Page 77 of Truck Hard

Charlie staggers upright, spitting blood onto the ground. His expensive suit is ruined, torn and stained. Good.

“You’re dead, Mutter.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson streak. “When my lawyers are done with you—”

I lunge for him again but my brothers hold me back. The sound of sirens grows louder, piercing through the anger clouding my thoughts. Red and blue lights flash at the end of the road.

Hannah.

The rage recedes enough for me to remember why I’m here. I spin around, searching frantically. She’s still on the ground where Charlie left her, starting to stir. Relief floods through me when I see her moving, but it quickly turns to horror as I take in the angry red mark blooming across her cheek.

I try to go to her but Warren and Mac maintain their grip. “Let me check on her,” I growl.

“In a minute,” Warren says quietly. “You need to calm down first. The cops will want statements.”

He’s right, damn him. I force myself to take deep breaths as the first police car pulls up, followed by an ambulance. The familiar figure of Ricky Warner steps out, already reaching for his cuffs. Thank God it’s him responding and not one of Charlie’s bought cronies.

“What happened here?” Ricky asks, though his stern expression suggests he already knows.

“Violation of restraining order and assault,” Warren answers before I can. “Charlie Fisher attacked Hannah. Punched her right in the face. Then he pulled a knife on Liam. We witnessed it.”

Ricky nods grimly and approaches Charlie, who’s somehow managed to straighten his spine despite the beating I gave him. “Mr. Fisher, turn around please. You’re under arrest.”

“This is ridiculous.” Charlie protests, but offers no resistance as Ricky cuffs him. “She attackedme. And then her guard dog here—” he jerks his head toward me “—jumped me. I want to press charges.”

“Save it for your lawyer.” Ricky starts reading Charlie his rights while another officer I don’t recognize leads him to the waiting patrol car.

The paramedics rush to Hannah’s side, and finally my brothers release me. I stumble toward her, my heart clenching at how small and vulnerable she looks sitting there. One EMT shines a light in her eyes while another takes her blood pressure. The bruise on her cheek has darkened to an ugly purple.

My legs give out and I drop to my knees beside her. “Hannah.” My voice cracks as tears blur my vision. “I’m so sorry. I should have been here sooner. I should have protected you better.”

She reaches for my hand, her fingers trembling but her grip strong. “Don’t. You came when I needed you. You stopped him from—” She breaks off, shuddering.

“But look what he did to you.” I ghost my fingers over her bruised cheek, careful not to actually touch it. “I promised he’d never hurt you again and I failed. Just like I failed you before.”

“No.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “You didn’t fail me, Liam. You saved me. Again.” Her eyes meet mine, bright with unshed tears. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did—”

The EMT interrupts, asking Hannah to follow his finger with her eyes. I sit back on my heels, giving them space to work while staying close enough to touch her. My hands are shaking—covered in blood, Charlie’s blood—adrenaline still coursing through my system. Now that the rage has faded, I notice the sting of split knuckles, my slashed chest, and what feels like a cut above my eye.

“Could have a mild concussion.” The paramedic concludes after finishing his examination. “No signs of serious trauma but you’ll need to take it easy for a few days. Watch for increased dizziness, severe headache, or changes in vision. If any of those occur, go straight to the ER.”

Hannah nods, then winces at the movement. The EMT turns his attention to me, cleaning the cut on my forehead with antiseptic that burns like hell.

“This should really have stitches,” he says, probing the edges of the wound.

I wave him off. “Just bandage it.”

He sighs but complies, taping a gauze pad in place. He looks down at my bloodied shirt and asks, “Did he cut you?”

I nod. “It’s fine. I don’t feel a thing.”

He sighs again. “Take your shirt off and let me see.”

I comply and he takes one look at the shallow gash across my chest and says, “That really needs stitches too.”

I shake my head. “Just clean it. It’s not that bad.”

He doesn’t look happy with me but he does as I requested. When he takes a bottle of clear liquid and squirts it on the cut, I wince.

“Sorry, I guess I should have told it this was alcohol.” He grabs some gauze to clean it. Once he’s satisfied, he starts pulling the skin together and uses butterfly bandages to hold it together.

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