Page 22 of Pocketful of Shame

"Hoodie?"

"Yes, asshole, it's in my cart. She's in a damn backless gown. Do you want her to freeze?"

"Oh,thathoodie," Pres muttered. "I'm on it, buddy."

"Why are you doing this?" I breathed, shivering violently as I leaned against his chest, feeling woozy.

"You don’t belong here," Sketch replied, pushing something over my head. The hoodie, I quickly realized when I felt him push my arms through the sleeves. "Can you walk?" he asked, keeping one arm around my back. "Can you try for me?"

I shrugged weakly. "I d-don’t know."

"We've gotta go," Presley announced. "Now, dude."

Muttering a string of curse words, Sketch scooped me into his arms and moved for the linen cart. "Just for a little bit, okay?" he said, setting me inside the cart with trembling hands. "Keep your head down and don’t make a sound."

"I'm so mad at you," I heard myself whisper through cracked lips.

His nostrils flared and he nodded stiffly. "I know."

"I think I hate you," I added, voice slurring a little.

"Yeah, I think I hate me, too." Blowing out a shaky breath, he covered me up with towels and blankets, hands still shaking violently. "I've got this, Ro," he promised, blue eyes burning into mine as he stared down at me. "I've got you, okay?"

Swallowing down a tsunami of fear, I nodded weakly. "Okay."

His eyes blazed with heat and his jaw ticked before he placed a blanket over my head. And then we were moving – where to, I had no idea, but it was clearly at a fast pace because my body was jolted around like crazy.

"Go, go, go, dude," I could hear Presley hiss. "Don’t stop. I'll distract her and meet you back at the motel."

I knew the moment we were outside because the cold assaulted my senses, the night air cutting into my bones, causing my teeth to chatter loudly.

"Almost there, Ro," Sketch said from somewhere above my head.

I nodded to myself, not daring to speak a word.

Finally, when the cart came to a stop and the blankets were removed from my head, I exhaled a ragged breath. "I have a name."

This time, when he had to help me up, Sketch didn’t hesitate. Hooking his hands under my arms, he lifted me out of the cart and quickly rounded the back of his truck. "You have a name?" he asked, as he unlocked his truck and yanked the door open. Frowning, he helped me into the backseat. "I know your name, Ro."

"No, no, no –" Shaking my head, I slumped down on the backseat, watching as he fastened my seatbelt around my waist before closing the door and climbing into the driver's seat. "You don’t understand," I tried again. "I have a name."

Sketch didn’t respond to that. Instead, he cranked the engine and buckled up. "Come on, Presley." Drumming his hands against the steering wheel, he muttered a string of curses. "Hurry up, dammit."

"He said he'd meet you at the motel," I whispered, remembering Presley's words.

"I know," he replied. "But I'm still not leaving him here."

"Why'd you come for me, Sketch?"

"I'll always come for you, Ro," was his quiet response. "You know that."

"But you hate me."

"Yeah." He sighed heavily. "Pretty fucked up, huh?"

"Catochi."

"Huh?"

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