I turned my face and glanced at him. He pushed away from me, picking up the flannel and staring at me expectantly.
I moved slowly, gripping the edge of the cot and trying to lever myself up. My grip was about as strong as a newborn baby’s and I couldn’t seem to control my own weight. But Brody was there, kneeling alongside the cot, slipping his arm around my waist and physically lifting me into a sitting position. I swung my legs around and a wave of dizziness threatened to knock me over.
“Easy,” he whispered. “You lost a lot of blood. You’re going to be weak.”
After a few moments of steadying myself, I nodded and he moved back, staying at arm’s length. He draped the flannel around me, guiding the arm without the bullet hole in through the fabric. When that was finished, I was shaking anew from the effort of holding up my body.
“Keep that arm at your side. Try not to use it or move it. I don’t have a sling so you’re going to have to pretend there’s one there holding your arm in place,” he instructed as he pulled the flannel around me gently. His fingers were deft as he buttoned it around my chest.
A scent I identified instantly as his wrapped around my senses. It was deep, exotic, and strong. It seemed to match the person I was becoming to see him as.
He didn’t say anything as he reached behind my neck, using his palm to scoop the very long strands of my hair out from under the shirt. He released the mass, running his palm over it, following its length all the way down to the small of my back.
When he reached the end, his palm stuttered, hovering there, creating a pocket of warmth that traveled through my clothes and seeped into my skin. “You’re really warm,” I whispered, swaying slightly.
“How else are you feeling?” he asked, concern in his tone.
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Bullets tend to have that effect on people.”
“Have you ever been shot?”
He shifted slightly in his crouch, almost like he was settling closer to me. We weren’t very far apart and even though I was sitting up, we were almost eye level.
“A couple times.” He shifted again, stretching out his torso and pointing to the side of his middle toward a puckered scar. It was round and looked like a knot.
“Is that what mine will look like?” I asked. Without thinking, I reached out and grazed my fingers over the scar. His skin was so warm compared to mine.
“Something like that,” he murmured, not moving away from my touch.
Our eyes met and held. Something passed between us, some sort of charged awareness. A feeling of comfort flowed into me. I felt safe with him. This was the scariest situation of my life, yet somehow I knew he would make sure we got out of here.
“I tried to run,” I blurted out.
He smiled. “Your ass almost fell down the stairs.”
“I’m scared.” I admitted, the confession ripping from a deep and private place within me. I might have felt safety in his presence, but I knew we were in danger.
“You should lay down. You look like shit,” was his response.
“Way to make a girl feel better,” I muttered as I lowered my body against the thin mattress. I tried not to think about all the different kinds of nasty bugs and creatures that were likely living in this thing.
“It’s not my job to make you feel better. It’s my job to keep you alive.”
“You’re all about the job, aren’t you?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and cut his eyes toward the other men across the room. “You should rest. I’ll see if I can find some water.”
He moved away from me without a backward glance.
Pain knotted around me, snaring me in its thick and tangled web. I turned back to the dirty cinderblock wall, preferring to stare at it rather than out into the creepy pit of a room.
Maybe after a few moments of rest, I would be able to think more clearly. I could come up with a way to get word to my father.
I could come up with a way to get the hell out of here.
5
Brody
Her wound worried me.
Luckily the bullet passed right through her arm and didn’t ricochet off a bone or make its way down into her chest and into an organ. Things could have been much worse for her.
But that didn’t mean she was totally out of the woods. I didn’t like the way the skin was hot to the touch and red around the edges. It could signal some form of early infection. Or the tissue could just be burned and very damaged from the bullet. Maybe the redness just seemed worse to my naked eye because she still had so much smeared and dried blood on her.
The bottom line was that she needed to be in a sterile environment, the wound needed to be cleaned and stitched, and she needed to be on fluid and antibiotics.
I glanced around the room I followed the three men into. It was practically a cave. All cinderblock walls with sloppily laid grout between. Dust and dirt coated every surface, including the concrete floor. Electrical wires hung out of the exposed ceiling, falling between battered pipes and old duct work.
I brought Taylor into a “private” room just off the main room, if anyone would dare to call it private. There were no walls separating us from the rest of the room, but it seemed someone—a long time ago—attempted to build a wall to close it off because the thick two-by-fours were all erected and nailed into place. But no drywall was ever hung. It’s the like the framing was built and then the project was abandoned, the wood left to turn a depressing gray and slowly rot away.
It was musty down here, the air thick with dampness and the scent of mold. Most places in the South didn’t have basements, so whatever this place had been likely wasn’t good. Hell, it was probably used back then for what it was being used for now: criminal activity.
Besides a small one-person cot (with no blanket or sheet) there was nothing in this “room” other than a single light bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling. I hadn’t tried to turn it on; it probably didn’t work anyway.
Out in the main space, there was a ratty mustard-colored couch. It was likely once a nice piece of furniture… oh, about twenty years ago.
It was ripped and dirty and, frankly, just the kind of thing I expected to see in this place. Off to the side was a white mini fridge, a small table with a lamp (which was lit), and a large box, which was serving as a coffee table.
Two of the guys were sitting on the couch, their noses buried in their cell phones, while Tommy was over by the stairs where I figured he was waiting for Snake. On the other side of the room was a small generator that rumbled in the background. A long black cord ran from the side and I knew that’s how they were supplying what little bit of electricity they had.