Page 137 of Crash Course
She tugged, trying to release her hand from his grip. "My . . . cheek," she said. "Hurts."
"Don’t touch it."
What?
She fought him, yanking hard, but he held on. What the hell was he doing? "Cruz!"
Lifting her free hand, she made a move to touch her face. He grabbed that one too.
"Cilla, please.Stop. I need to call nine-one-one."
Call 911. Yes.
"What . . . happened?"
"Your car blew up."
And then blackness creeped in, slowly dragging over her, calling her to sleep.
"Tired," she said.
"Cilla!"
She popped her eyes open and Cruz’s face appeared again. "Stay awake."
At that, she snorted. "Too late."
And then the blackness swallowed her.
Cruz stoodover Cilla’s ER bed wondering what in the holy fuck had just happened.
They wouldn’t let him ride in the ambulance with her, so he’d grabbed an Uber and met them at the hospital. His truck was still parked near Cilla’s car, but he hadn’t been able to get close enough to either of them to assess damage. For sure, hers was toast. Having no time to ask questions, he had zero information, but how the sucker went up? The blast blowing the windows out and sending glass and metal and shards of plastic flying?
Had to be a bomb of some sort.
One that blew them both off their goddamned feet. Cilla, way lighter than he was, had gone straight airborne while the bed of his truck did a fine job of shielding him. He'd watched, helpless, as she careened through the air. Despite the truck offering some cover, he'd blasted backward, hitting the pavement for what seemed like a solid minute, but was probably only a few seconds before her.
Broken glass and plastic flew, some of it carving into her cheek. He'd only been grazed on the exposed side of his face.
Unable to access Cilla’s phone, he’d told the cops who’d responded to the call who she was and that her father was Darren Randolph, but he didn’t have a cell number for him.
Plus, after the night before, he never wanted to see or speak to the son of a bitch again. Still, Cilla was his child and he deserved information regarding her condition.
The cop Cruz had spoken to on-scene assured him they’d contact Randolph. For now, Cruz stood next to the bed where Cilla lay, IV in her arm, eyes closed and half zonked from a concussion, a six-inch and violent looking gaping wound down her face and some sort of shoulder injury she’d need an MRI for because the X-rays showed no broken bones.
A dark-haired guy with chubby cheeks and freckles entered the ER bay. He wore a lab coat that said Dr. Tiles.
This guy was the doctor? He looked about twelve.
The man held his hand to Cruz. "I’m Dr. Tiles."
Cruz nodded and shook hands. "Cruz Blackwell. This is Priscilla Randolph."
"I understand she was involved in an explosion?"
"Yeah. Not in it but standing near her car when it blew. She was leaving for work."
He nodded like this news was nothing horrifying. Nothing out of the ordinary for an ER doc in a Charlotte hospital that saw all sorts of violence-related injuries.
