“Why?” I say before I can finish the thought, and then try to correct myself. “No,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “Do you have your Jeep here?” I nod and manage to mutter that it’s in the parking lot. Before he can ask, I tell him the make and model, which is saying something because I didn’t think I could do much else aside from breathe heavy and let myself pass out.
“I have to remove my hand from the wound,” he says. I don’t think that’s such a good idea—last time there was no pressure on it, it hurt even worse than it does now. But it’s too late. I’m pressed hard against his chest as he strides out of The 101 Club with purposeful steps. I’m facing behind him, and the only thing I can think as I look at The 101 Club is that I never got the chance to try the lunch I ordered. For some asinine reason, that’s bothering me more than anything else right now. That and those damn smile lines on his face. I just want to see him smile. But the burger—that almost makes the bullet wound hurt even more.
He tosses me into the passenger side of my car. I scream out in pain as the throbbing comes back with a full-on vengeance. There’s little else I can do but cry and scream for it to stop. Not that my crying or screaming will do anything, but it seems a perfectly sensible option right now.
Rushing around the front to the driver’s side, Grady lumbers into my Jeep and adjusts the seat as quickly as he can. The Jeep rocks as he settles in, and I force my arms to move from my side and place them on my wound. And it hurts like a bitch. It hurts like how I imagine childbirth to hurt, only in a slightly different way. No less painful, though. Because I can’t imagine anything more painful than this.
I suck in a breath to tell him the key is in my purse, but I don’t know where my purse is. He reaches beneath my steering wheel and yanks down a bunch of wires. I’ve seen enough crime shows on TV that I’m only confused for a moment before I get it. He’s hot-wiring the car. And while I’d normally be panicking about him messing up my car, the blinding pain in my abdomen has me not giving a crap about the state of my old ass Jeep’s wiring. So I keep my mouth shut and try to focus on putting pressure on my wound.
A few seconds later, we’re pulling out of the parking lot at rapid speeds and flying down South Main Street toward the center of town. I want to caution him that Jeeps flip easily should we hit something, but I don’t. That’s just my dad’s wisdom seeping through at a very inconvenient time. And I don’t need to be telling him what to do right now. He seems to have it under control. I, on the other hand, might have a seriously embarrassing accident if I don’t figure out how to control the muscle spasms in my stomach soon. I close my eyes and decide not to pay attention to where we’re going. It doesn’t matter anyway. For some reason, Grady has chosen to help me and make himself my nursemaid, and while I’d normally be freaking out that we’re heading away from the local medical center, I don’t really care right now. He could take me to a wood chipper and throw me in, and I’d have nary a complaint. Bullet wounds hurt that bad. I can’t say it’s something I ever wanted to experience, but now that I have—and I’m hoping I live through it—I think I can endure just about anything.
“Put more pressure on that,” he says and looks over at me. I catch his eyes before they slide back to the road.
“I’m trying,” I manage to wheeze out. “It really hurts.”
“I get that, but if you’re not careful, you’re going to bleed out. So try harder.”
With the way I’m slumped down in the seat and unable to bring myself to move, every time I put more pressure on the wound, my hand slips and my back bows towards the seat, shoving me down further. I manage to get a better hold on it and to force the blood to actually stop seeping through my fingers. A thin stream coats my slacks and arms. Looking down, I examine myself. There doesn’t seem to be as much blood as it feels like is pouring out. With how painful it is, I’m sure I could fill a kiddie pool in no time.