Page 34 of Break For Me
The clarity is the worst part.
Chapter Ten
ROCCO
The heat startsin my hand and spreads.
I wake up on the motel bed with the coverlet twisted around my legs, my palm throbbing inside its dressing like a second heartbeat—heavy, wet, and deeply wrong. The infection Adrian warned me about is no longer a warning. It's a fact, written in the deep ache radiating from my wrist to my elbow, in the flush climbing the inside of my forearm like a slow burn working its way toward my core.
I flex my fingers. The fourth and fifth respond sluggishly, the joints swollen. The gauze is damp—not with blood, but with the thin, yellowish seep of fluid that means the wound is weeping. I've seen it in men who got shanked in lockup. The skin goes red, then hot, then the heat becomes systemic and you're cooking from the inside.
I'm close.
I sit up. The room pitches sideways. I grip the mattress edge and wait for the motel to reassemble itself—the nicotine curtains, the bolted television, the second bed where Killian sleeps with an IV hanging from a wire hanger. Garrett is in the chair by the window. Shotgun across his knees. Not sleeping.Resting the way soldiers rest—one layer down from conscious, ready to flip.
Adrian is on the floor between the beds, head tipped back, glasses crooked. He’s actually sleeping—the genuine, collapsed kind. The body's last resort.
I could tell him about the fever. I could wake him and let him take my temperature and frown at the number and reach for his bag with those steady, precise hands.
I don't.
I pull on my boots with one hand and stand. The floor sways. I swallow the nausea, walk to the bathroom, and press my good hand under the cold tap. I splash the water on my face, my neck. The cold helps. A little. Enough to fake functional.
We need to move. This motel is a stop, not a destination.
I wake Garrett first. Then Adrian. The doctor comes up fast—eyes open, spine straight, hands reaching for his bag before his brain has fully engaged.
"We need to go," I say. "Killian stable enough to move?"
Adrian checks him. Pulse, pressure, dressing. He nods.
We load Killian into the truck. Same configuration—flat in the back, Adrian beside him. I get behind the wheel. Key in the ignition.
The road tilts.
I grip the wheel. My vision narrows to a tunnel—the windshield at the center, the rest dissolving into grey static. My left hand is in my lap, pulsing. The heat has climbed past my elbow, a deep burn settling into my shoulder, my neck.
I make it half a mile before I drift.
The rumble strip hits the tires. The truck lurches. Garrett grabs the dashboard. Adrian's voice comes through the rear window—sharp, immediate.
"Pull over. Now."
I pull to the shoulder and kill the engine. I sit there with my hands on the wheel—one good, one ruined—and the world spinning.
The driver’s door opens. Adrian is there. He presses the back of his hand to my forehead. The contact is brief, clinical. The coolness of his skin against my burning face makes my vision blur.
"You’re febrile. Move over."
"I don't?—"
"Move. Over."
I move. The effort of climbing across the center console nearly finishes me. My arms shake, my vision goes grey, my ribs scream. Adrian adjusts the seat and pulls back onto the road careful, measured—he hasn’t driven in years and the hesitation shows in every lane change.
I lean against the window. The glass is cold against my temple. He drives. I burn.
The safehouse is Killian’s.An auto shop in a dead industrial strip north of Poughkeepsie. Two bays. A windowless office in the back. A cot, a sink, a space heater that glows orange and smells of scorched dust.
