No Saint (Wild Men 6)

“Proud of him?”

I shudder. “No, of course not. Violence is never the way to solve problems. I’ll talk to him. He’ll listen.”

“You really believe that?

“What? That he’ll listen?”

He grunts, and I’m not sure if he’s amused or annoyed. “That violence is not the way.”

“Yeah. I believe it.” I dab at the wound with the towel, sucking my lower lip between my teeth in concentration. “You know you should see a—

“—doctor. Yeah, no fucking way.”

I frown. “You could have a concussion, or internal bleeding. Head wounds are tricky, Ross.”

“And I could die, yeah, whatever. Who the hell cares?”

My heart does that twisting, hurting thing again.

“Why do you keep saying those things?” I ask frustrated and sit down beside him, squeezing the towel in my hands.

“Because they’re true,” he whispers, not looking at me. “You need to hear the truth.”

“Ross...”

“That violence you don’t believe in? That’s the language I know.” His strong hands are clenching and unclenching on his thighs, painted red with his blood. “That’s all I know.”

My eyes burn. “I do. I care, okay? I care whether you live or die. Look...” I jump to my feet, unable to just sit there, so helpless. “I’ll go get the medic kit from home, clean that wound out.”

“No. Fuck, don’t go.” He’s on his feet, swaying a little, grabbing at my arm, and his ashen face scares me to death. “Don’t.”

“Fine, sit down. Please.” I sink back down on the bench and tug him along until he’s slumped beside me. “Did Josh hit you elsewhere? He threw a few rocks before I got to him.”

“I’m okay.”

He’ll never admit he’s hurt, I realize, and what’s more, I don’t think it’s a macho thing. He sounds like someone used to taking care of himself, of licking his wounds in the dark and pretending everything’s okay.

A quick patting down finds a few sore spots on his legs, one on his side. He hisses when I start lifting his T-shirt, but it’s the cuts he got last week. They look red and puffy.

“I said I’m fine,” he says.

But he’s not. He looks roughed up, exhausted, his face too pale, his hair encrusted with blood, a line of it darkening the side of his face, seeping into the hem of his T-shirt. He looks kind of thin, despite the muscles, his cheeks gaunt, and his light blue eyes are feverishly bright.

He’s still a heart-breaker. How can this boy be so handsome? It’s not fair. There were plenty of nice boys at the school I attended when I moved in with Aunt Emily—and I didn’t care for any of them. I was never miss popularity and could never pass for a super model, but there was some interest, and it went a long way in restoring my confidence, giving rise to the new me.

But they never made my breath catch like Ross.

“I want to help you,” I whisper. “Something’s wrong. You’re not okay.”

“Just sit with me,” he says, and even his voice is thin and tired. He grips my arm, his hold almost bruising, his gaze so faraway he might as well be on a distant moon. “Sit and I’m gonna tell you a story...”

Chapter Sixteen

Ross

I’m not a storyteller, never had fairytales read to me as a kid, and never enjoyed books much, but right now my fried brain can’t come up with any better ways to keep her here—and I need her to stay. I have this sudden irrational fear she’ll go and not come back.

My mind’s been a blur for days and nights, and seeing her, kissing her, getting her off at the garage only made the confusion worse. Then I took a rock to the head, and yeah, well... let’s just say it didn’t help any. My head’s killing me, my body aches, and I feel like I’m about to crash, fall to fucking pieces.