He couldn’t do it.
Shade blinked, trying to get the blood out of his eyes and clear his blurry vision, so he could protect himself.
Instead of finishing the job—which the kid could’ve easily done with Shade on the ground and unable to move quickly—the boy began to run. Not in the direction of the camper but away from it. “Mom! Mom!”
“Mommy! Mommy!”
No. Not now.
For fuck’s sake, he couldn’t think straight. He needed to stay in the present and not get sucked into the past. He needed to stay conscious and get the fuck out of there.
Shade pulled in a slow breath, filling his depleted lungs. Trying to clear his double vision. Trying to think past the unbearable pain.
But all he could see was spots. Worse, blood poured from the wound on the side of his head. His fucking leg might even be broken.
Fuck!
He needed to move, otherwise he was going to die on Hillbilly Hill and that was one hill he didn’t want to die on.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself in the direction of the van. It would take him days to get there dragging himself through the mud, leaves and over rocks. If he even remained conscious for that long.
His thoughts wavered as he continued to pull himself along, driven by the thought of never seeing or touching Chelle again. Never inhaling her scent, never hearing her husky laughter, or her moans as he fucked her...
He didn’t know how long or how far he crawled but once he found a hole near a tree where he could hide in the dark, he did his best to cover himself with loose brush.
If the Shirleys found him, he was dead. To prevent that, he needed his brothers to find him first.
Thank fuck Judge insisted he put an app on his phone so he could be located if something happened. A fuck-up just like this. It was one thing the enforcer insisted on before agreeing to Shade going up the mountain alone.
He could no longer see shit between the dark of the night, the blood in his eyes and his spinning head, so using his fingers, he felt his way down his possibly broken leg—hissing when a bolt of pain as hot as white lightning shot through him—until he located his cell phone in the side pocket in his cargo pants. He only hoped it hadn’t been destroyed.
After working it out of his pocket, he brought it to his face but couldn’t focus on it. He couldn’t even see the screen through his fucked-up vision.
He tilted the screen downward and hit the side button, grateful when the phone lit up. He concentrated as hard as he could to see if he could identify his contacts app. Once he thought he found it, he pressed it, then hit whatever contact he could find.
He didn’t have a lot of numbers in his phone. Mainly his brothers and Chelle.
Fuck. He hoped he didn’t dial Chelle by mistake.
He barely got it to his ear in time to hear, “Yo, brother. Whassup?”
“Need...”
“Yo, Shade! What the fuck is—”
“Help.”
He hoped to fuck he said it out loud and not only in his head. Because the night was closing in on him in a hurry. The little vision he had narrowed until there was nothing left.
Nothing but darkness, stillness and silence.
Bright lights.
Loud beeping.
The distant murmur of voices.
Nothing but more darkness, stillness and silence.
Bright lights.
Loud beeping.
The murmur of voices. Not so distant.
The sharp smell of antiseptic burning his nostrils.
Shade blinked.
Blinked again.
He did a mental inventory of his body.
He didn’t hurt but floated on a fluffy cloud instead. That might have to do with the needle stuck in his hand and hooked to an IV.
He blinked again as things became slightly clearer.
He was in a hospital. He glanced down and saw he was wearing some sort of shitty ill-fitting gown, but at least his scars weren’t exposed. Thank fuck.
He gingerly turned his head toward the person or persons who had been speaking by the door and now approached his bed.
“Welcome back.” Trip. “Had us fuckin’ worried for too fuckin’ long.”
Right.
“App did its job, thank fuck.” Judge.
“If you hadn’t had coverage, you woulda been fucked.” And Sig.
“He’s still fucked but at least he’s breathin’,” Trip said.
“Yeah, but they got him on the good shit,” Sig added with a wicked grin, lifting some button thingy from where it lay on the bed and sliding it under his hand.
“Not for long. They were waitin’ for him to wake up before they kick his ass out for not havin’ insurance,” his prez said.
Fuck. The hospital bill was going to hurt worse than his fucking injuries.
“You get knocked so fuckin’ silly you can’t speak?” Trip asked with a raised eyebrow.
Before he could answer, Judge chimed in, “Need to discuss what happened up there but not here. Once you’re back at the farm and there ain’t any extra ears.”
“What excuse d’you make?” His question was nothing more than a croak. He was thirsty as fuck, too.
Sig poured him a plastic cup full of ice water and Shade sipped at it, his stomach doing a little roll.
“Told them you wrecked your sled,” Judge answered.
“No road rash,” Shade said.
“Yeah, well, if you want some we can give you some,” Trip responded. “They didn’t dig any further than what we told them. What you tell your woman’s gonna be up to you. Just not the truth, yeah?”
Shade closed his eyes for a second. Fuck, he would have to make up a story for her that didn’t involve wrecking his sled. Especially since she’d see his sled had no damage and would easily figure out he was lying to her. And there was no way he was going to let his brothers smash up his Night Train to make it look like an accident.
“She know?”
“Yeah, Cassie called her,” Judge answered. “She’s on her way over now. So figure out a believable story before her ass gets here.”
“So...” Trip started, his hands on his hips under his cut. “Got a bunch of stitches holdin’ in your brains. Luckily, no skull fracture, but got a concussion. They couldn’t find any breaks in your leg but said you got somethin’ called a bone bruise, which is worse than it sounds. All that shit means you’re gonna be off your sled for a coupla weeks between the two injuries. They’re gonna release you with a brace and pain meds. Supposed to keep weight off that leg, keep it elevated and iced, and not do anythin’ stupid ‘til you’re feelin’ better.”
He couldn’t ride his sled? How the fuck was he going to get around? “Only got my sled.”
He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t know. Most of the guys had some sort of backup transportation they used in bad weather. Shade was one of the few who didn’t and had to catch a ride with someone else when needed. But he rode his sled as much as he could, even in winter.
“The van?” He could drive that back and forth to work. Hopefully, one of them found it where he’d left it. If not, someone would need to go get it. But that was a conversation that had to wait until they were sure no “extra ears” were around.
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til you’re feelin’ better. Doc wants you off your feet. No weight on that leg so it heals faster. Thought I made that clear.”