Burn (Bayonet Scars #5)

But I can’t think about that now, so I set her on the ground and don’t let go of her torso until she’s steady enough on her feet. Once she’s in the car, I walk around to the driver’s side and eye the seat’s position—way too close to the steering wheel. Without even trying to see if I’ll fit, I slide the seat back as far as it can go and then get in and adjust what I need to. The drive to my house is quick. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that the little coupe has a good bit of pickup and handles well. If it weren’t such a chick car, it might be fun to boost up the engine, slap on some new tires, a few roll bars, and a harness and race this baby down the backroads.

We get to the outskirts of town, heading down Sherwood Road, on the same path I’ve taken to get home for the past four years. If I pass up the little dirt road that splits Ma and Pop’s property from their neighbor’s, I’ll end up on the wrong side of the woods and at my parents’ place. Technically it’s not a real road, but it’s the only legit means of getting to the cabin from Sherwood. So I’m careful not to pass it up but end up taking the turn a bit fast. The car responds well and purrs like a dream as I pick up speed again and keep a casual eye on my surroundings. Things have been quiet for a while now, and they should remain that way for a bit longer, but that doesn’t mean shit. Everything was fucking peachy before Michael and his buddies got to town and kidnapped Alex. Shit can always go wrong, and it can go wrong quick, regardless of what’s going on around you.

The cabin’s address is technically on Cypress Road, on the opposite side of the Noyo River from Sherwood Road, but the cabin itself sits on the Sherwood side, and the old wooden bridge to get from Cypress to the cabin is a fucking disaster. I’ve been patching it here and there, but it’s not my responsibility, and the city hasn’t done shit about it, so instead of wondering when my Harley and I are going to end up under water, I just take the alley road to get home.

Near the back of the property, just a few hundred feet before I reach a smaller wooden bridge that brings me directly to Cypress, I veer off the dirt road and through a break I created years back in the property’s fencing. I’ve driven through here so many times that the dirt and grass is so flattened it almost looks like a sectioned-off path. I haven’t brought anything but my Harley through in a while, though, and the grass along the sides of the car is getting pretty high. I can’t even see the river over the grass, which is fucking dangerous. I’ll have to do something about that if Mindy’s going to be here for long.

And she will be here until I know she’s safe and being responsible with herself.

By the time I make it through the clearing and into the woods, Mindy’s eyes are closed. She’s not sleeping, I don’t think, but she probably should be. I try to ask her if she still has the sleeping pills they gave her at the hospital, but she doesn’t respond, which is fine. The more exhausted she is, the less likely she is to fight me on getting the fucking glass out of her arms. I wish I could say I don’t know what she was thinking, hurting herself like that, but unfortunately I have a pretty good fucking idea what’s going on in her head. The signs are all there, and I of all people should be able to recognize them. I was too much of a bastard, focusing on the shit I shouldn’t have been instead of making sure she’s stable. No, I was focused on her smell and the way she smiles. She’s gotten this sassy walk in the last several weeks that she didn’t have before, not even before her attack.

I park the car in the small clearing in front of the cabin and get out. Mindy’s eyes shoot open at the sound of the driver’s side door shutting. She looks around for a moment before getting out herself and checking out her surroundings.

“This isn’t home,” she says quietly. She moves to cross her arms over her chest but stops when her face screws up in pain. Her pale blue shirt is smeared in dried blood, and her arms have small streaks of blood still seeping out. It’s not much, so she should be fine, but if any of the slices are too big, she might be better off getting stitches at the hospital. Lowering her face, she lifts her arms and gapes at her arms and shirt. Her face screws up again, and I shake my head and signal for her to come to me with the crook of my finger.

“It is now,” I say and hold her eyes. It takes a while, but when we finally get into the cabin, her eyes dart around at everything around her. It’s a small place, so there’s not a whole ton for her to look at, but she takes the time nonetheless. The cabin really only has four rooms—the living room, which we’re standing in now, and the kitchen, just beyond the wall in front of us. Aside from the wide doorway to the kitchen, the only other door in the living area aside from the front door is the one to my bedroom. I point at the open door and wait for her to move. She barely looks at me as she leads me in, her eyes way too distracted by the “dated décor” as Ma calls it. I haven’t done anything with the place and never cared to until now.