We followed Bernadette home the entire way. We watched over her. No way in hell I’d leave my girl alone in the dark in a bra and panties. So even if she didn’t know it, we kept her safe. And then I fucked her. All night long. Over and over.
Another violent wrenching of my arm, and a scream tears from me that I can’t stop. Doesn’t matter though because I heard both David and Tom drive away. The fact that there’s nobody here to guard me means that Ophelia doesn’t have enough money to keep any of her hired thugs on retainer. She’s working with scraps right now. We have to keep her cash flow down if we’re going to win.
My muscles tense for another go, but my mind drifts back to a different night.
“I’m scared, Aaron,” Bernie said, curling her fingers through mine. We put our foreheads together, just naked and breathing.
“If you’re scared, we don’t have to do this,” I told her, and I meant it. If all I cared about was sex, I’d be my father. He’d screw anything that moved; it made my mother suicidal.
“Not of the sex,” she’d whispered, nuzzling against me. “I’m afraid that if we do this, we’ll get too close to each other. If I give you my heart, will you make me bleed?”
And she did give me her heart. And I did make her bleed.
I imagine if I were to die here tonight, Bernie would struggle to recover.
I can’t and won’t do that to her again.
With another scream, I wrench my arm against the cuffs, and something pops. For a second there, I must black out because the next thing I know, my arm is free and sitting bloody and limp on the bed beside me. “If I give you my heart, will you make me bleed?” My brain conjures Bernie’s face up and holds it there as I lift my eyes to see what I’ve managed to break—besides my arm or wrist or what-the-fuck-ever.
The bed frame is still nearly intact, but the spindle I’ve been yanking on has popped out of the horizontal piece above it. Looks like there was a peg on the end that I’ve managed to snap off. At great cost, I might add. Whoever built this goddamn bed deserves a medal; this thing is sturdy as shit.
My breathing is ragged as I try and fail to lift my arm. My right shoulder is screaming in pain, but if I don’t get moving then all of this is for naught. I’ll have hurt myself for no reason at all. It takes me a couple of tries, but my lips move on the syllables of one beautiful word. Bernadette. I know it isn’t healthy to live for one person and one person alone, but … I clench my stomach muscles in anticipation of the pain as I lift my arm up, a ragged sob tearing from my lips that I’m just glad nobody’s around to hear.
I bend my right leg as much as I can, straining my fingers for my bootlace. With another sob, I drop back onto the bed, soaked in sweat and bleeding at the wrist. I’ve really done it, truly and utterly fucked my arm up. And still, my gunshot wound isn’t fully healed either. I’m going to end up scarred and in constant pain like Callum.
Still, small price to pay to get out of this mess.
I try again. And again. And again. Just when I’m starting to think that the goddamn shoelace is out of my reach, my throbbing fingers snag it, and I’m able to grab hold. Fortunately for me, the style at Prescott High is to wear your bootlaces undone. I’ve done it for years. The tongue of this pair is particularly loose, the shoes well-worn, the leather pliable and broken from use. I get the lace in my hand and then collapse again to rest, staring up at the black and white buffalo plaid canopy above my head.
Get out of here, start running, don’t stop until you find Havoc.
My right arm is shaking so badly that I can barely lift it to my lips, using my teeth to pull the metal end of the aglet off to reveal the small square-shaped key inside. Oscar found these things online almost two years ago, and we’ve been wearing them in our shoes ever since.
Never thought I’d really have to use them though.
It takes me three attempts to get the key into the lock on the handcuff, but then there’s this blessed release and I’m groaning as the pressure on my joints finally releases, and I collapse into the bed with my upper body free.
I’m coming, baby, I think as I struggle to sit up, feeling that awful pain in my leg again. Yep, I’ve got a fracture of some sort, and I’m going to have to walk on the damn thing. This should be fun.
