Hate You Not

“You hurting?”

She nods once. Her eyes squeeze shut. I think she’s crying. Goddamn it.

“You feel sick?”

She nods once.

“Sort of a stomach ache?”

She gives another little nod.

“That’s normal.” I move my fingers through her hair, hoping to use one sensation to distract from another. “You feel dizzy?”

“Kind of.”

“It’s okay. That’s normal too.” Especially if the bone is broken, but I don’t say that part out loud.

“Have you ever gotten hurt like this?” I ask.

She gives a little jerk of her chin, and Shawn says, “Fell out of a tree in our back yard when she was seven. Broke her arm near clean in half.”

June groans at his words.

“That make it hurt worse?”

She nods, and tears start dripping down her cheeks. Shit. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m holding her so I’ve got an arm around her upper back, and my other one under her knees; my left bicep is aching from the strain of holding her legs so that her ankle’s elevated. But it’s worth it. If I could do more for her, I would.

Shawn slows for a lone, country red-light, and her body quakes a little harder.

“Let’s play question and answer. Focus on my words, okay?”

She sniffles.

I lean my head down, so my cheek is pressed to her hair, hoping that might make her feel a little like I’ve got her. “Let’s start with something basic: Coke or Pepsi. I’m going to guess the answer’s Coke, since it seems to be your state’s official beverage.”

She nods once.

“Yeah? I figured that. You drink the Zero kind, or regular, or diet?”

“Diet,” she rasps.

“Better without sugar. I’m not a big fan of carbonated drinks, but if I have one, it’s a Diet Pepsi.”

She makes a small dissenting noise, and I try not to laugh; I don’t want to jar her.

“I like that it’s kind of spicy. You know what I mean?” I ask. “Sort of a pepper taste at the end?”

She makes the noise again—like she disagrees.

“I had Dr. Pepper—the sugar-free variety—a while back, and that was good too. Maybe that should be my new official restaurant beverage,” I muse.

We must be going through a little town now, because there are street lights illuminating her face, showing me her damp cheeks and her bloody lower lip.

“This is Dawson,” Shawn says.

I place it on my mental map. “Okay.” I look back down at June. “Pancakes or waffles?”

“French toast,” she croaks.

“A dissident.”

“Better,” she says, so softly.

“Yeah, it’s better. I can get behind that.” I wipe my thumb over her chin, but the blood’s dried. Then I push my fingers gently against her throat, wanting to get a read on her pulse—something I should have done already.

It’s fast, but I’m not surprised.

“You doing okay? Feel any more sick or any more dizzy?”

She shakes her head, burying her face against my chest, which makes my heart kick harder. “It hurts so bad.”

“I’m so sorry.” I hold her a little closer and tense my left arm more so her leg stays elevated.

Then I brush my lips over her forehead.Chapter 11JuneSurely I’m hallucinating. First the devil says he’s gonna let us be. Then he’s holding me against him like some sort of Disney hero. Now I’m pretty sure he might have kissed me on the head.

I know I’m hallucinating, because when his lips touch my skin I flush like a firecracker, from my forehead all the way down to my toes—which means the firework moves through my ankle. And that hurts like hellfire, so I moan, and I can feel his chest tense under my cheek.

“Sorry.” It’s a whisper.

“You’re the devil,” I say weakly.

That makes him laugh. His torso gives a small shake, and I grit my teeth because it hurts my ankle.

“Shit, that hurt? I’m really striking out here, aren’t I?”

“Do you…want to hit it?” I manage. My head is spinning from how bad my ankle hurts.

“I’m not laughing at that question. But it’s a tall order.”

Against my will, I give a laugh then grit my teeth. “Why does it hurt so bad?” I press my forehead against his chest—anything to distract from how damn bad it hurts.

“You want an honest answer on that?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“Probably because it’s broken.”

“I know,” I moan. “I heard it.”

“Did it make a sound?”

His palm is cradling the back of my head, thick fingertips pushed into my hair. “Pull it,” I whisper, instead of answering.

“Pull your hair?”

“Yeah.”

He does, and it feels good. I can get a breath without my lungs constricting from the pain.

“You like that?” His voice is so gentle, it doesn’t even sound like him.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Tell me if you change your mind.”

I shake my head. His fingers tug my hair again, and my head spins.

“Are you hanging in there, little sister?” Shawn asks from the front.

I nod, and Burke says, “She said yeah. I checked her pulse a little while ago. She’s doing okay. How much longer?”