Primal (Wrong Side of the Tracks 2)

A face peeked out from behind a sheet hung to dry in the garden, and Dane yelped with hope as if he’d just seen land after weeks of drifting in the ocean. “Hey! He needs a doctor! Please, help!” he roared, no longer feeling any discomfort beyond the choking sensation in his throat.

This wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for him, and if Jag died because Dane had pushed him back on top of that fucking hill, the look of desperation on that handsome face would haunt him forever.

“Jesus Christ! Who are you? What happened?” The man with long hair pulled into a bun rushed out from behind the sheet, already calling someone. “Did he attack you?” he asked as if Dane were the one bleeding out.

Dane stared at him, helping a half-lucid Jag descend to his knees. “What? Call an ambulance, please,” he said. Now that they’d reached someone who could provide help, the rigid sense of purpose he’d survived on during the climb down was crumbling, and he put his arms around Jag’s torso as a sob tore out of his chest.

“Come over right now,” the man told someone on the phone with his wide eyes glued to both Jag and Dane. “We’re on it. Now tell me what happened. Jag? We’re gonna get you help,” he said, supporting Jag from the other side as soon as he stuffed his phone into his pocket.

But when the tug pulled Jag out of the equilibrium he’d reached, he let out a soft wail, and Dane felt like punching the pretty boy in the face. “He… he fell back on this thing,” Dane uttered and petted Jag’s sweaty back, longing to provide whatever relief he could.

The hum of a large car approached at top speed, and a beat-up truck emerged from behind the corner, heading straight for them. It slowed down, then stopped with the scream of tires.

“What is this?” shouted a tall guy with tattooed arms as he rolled out of the passenger seat.

The driver followed suit. Despite being more mature than the rest of them, he was packed with muscle that strained his paint-splattered T-shirt, and had the expression of a bulldozer headed for a pile of scrap. When his gaze settled on Dane, his body tensed as if he was about to dash forward and crush him before he could have explained what happened.

Dane’s roots sank deeper into the asphalt, keeping him in place despite the fact that if Rob had brought him here for disposal, at least one of those people had been in on it.

And he’d foolishly asked them for help.

But if they’d seen him in passing, with bloodstained, bruised features at that, maybe there was a chance they wouldn’t recognize him? It was his only chance for survival, so he petted Jag’s shivering back and met the giant’s eyes. “He got hurt by accident. He needs a doctor!”

“Ros, lay a blanket in the car,” the giant said through gritted teeth but didn’t take his eyes off Dane, as if he expected him to bolt.

“But Frank… shouldn’t we wait for an ambulance?” The youngest man asked once the other guy whispered something to him.

One look from Frank was enough to send him away without further questions. This was the man who’d saved Jag’s life in the past, and about whom Jag had so many kind words. But if he was the owner of this place, then he had to be the one tasked with taking care of Dane’s body.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Frank said as if he’d read Dane’s thoughts, but when he came closer, all he seemed to care about was his injured friend. He approached him and stroked Jag’s sweaty hair with a gentleness in his massive hand that provoked an explosion of jealousy in Dane.

Jag wouldn’t open his eyes, but he lifted his chin in response to the touch, and his words came out between one strained breath and another. “Don’t… hurt… him.”

Dane’s chest sank, and he sobbed, blindly finding Jag’s hand and squeezing it. Frank watched him as if he were the Grim Reaper who might swing his scythe as soon as Dane let go of Jag’s fingers—the anchor that kept him among the living.

“He’ll stay with Shane until I understand what the fuck happened,” Frank growled, but just as the muscular, tattooed man approached like a good underling, Dane roared.

“No! I’m not leaving him!”

Understanding flashed in Frank’s dark eyes. “You’ve got to be shitting me. I’m not arguing over this when he could be dying,” he said and leaned close to kiss Jag’s forehead.

A car drove out from behind the house, and Ros slid out to open the back. “I put down the seats, so we can lay him flat,” he said with red blots on his cheeks.

Shane squinted at Dane, his square, tense face appearing more menacing than before. “You heard Frank. You’re staying with me.”