Page 89 of Bad Attitude
Tears prickle my eyes seeing him like this, and guilt washes through me again.
“I can hear your disapproval,” he mutters. “Could be worse. I could be dead.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I snap, not wanting to even consider it. Not when it could still happen, if Steven doesn’t get here soon. “And it’s worry, notdisapproval.”
“The hellcatdoescare,” he says, smiling despite how he must be feeling. “That gives me strength.”
He makes the next few steps more easily, like that wasn’t just hyperbole, and I punch in the code to the outside door while he leans on me. I think he’s shivering.
“Six, seven, eight, nine, huh?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why these places bother with security.”
I can’t argue that, but the door’s unlocked and I pull it open, struggling to balance him and wedge it at the same time. It’s another dozen tortuous paces to the elevator, and I hit the button. The elevator doors open, and we stagger in, his hand on the wall helping a lot.
“You want to get our helmets?” he asks, his speech not as clear as usual.
I do, but I don’t want to leave him. Under the lobby lights, he’s looking worse than I thought, his skin clammy. He’s trying to hide it, but now I’m certain he’s shivering. I’m not sure how he’s still on his feet, and if he passes out, we’ll be in real trouble.
“I’ll get them later.”
“You’re the boss.”
We ride the elevator up, and his breathing is shallow and fast. I want to check the time, see how far away Steven is, but I can’t reach my phone while I’m holding him up.
At least the hallway’s empty, and no one comes to investigate the noises we’re making. Declan uses the wall to help brace himself, and progress is faster. But he’s breathing harder by the time we reach my door.
“We’re almost done,” I tell him as I unlock it.
“That’s good,” he sighs. “Bed sounds—” He cuts himself off with a grimace. “Floor will do.”
“Bed,” I say firmly. “And no arguments.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“Exactly, asshole. That’s why you’re going to be lying down.”
He gives me a weak smile, no witty rejoinder, and we stagger into my apartment, the door closing behind us.
I bite my lip, not sure this is the right thing when he’s already trembling. “Going to have to get your jacket off, otherwise Steven might cut it.”
“Steven?”
“Doctor.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” His words slur,more alarming than the trembling.
I unzip his jacket, and he stands on his good leg, head forward, swaying slightly. The leather’s ripped where the bullet passed through, and sticky with his blood. I push it off his shoulders, and he winces, eyes shut tight.
“Sorry.”
“’S fine.”
One arm, then the other, his eyes closed for all of it, body tensing as I move his left arm, despite my best efforts to be gentle. It’s not just his fingers trembling now, it’s his hand, and his chest is quivering. I’m getting scared.
“Bed, please,” I say. “Come on.”
No response.
It’s eight steps to my bedroom, but it takes us three times that, small little hops as he does the best he can. At last we’re there, and he sits on the edge with a sigh, falls to his elbow, and stops.
