“Yes, I’m good. Where’s your truck?”
My eyes are glued to the knife impaling his side. “You ne-need to go to the hospital.” Hysteria begins to rise. I was running on adrenaline, but now that that’s worn off, I am seconds away from losing it.
“I’m so s-sorry. This is my fault.”
My knees buckle, and I’m about to hit the pavement. But that doesn’t happen because with a poised move, Bull wraps one large hand around the back of my neck while the other grips my waist. This is the first time he’s touched me without flinching.
Our faces are inches apart, and this close to him, I take him in. He is rugged, wild, dominant, but I don’t feel afraid. “Never apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”
My mouth opens and closes uselessly because I can’t construct a coherent sentence.
“Now, give me your keys. I’m driving.”
The wailing of the police sirens gets louder, and that’s all the wake-up call I need. Licking my lips nervously, I state with newfound confidence, “No one drives my truck. And you’ve been stabbed, just in case you’ve forgotten.”
Bull’s lips tilt into a semblance of a smile, and the sight stirs deeply within me. “Then let’s haul ass…Tiger.”
My head bobbles a nod, and we commence a quick walk toward my truck. Both our faces are downturned, disguising who we are, but when Bull walks past the man on the ground, he clenches his jaw. I know it’s killing him not to take off the ski mask, and if his fury wasn’t clouding his judgment, he probably would have done so before rendering him unconscious. But now, to do so, Bull would have to reveal his identity to the nosy bystanders. And he clearly doesn’t want to do that.
After fumbling with the zipper on my backpack, I finally get out my keys. Unlocking my door, I get into the driver’s side before whimpering in absolute pain as I reach across the middle console to open Bull’s door. He jumps in, appearing untroubled by the knife sticking out of his side.
My truck is slow to start, but once the engine turns over, I tear out of the parking lot, the realization of what just happened hitting hard. My hands are shaking so badly, I grip the steering wheel tighter to maintain control.
Bull leans back in the chair, breathing deeply through his nose. He must be in pain. And when I hit the curb because my eyes are on him and not the road, he grunts loudly.
“Oh god, I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he barks through a winded breath. “Where you going?”
“To the hospital,” I hoarsely reply, thankful the traffic is light.
“No, no hospital. Take me back to the motel,” he argues.
“Are you mad?” I exclaim with a winded wheeze, flicking my attention back and forth between him and the road. “Your name suits you perfectly. You’re stubborn like a bull!”
He groans in frustration, arching his head backward to lean on the headrest. “I’m stubborn?” he argues. “Why are you so fucking stubborn, woman?”
“Um, firstly, do not call me woman. This isn’t the Stone Age.”
“Duly noted,” he replies, appearing, god forbid, humored by my response.
“And I’m taking you to the hospital because you’ve been stabbed!”
“Yes, I know. I can feel it.” His lips twitch. “There is no need to keep reminding me.”
Is he making jokes?
This night just keeps getting crazier by the minute.
“No hospital.”
When he refuses to budge about the hospital, I take a left and head to the motel. “Once you drop me off, you need to go to the hospital, though. You’re hurt.”
My entire body chooses this moment to spasm in pain, but I ignore it, and his bossiness, and shake my head firmly. “No, I’m not leaving you. You’ve been sta—” I bite my lip as he knows what he’s been.
“Nice T-shirt,” he says, while I keep my eyes ahead, embarrassed. We ride the rest of the short trip to the motel in silence.
When I pull into the parking lot, I park in front of his room. I kill the engine and quickly open my door to help him out. But he’s already hobbling to his room. I chase after him, winded and in agony, but I mask it because I’m not the one with a knife in my torso.
When Bull opens the door, he limps to the bathroom while I close and lock the door behind me. I don’t know what the right protocol is here. Should I call someone?
I lean against the door, biting my thumbnail nervously. When Bull emerges from the bathroom with supplies in hand, I pale.
“Can you get whatever alcohol there is out of the minibar?” When I merely stare at him wide-eyed, he adds, “Please.”
Working on autopilot, I quickly do as he asks. There are two bottles of scotch and one bottle of vodka. I grab all three.
He slumps onto the end of the bed, tossing the towels and sewing kit onto the mattress. When I see the complimentary kit, I cover my mouth to hold back the vomit.
“Let me drive you to the hospital,” I plead, as there is no way he will be able to sew himself back up with the flimsy needle and thread.
He ignores me and instead gestures with his head for the alcohol.
My legs are trembling as I walk over to the bed and pass them to him. He accepts and throws them onto the mattress. “If you’re queasy or going to faint, it’s best you leave now.”
“Why?” I squeak, suddenly feeling unsteady on my feet.
“Because I’m going to take this knife out,” he replies as though we’re discussing the weather.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus!” I begin to pace the room, interlocking my hands behind my neck.
Bull allows me the time to process the inevitable, but I shake my head animatedly and woman the fuck up. “It’ll be fine,” I say aloud, more for myself than for Bull. I’ve had a baby, for fuck’s sake. What can be worse than that?
Taking three deep breaths, I nod quickly. “Okay, do it.”
Bull exhales sharply, one hand supporting his flesh beneath the wound while the other grips the handle of the knife. Those eyes focus on mine, and somehow, they tell me it’ll be all right. He’s about to pull a knife out of his body, and he’s the one comforting me.
My infatuation for this man just grows.
“One.” He inhales, thoughtfully giving me a countdown.
“Two,” I squeak, unable to look away from his bloody fingers gripping the handle. My mouth is parted, in the midst of saying three, but Bull doesn’t give me a chance because he swiftly yanks out the knife and drops it to the floor with a thud.
“And th-three,” I stammer, needing to talk before I pass out.
Bull swiftly reaches for the towel and places it over the wound while I sway on my feet. There is so much…blood. The white towel is soon soaked a bright red. Bull casually peers down, patiently waiting for the bleeding to stop.
He breathes evenly through his nose, but when he shifts and finches slightly, the sight of him in pain has me forgetting my queasiness, and I rush over to the bed. Sitting near him, I slowly reach out to remove his hand.
His body tenses, but he allows me to touch him. “Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”
Ignoring him, I gently remove the towel from his wound, but I can’t see anything because his T-shirt is in the way. “Take off your shirt,” I demand, not even thinking twice about my request.