Page 71 of Final Temptation
I checked my pocket for my phone; I needed to call for help.
Dead battery.
I ran toward the truck. Each step beneath my feet crunching on top of broken glass and gravel. There had to be a phone in this truck. I needed to call for help.
The driver’s side window was completely shattered, the glass spread across the crash site like confetti.
The man behind the wheel wasn’t conscious. He was hurt, really bad.
There was so much blood.
Between the mix of alcohol rising to the surface and the brutal sight in front of me, I could hurl over and puke. But there wasn’t time for that; he needed help, goddammit.
“WAKE UP, MAN! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”
I rounded his truck, opening a door not caved in from the crash. My palms bled as I sifted on all fours through his back seat for a phone. This guy had anything and everything in his vehicle, and not one of those damn things was a fucking phone.
I began tossing items out of his truck, clearing up room to locate what I needed. With all the other shit thrownaround his truck, it was almost impossible to find what I was looking for.
A backpack.
A lunchbox.
Water bottles fucking everywhere.
Wait….
No…
My eyes snagged on the sweatshirt. One that looked oddly familiar. Everyone at work had one of these. It was gray, the words Cooper Construction written in blue across the chest.
That was the company I worked for. That was my dad’s fucking company.
“Oh my God,” I cried, realization washing over me that whoever was in this car, the chances I knew them were sky fucking high.
Footsteps grew louder behind me.
“We gotta go, man! We gotta get the fuck out of here! Someone else is bound to drive by soon who can help.” Logan was behind me, tugging me out of the back seat.
Fighting back, I wiggled my way out of his grip, running back to the driver’s side window.
The driver was slumped over the wheel; he hadn’t moved since I started tearing through his shit like a crazy person. His blood was everywhere. His hair was full of blood, his face hardly recognizable. I knew you shouldn’t touch someone when they were hurt; you could risk hurting them more, but he wasn’t moving.
Grabbing his shoulders, I shook him hard. “Come on, man, wake the fuck up!” I sobbed, tears running down my cheeks uncontrollably.
Who was the guy behind all the blood?
Around the rearview mirror, a key card flickered,catching my attention. The same style key card I owned. It was one that had my name, a photo of myself, and a lanyard. I snatched the name tag from the mirror, and even through the sun-faded font, I could make out the name clear as day.
Anthony Wilson.
No.
Fuck, no.
It couldn’t be.
Anthony Wilson was a coworker, a family friend. His fucking daughter used to babysit me and Declan when we were just teenagers.
