Page 74 of Ghost's Obsession

Something about the fresh breeze caressing my face washes away some of the horror of what just happened.

Chapter 23

Ghost

My shirt has a streak of her blood smeared across the chest. It’s from when she was leaning against me. It’s just a shallow cut from Grime’s knife, a nick along the curve of her throat when he shifted her wrong. Just a graze.

But it makes me feel like I failed her. This feeling is worse than anything I’ve ever taken on the chin in my life. I was supposed to be her protector and here she is bleeding. It’s totally my fault for not looking after her better.

Thankfully, she doesn’t protest when I tell her we’re going to the hospital, nor does she flinch when I take her by the hand and guide her towards my bike. Her fingers are cold and she’s too quiet. I know she’s been through a horrific trauma and she’s probably barely holding her shit together right now.

“Heather,” I say softly, steadying her as she steps over the bike. “Are you good?”

She’s a good woman, so she doesn’t lie to my face. She just nods and climbs onto my bike, wincing slightly when her arm brushes the tear in her jacket where someone grabbed her too hard.

I gave her my helmet and she immediately starts putting it on, like maybe she can hide her facial expressions behind the visor. It seems big and hefty in her small hands.

Her hands tremble as she straps it under her chin. She misses the clasp, twice. I cover her hands with mine and lock it into place for her.

It kills me how vulnerable she looks right now and how much I want to fix everything in her life

When we take off, I ride like I’ve got the devil at my back. I need her to be seen by a doctor and right away. The engine roars beneath us, even as thunder cracks overhead. Dark clouds are gathering and the last thing my old lady needs right now is to be drenched on top of everything else that’s happened to her. My tires eat the pavement, but I don’t ride recklessly, not with the precious cargo that I’m carrying. I dodge potholes and take corners smoothly.

But still, she holds onto me like I’m her lifeline. She wraps her arms around my waist, tighter than I expected. My heart melts for her when she presses her forehead to the center of my back. It’s a gesture that feels sweet and loving and I soak it up.

Every second that I ride, I think about how I should’ve stopped Grime the second his blade came out. Should’ve known better than to think we could talk him down.

I keep hearing her voice back in that warehouse. The warning that she screamed as she spotted us. And her silence when the knife pressed to her skin. The way she looked at me when Grime finally let her go. That look. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even angry. She just looked mentally exhausted.

Traffic barely registers, as I weave through it silently quickly and in total control of my bike. People move out of the way when they see my cut, or maybe it’s because I’m moving quickly in the direction of the hospital. I run a yellow that’s two seconds fromred. Someone honks. I don’t even look back at them. I’m a man on a mission.

The hospital sign comes into view. It’s neon, sterile and a little too bright after all that dimness of the factory. I pull up hard to the curb and kill the engine before we’ve even stopped moving.

She’s slow to slide off the bike. I’m already beside her, tugging the helmet off her head.

Her hair’s damp with sweat. Her face is pale. But her eyes are still clear.

She looks at me and tries to manage a tired smile. She fails miserably.

“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

She puts on a brave face and tells me, “I think I’m okay.”.

“You still bleeding,” I ask. My voice comes out rough, worried and a bit sharper than I mean it to.

She reaches up like she’s just remembered, touches her neck, winces. “Oh. Right. I forgot about that, with everything else that went down today.”

I grab the clean bandana I keep in my saddlebag and press it gently against the wound. She leans into my touch. Just a little.

“Come on,” I murmur. “Let’s get you checked out by a doctor.”

***

The ER doors slide open with a hiss. When we walk in, everything is too white and too bright.

A nurse catches sight of us and bolts towards us with a wheelchair and a flurry of clipped questions.

I don’t let go of her hand. Not until they tell me I can’t follow her past triage.

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