Page 22 of Awry
Okay, mostly still on my knees and hands.
“His death is not mine or yours to take,” I say.
She blinks at me, then tries to smile.“Because you say so.”
I manage a soft laugh at her throwing my words back at me.“Yeah, something like that.”
A voice — no doubt still Rath — muffled against Presh’s chest comes through from the phone.It sounds demanding.
Both of us ignore him, slowly getting to our feet and walking the short distance around the stone wall and to the back of the car.Presh is limping.I’m unsteady, not completely back to the land of the living and in command of my body yet.
“See?”Presh says, pointing to the side of the car crumpled up against the wall.Trying to confirm its not-operational state.
“It will run,” I say, ignoring the stupid pinch in my heart over the destruction of a thing as pretty as the classic car.It’s just an object.It can either be fixed or not.
Presh huffs.At what she perceives as obstinacy on my part.But I’m not stubborn … well, I’m not currently being stubborn.I do justknow.Because a quick glance around is enough to tell me that the car is our only obvious option for escape.And a full-blownknowinggenerally smooths the way for me.
How?
No idea.I just go with it.
The trunk opens under my hands, even though I should have needed the key.Again, I usually ignore little things like that, because I can’t actually control such things, even if they’re otherworldly in nature to begin with.It’s simpler to assume that the original crash jarred something loose in the locking mechanism.
I note that one of the massive motorbikes has fallen over.Perhaps that’s why Presh is limping?Or maybe that injury is from when she tripped Chains?
I open my suitcase, yanking out the first items of clothing I come across — a tank top, underwear, sweater, and some leggings.All way too large for Presh, but dry.
“Strip,” I say, pulling out a similar set of clothing for myself and setting both to the side.
Rath’s voice emanates over my phone.Apparently, Presh has put it on speaker again.Or my hearing is coming and going.“I can see you’re not moving.”The snarling asshole’s tone is cool now, but clearly frustrated.
“He’s tracking the phone,” Presh says, setting the device down in the trunk, tugging the wet wad of cash out of her underwear, then struggling to strip off her tank top and panties.
I gather her multicolored hair in my hands, giving it a twist and squeeze.Then, as she stands there naked and shivering, I use her wet tank top to try to wipe off the diluted blood still staining her tanned skin.
Presh starts to dress her lower half as I cross around her to clean off her back.She’s got welts all over her that are going to bloom into nasty bruises in the next few hours.On her hip, shoulder, and the entire right side of her face.Plus a nasty cut on her right temple — from the car crash, presumably — that I’m careful to not prod too much so it doesn’t start bleeding again.
Nothing life threatening, so I can wait until we feel a little safer to address her wounds.
“Still not moving,” Rath snaps over the phone’s speaker.
We ignore him.
I help Presh get the new tank top and sweater on.She winces, but doesn’t cry out.Then I strip myself.I’m not wounded, but I’m also not fully in control of my limbs, my body, my thoughts.
Theknowingtugs at me.Insistently.
“Toss the clothing over the wall.”I lean over to wring out my own hair, inadvertently getting more watery blood all over my bare feet, before I dress in clean clothing.“Raining or not, our DNA and essence signatures are all over the beach already.But it’s better to limit how much of Breaker and Chains we drag back into the car.”
“I’m sending a cleanup crew,” Rath says over the phone.
“I’m pissed about my boots,” I say, somewhat randomly.I have someone, usually coordinated through Coda, that I can call to help clean up my messes as well.But I’m not that functional at the moment.“I got them custom made.In Italy.”
Rath huffs over the speakers, but doesn’t bother answering me.I haven’t asked what club he belongs to, but apparently he’s high ranking enough that he can call in favors.Like the safe house he’s trying to get us moving towards, and the aforementioned cleanup crew.
Presh bundles all the bloodied clothing together, limps back a couple of steps, and awkwardly heaves the pile over the wall.
I hand her an elastic hair tie when she returns, pulling my own hair up in a wet mess of a bun with a second one.Normally, I carry only a single tie when I travel, utilized when washing my face before bed.I ignore the implications of having two in my travel kit for this particular journey.Just like I ignored that my pastel rainbow nail polish matches Presh’s hair color.That kind of thinking is a trap of endless, mind-smothering loops of what-ifs.
