Page 24 of Rogue Mission
The medics share a glance, but back off for a few seconds.
“Stay out of trouble, okay?” I choke out, hardly able to speak as I brush her hair back. “Enjoy the flight.”
Her gaze softens and she nods. “Too bad it’s not a sunset flight over the beach.”
God. Bless.
I shake my head, more emotion squeezing the column of my throat. “We’ll go. Soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she says then winces. “Hurts to talk.”
That does it.
Tears push past my eyelids and drop onto the flight blanket they’ve tucked around her.
“Time’s up,” the head medic says tersely, and unlocks the stretcher.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She manages to wiggle her arm until her hand is free. The last thing I see before they load up is her thumbs up signal.
I’ll never forget that sight.
It’s a good thing someone else is driving.
I slam into the passenger seat, already barking orders.
Beast ignores me as he buckles his seat belt. “You did good tonight even though everything went upside down.”
Truck flies into the back seat. He exhales as he sprawls out. “Ready.”
Neither of them say another word to me. Good fucking thing.
Because all I can do is stare out the window for the hour long drive to the trauma center, biting my knuckle as I cry like a fucking baby.
TEN
In the grand scheme of things, flying in a helicopter isn’t the worst outcome.
It’s actually kind of fun. If they’d quit jostling my ribs.
Being alive, of course, tops the list of positives.
God. I can’t believe Idied.
A groan slips out before I can stop it. The medic leans over, calm and efficient. “I’m going to give you some pain meds now.”
He placed a headset on me the second they loaded me, so his voice filters through the noise of the blades overhead like he’s talking from the bottom of a tin can.
I nod, swallowing down the ache that runs all the way to my toes. If this is what it feels like to be a prize fighter, I’ll stick to academia.
“Bring it on,” I tell him. “But just so you know—I’m a lightweight. One glass of wine and I’m singing badly and dancing like a donkey scratching its butt on a fencepost.”
His eyes crinkle. “Roger that. I’ll keep you strapped down. No butt-scratching in here. Too many important switches.”
He starts an IV with practiced hands, the cool rush of fluid creeping up my arm. Within seconds, everything feels much better.
“Can I ask you something?” I manage, drawing in the deepest breath I can.
