Crashed (Driven, #3)(90)

Baxter whimpers again at the bathroom door and when I reach it, I rap my knuckle against it. “You okay, Ry?” Silence. What the f*ck? “Ry? You okay?”

It’s a split f*cking second of time between my last word and the door flinging open but I swear to God it feels like a lifetime. So many thoughts—a f*cking million of them fly through my mind, like at the start of a race—but the one I always block out, the one that I never let control me, owns every f*cking part of me now.

Fear.

My mind tries to process what I see, but I can’t comprehend it because the only thing I can focus on is the blood. So much blood, and sitting in the middle of it, shoulders slumped against the wall, eyes closed and face so pale it almost matches the light marble behind it, is Rylee. My mind stutters trying to grasp the sight but not processing it all at once.

And then time snaps forward and starts moving way too f*cking fast.

“No!” I don’t even realize it’s my voice screaming, don’t even feel the blood coat my knees as I drop to them and grab her. “Rylee! Rylee!” I’m shouting her name, trying to jostle her the f*ck awake, but her head just hangs to the side.

“Oh God! Oh God!” I repeat it over and over as I pull her into my arms, cradle her as I jolt her shoulders back and forth to try to wake her up. And then I freeze—I f*cking freeze the one time in my life I need to move the most. I’m f*cking paralyzed as I reach my hand up and stop before it presses to the little curve beneath her chin, so afraid that when I press my two fingers down there isn’t going to be a beat to meet them.

God, she’s so beautiful. The thought flickers and fades like my courage.

Baxter’s wet nose in my back snaps me to, and I suck in a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I get a little better grip on my f*cking reality—my f*cking sanity—and it’s not very strong but at least it’s there. I press down and let out a shout in relief when I feel the weak pulse of her heart.

All I want to do is bury my face in her neck and hold her, tell her it’s going to be okay, but I know the thirty seconds I’ve f*cking wasted sitting here have been more than too much.

I tell myself that I need to think, that I need to concentrate, but my thoughts are so f*cking scattered I can’t focus on just one.

Call 9-1-1.

Carry her downstairs.

So much f*cking blood.

I can’t lose her.

“Stay with me, baby. Please, stay with me.” I plead and beg but I don’t know what else I can do. I’m lost, scared, f*cking beside myself.

My mind f*cking whirls out of control with what I need to do and what’s most important … but the one thing I know more than anything else is I can’t leave her. But I have to. I pull her out of the small room housing the toilet, my feet slipping on the blood all over the floor, and the sight of it smearing—dark marring the light floor—as I drag her to the rug causes new panic to arise.

I lay her gently down. “Phone. I’ll be right back.” I tell her before I run, slipping again to the nightstand where my phone is. It’s ringing in my ear as I reach her and immediately bring my fingers to her neck as it rings again.

“9-1-1—”

“5462 Broadbeach Road. Hurry! Please—”

“Sir, I need to—”

“There’s f*cking blood everywhere and I’m not sure—”

“Sir, calm down, we—”

“Calm down?” I scream at the lady. “I need help! Please hurry!” I drop the phone. I need to get her downstairs. Need to get her closer to where the ambulance can get to her faster.

I pick her up, cradle her, and I can’t help the f*cking sob that overtakes me as I run as fast as I can through my bedroom to the stairs and down them. Panic laced with confusion and mind-numbing fear runs through me. “Sammy!” I’m screaming. I’m a f*cking madman, and I don’t f*cking care because all I can see is her blood coating the bathroom. All I can think of is being a little kid and that f*cking doll Quin used to have—Raggedy Ann or some shit like that—how her head and arms and legs lolled to the f*cking side regardless of how she held her. How she’d cry when I’d tease her over and over that her doll was dead.

And all I keep thinking of is that f*cking doll because that’s what Rylee looks like right now. Her head hangs back over my bicep completely lifeless, and her arms and legs dangle.

“Oh God!” I sob as I hit the bottom of the stairs, the f*cking image of that doll stuck in my head. “Sammy!” I scream again, worried that I told him to go home last night like usual, rather than sleep in the guest room because the press were so out of control.

“Colt, what’s wrong?” He runs around the corner and I see his eyes widen as he sees me carrying her. He freezes and for the odd moment I think how mad Rylee would be at me right now for letting him see her like this—in just a tank top and panties—and I hear her voice chastising me. And the sound of her voice in my head is my undoing. I drop to my knees with her.

“I need help, Sammy. Call 9-1-1 back. Call my dad. Help me! Help her?” I plead with him as I sink my face into her neck, rocking her, telling her to hold on, that it’s going to be okay, that she’s going to be okay.

I know Sammy’s on the phone, can hear him talking, but my shocked brain can’t process anything other than the fact that I need to fix her. That she can’t leave me. That she’s broken.