Page 25 of Broken

Trying to swivel, I push the bike back and drop heavily on my side, onto the unforgiving sidewalk, and grunt in pain. The rider half leaps, half hops over the seat, in some weird athletic movement. She doesn’t stop the actual bike landing on top ofme, as she drops to her hands and knees beside me, crying out in pain as she hits the concrete.

“Fuck,” I groan out. Fortunately, I didn’t hit my goddamn head, but I’ve landed on my arm funny. Pain radiates up my elbow, making me wince.

“You stepped out in front of me. I couldn’t stop. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

I tilt my head as the woman turns and sits down. She’s wearing a denim skirt, so the blood running down both of her shins from the cuts on her knees is visible. Concern takes over my anger. This was my fault for not paying attention.

People are coming over to make sure we’re okay. Sitting up, I grip my elbow, hoping like fucking hell it’s not broken. That was embarrassing as shit. If I hadn’t hit the sidewalk with the back of my heel, I would have prevented her going in front of the car and stopped the bike from colliding with me.

I owe this woman an apology. Our eyes meet and lock, and I groan for an entirely different reason.

Calli.

She’s staring back, her eyes wide and her lips part as she recognizes me.

I don’t know what it is about her, but I’m suddenly irrationally angry. She isn’t wearing a damn helmet. The thought of that drives me crazy. If she’d gone in front of that car without a helmet, she could be dead.

And it would be my fault. Why the fuck is she not wearing a helmet?

People crouch down around us, some attempting to care for Calli, others looking over at me like I’m the villain. It’s a bad idea to lay into her for not taking care of her safety. When she winces, I glare at the man who is dabbing at her knee. She brushes him away, saying it’s fine, then lifts her hips to make sure her skirt is pulled down, clamping her legs together.

I almost get up and punch the fucker for staring at her legs. She’s hurt. Damn it.

Someone moves the bike, and I roll up onto my knees, then get to my feet, cradling my elbow. It’s really fucking painful, but it’s the least of my worries.

“You need an ambulance,” a woman says.

“No, really, it’s not that bad.” Calli drags her eyes from me to the woman beside her. “It’s a few grazes. I’m fine.”

She starts to get up, and without thinking, I reach out and take her hand. Fortunately, it’s with my good arm. Calli presses her palm into mine and I help her to her feet, grimacing at her torn and bloody knees.

Wearing a skirt to ride a bike. Another stupid choice.Fuck. Stop it, you idiot.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“I’m fine. It’s a few scratches.”

Her cheeks flush, she’s embarrassed. Her eyes are downcast so she can’t see all the people staring at her. They’re all hovering, and I wave off any more suggestions of calling an ambulance. We have a first aid kit at the shop. I suggest to her we go there.

Calli’s eyes lift in surprise. Guess she didn’t think I cared. Which makes me feel like a shit head. As people disperse, I bend down to pick up her bike.

“Ah fuck,” I grunt, pulling my arm back.

“You’re hurt,” Calli hurries over and takes the bike out of my hands.

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t say that. I already see the bruising.”

She’s right, and I’m bleeding too. “I’m more worried about you,” I nod at her hands. Her palms are bloody and cut.

“Oh man,” she winces, as if the pain is finally registering.

I grab the bike from her. “Let’s go get this cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to, my work is over there,” she points a few stores down to the coffee shop.

It is closer, but a sudden possessiveness and need to make sure she is alright takes over. I can deal with it better at my shop.

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