Page 71 of Quiet Obsession
“What happened?” I ask.
Ghosting my fingers over my face, I take stock of my injuries like I’ve done many times before. I know the drill. Whenever I come to it at the back of Hyde’s car, it means one thing: I fucked up.
Tonight’s particularly bad. Split lip, a gash over my eyebrow that needs at least eight stitches. Twelve, maybe more for the back of my head. It’s still bleeding. I reach my nose and wince, inhaling sharply. My eyes water at the intense pounding between my eyes.
“That was me. Sorry,” Hyde supplies, his tone far from apologetic.
“You broke my nose?”
“By accident. You were a dead weight. I might’ve dropped you... and you might’ve caught the wheel arch with your face.”
I hope I fucking dented it.
My eyes narrow, head throbbing with the effort it takesto piece togetherthisevening. The last thing I remember is switching from beer to whiskey.
I touch a sore spot an inch above my right ear, my fingers coming up red. That gash might be the reason my thoughts are so scattered.
“One of them smashed a bottle on your head,” Hyde explains, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.
That happenedthen, too.
“You probably have a concussion,” he adds.
“Try definitely.”
I glance out the window and avert my gaze immediately. The bright lights spilling onto the wet ground send a stabbing pain through my skull.
“Where are we going?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“Hospital.”
“I’m fine, Hyde. Take me back to Gravemont so I can sleep off this headache.”
Hyde scoffs. “Fine? You jumped three guys, Elias. All of them twice your size. You’re far from fucking fine. You have a concussion, you need stitches, your nose might never be straight again, and your ribs are broken. Jed said he had to grab a gun to stop them from killing you.”
My back hits the seat, bones aching from all the kicks I’ve taken.
Hyde turns left, and the hospital I frequent at least twice a month comes into view. He parks the car and gets out, opening the back door when I don’t move to follow.
“Either you come willingly or you’ll be fighting me next.”
I swallow the metallic taste coating my tongue.
My best friend knows damn well that he, Noah, and Dash are the only three men in the world I’d never take a shot at. Hyde, on the other hand, would rearrange my face for my own benefit without remorse.
Grunting and groaning, I exit the car, my right hand wrapped around my sore ribs. The pain’s fucking blinding, but I grit my teeth and follow Hyde on weak legs.
“What happened this time?” he asks, slowing his pace. “Jeremiah?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
My father doesn’t call often, but when he does, it’s always one of two things: threats or demands. This time it was a combination of the two and so much more. His words brought back a heap of memories I avoid revisiting because I know they’ll fucking floor me.
The can of worms opened the moment I disconnected the call. I wish I’d let it go to voicemail, but the one time I did that, Jeremiah showed up on campus three hours later. The aftermath of him tainting the one place where I felt truly free versus hearing him over the phone was ten times worse, so I’ve resigned myself to picking up his calls.
Instead of answering Hyde’s question, I stumble inside the building and grab his shoulder for support, my head swimming. Severe nausea hits me and, before I know it, I double over.
The contents of my stomach spill onto the bright floor.
