silently will myself not to cry, but that doesn’t stop tears from pricking the corner of my eyes. I hate being berated like a child. Even worse, though, is knowing I deserve it.

  “Mom, I just…” I open my mouth but the words won’t come. I realize there’s nothing I can say that will undo last night. Still, I muster enough courage to mutter, “I’m sorry.”

  Mom’s lips press into a thin line. She gives a small shake of her head as if she can’t quite believe me. I guess I deserve it. Emily the dumbass strikes again. She grabs my hands and grips them painfully tight. “Don’t ever do this to me again. Promise me.”

  Before I can answer, a voice interrupts. “You’re awake.”

  Mom releases me and we both turn toward the door. My brother Lane enters the room. His arms are crossed and the muscle in his cheek is doing that twitchy thing it does every time he’s pissed.

  Just fuckin
g great. Rolling my eyes, I try to sink deeper into my pillow, as if I could somehow smother myself and, in the process, spare me from the lecture sure to follow. “Well, come on.” I snap my fingers. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

  His scowl deepens. Ashlyn, who I just noticed standing behind him, peers around his shoulder. Her eyes are wide with worry. “The nurse said we could come back. But if you’re not feeling up to it—”

  “I don’t care if she’s feeling up to it,” Lane cuts her off. In three long strides he’s at my bedside. The anger radiating off him prickles my skin. He places his hands on either side of my face and touches my forehead with his, like we used to do when we were children. “Are you okay?”

  His unexpected concern tightens my throat, and it takes me three swallows before I’m able to speak. “I’m fine.”

  Lane lets out a long, shaky breath and releases me. “Goddamn it, Emily. We were all scared shitless. You’ve done some pretty irresponsible shit in your life, but you’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

  “Lane!” Ashlyn and my mom scold in unison.

  “No,” he answers back. “I’m not going to baby her and pretend this is okay.” He whirls around and jabs a finger toward my face. “This is not okay. Do you realize how lucky you are? You may have walked away with a broken rib and a concussion, but you could have died, Em. Died.” His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s then I notice how glassy his eyes have become. “We love you, Emily, that’s why we’re so pissed. When the hospital called, they didn’t give us a lot of details and we thought—we thought—” Sweeping a hand through his hair, he closes his eyes. “When Harper asked why she needed a sitter today, I lied so she wouldn’t worry. I mean, fuck. What do you think it would do to her if she lost her favorite aunt?”

  “Only aunt,” I try to correct, but my throat’s squeezed so tight I can barely get the words out.

  His eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t try to be cute. I’m so pissed right now I could just—” His fingers ball into fists and he makes a low growl deep in his throat. Ashlyn moves to his side and places a hand on his shoulder. Immediately his fingers unclench and his shoulders relax. He looks at her, his lips quirking up in the tiniest smile. “Sorry.”