Page 21 of The Gift
“We got in the truck, she refused to get in the front and then by the time I was at the end of the street she was out cold. She looks pasty.”
“Sounds a bit out of character. She looked ready to stab you before.”
“It was you she was thinking of stabbing,” I murmur, creeping forward to check on her. She’s still in exactly the same position.
“Keep an eye on her.”
“Ashton, she’s not fucking moving. It’s not hard to keep an eye on her, like she’s not fucking moving!”
Even through the phone I can hear his teeth clenching. I’m worried that if I wake her, it’s going to scare the fuck out of her. And that doesn’t sit right with me. Carmen sent Henley an update last night in case she really was sick. I hear Ash talking with Carmen through my phone, the both of them speaking about Bailey.
As much as I want to let her rest if that’s what she needs, she’s also a bit too still for my liking.
I open the door, calling her name a few times in the process. She’s so far gone, I have to talk louder to her, my fingers gently pulling her wrist out to check her pulse. It’s lucky I trust my instincts, she’s not our usual Bailey.
“Ashton, something is not right. Her breathing is short and shallow and her pulse is erratic. I’d guess she’s at 85 bpm, but I can feel it starting to peak as I talk to you. I’ve got to take her somewhere and get some help. Her scent is strange too, not her usual.” I drop the pretence of being quiet, she’s not waking up and yeah, fucking sue me, I might be panicking a bit.
Cradling the phone between my shoulder and my chin, I shuffle her around triple checking her breathing, moving her head to ensure her airways are open. I go from cool and calm to cool, calm and freaking the fuck out in a few seconds.
“Ash?” I demand, my voice coming out like a bark. Ashton does a grunt of assertion in return but leaves me hanging while he talks to Carmen. I can hear her voice in the background but can’t hear their conversation clearly.
He returns and gives me an update. “Carmen agrees, let’s get her checked out. Under normal circumstances I’d be telling you to get her to hospital, but Reno’s home.”
“It’s closer too,” I hold the phone to my ear as I slam her door closed and race around back to the driver’s side, no longer concerned if it wakes her, because I don’t think anything is going to right now. Before my phone switches over to Bluetooth I’m peeling down the road, and she’s still not moving a muscle. My chest squeezes in worry.
Another call comes in, Reno’s number flashes, and I hang up on Ashton, taking the other call.
“Drive straight in, I’m in the garage waiting. What have you got?”
“Bailey.”
He doesn’t say a word. Stumped, stunned, a few conflicting emotions when it comes to her. His voice is softer when he talks, “I didn’t think we’d see or hear from her for a bit. Carmen’s text last night didn’t sound great.”
“She showed up, looking like a fucking ghost. Big circles under her eyes, evasive and cagey.”
“Nothing new.”
“No, but she kept stumbling and her words are mixed and out of sequence. And then she was going to argue one minute, the next she was out cold. I’ve tried to wake her,” I weave in and out of the traffic, breaking rules but something isn’t right. Ignoring the guy who’s tailgating me, clearly fucked off I cut in front, I take the next exit and fill in the blanks while Reno fires off more questions.
It’s frustrating, driving, trying to feed him information while keeping an eye on her to make sure she keeps breathing. The minutes drag. The traffic is okay, mid-afternoon helps. The garage door is up and I drive straight down, shoving the car in park and running around meeting Reno at the same time as he opens her door.
“Jesus,” he swears under his breath, as he unclips her seatbelt. She doesn’t move, it’s hard to see the rise and fall of her breath. Reno’s fingers check her pulse before he steps aside so I can lift her.
The rocking movement should wake her up, but instead her head lolls to one side and she slackens completely. Reno transitions to full doctor mode, pulling up her eyelid and flashing his pen light. They’re fully dilated. He’s detached and clinical as he digs into her mouth, checking her airways, sniffing his finger. He raises his hand to me, to check himself maybe.
“Does that burn your senses like an astringent to you?” Reno asks, not taking his eye off the patient.
“Smells like your autoclave.” I reply in an instant.
“Strange. I thought that too. Did you see her take any medication?”
“No.”
“Take her up,” he says, racing through the house. He moves into the room we’ve got set up as an ad hoc infirmary. Some people might think it unusual to have a fully kitted out surgery, completely with hospital grade supplies in their home, but given what we do, who we are, it’s practical for us.
Reno is quiet as he checks her stats methodically. He attaches everything to keep a check on her temperature, oxygen levels and heart rate. And then he runs his hands from her neck down, checking through her clothes for anything that feels out of place. The silence that stretches out isn’t weighted, he needs it to concentrate, for the first part anyway. And then he’ll be barking orders better than any alpha I’ve met.
Biology is a bitch, but Reno rides her hard.
