Page 75 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“Jake, why the hell are you still standing there? She needs an ambulance!” I’d never seen Beck so rattled.
“Can you tell me your name?” Nick asked.
I sighed. This was going to be a whole thing. Again. “Hailey Emily Lane.”
I leveled a look at Beck because only he could appreciate how well I was actually doing if I remembered to give my full fake name after passing out.
Beck sat back on his haunches with a sigh of relief, but he still looked on edge—like I had right after Wesley’s call—he was a whisper from tipping over into a pit of despair.
That’s when I noticed his knees—scraped and bloodied.
I lolled my head to get a better look. “What happened to you?”
Beck’s eyes flicked to his knees. Then he gave me an incredulous look. “You fainted, you’re dripping blood all over the pathway, and you are asking me about some scrapes?”
I waited.
“I saw you falling, so I slid. To catch you.”
My heart throbbed.
“I shouldn’t have even stepped away from you though.” He raked a hand down his face. “I knew you had issues with fainting in the past, and I had you stand right after you lost blood.”
“Beck.” I reached for his hand. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“What’s going on?” Victoria demanded. The others hovered at the hut’s entrance.
I groaned. If only the growing audience would go back to their eggs and leave me to die of embarrassment in peace.
Gabe maneuvered around the group, a first-aid kit in hand. “What did I miss?”
“She passed out,” Beck said miserably.
Kat gasped. “Oh my God!”
“I’m fine,” I tried to sit up again, but Beck held me firm. “Really. Fainting is like a factory reset. Or a good vomit. You feel better after.” No one found that funny.
“Well, unfortunately,” Nick said, cracking open the first-aid kit, “excessive bleeding is not like a good vomit. We need to get you to the hospital to patch up this arm.”
“Do we really trust the hospitals here?” I had this strange slap-happy, almost loopy feeling. “What if they use a fishing hook to sew me up, and for the pain, they give me a leather strap to bite down on.”
Beck’s eyes widened at the horror my imagination had jumped to, but then he shook his head—trying hard not to laugh. “We are in Costa Rica. Not an episode of Lost.”
“You are going to the hospital,” Nick said in a no-nonsense tone. “End of discussion.”
As the paramedics wheeled my stretcher to the waiting ambulance, the group huddled nearby to wave us off.
“We’ll see you back at the hotel,” Victoria said with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about your luggage. We’ll bring it in the van.”
I was glad someone thought of all the details because I’d been so whiplashed from the morning’s golf cart ride through hell that I hadn’t given our things a single thought.
“Wait,” Nick said. “Do you at least have your passport?”
Right, I’d probably need identification at the hospital. “Shit. No.” Because all but three of my brain cells had died in the wildfire that blazed through my life after Wesley’s call. The last few cells were still putting out flames.
I looked at Beck. “It’s in the small zipper of my carry-on.”
He nodded, but Madison stopped him. “No. You stay with her. I’ll get it.”
