Broken Beautiful Hearts(67)

“Is it your ribs? Are they broken?” That would explain his labored breathing. How could Cutter and Lazarus leave him alone in this condition?

“My bag.” Owen tries to point, but it seems like too much effort, and his hand drops to the floor.

I scoot backward and reach the gym bag easily, which terrifies me. It’s only a few feet away from Owen, and he couldn’t get to it himself.

I unzip it for him. “What do you need?”

Owen’s chest heaves with every breath as he gropes through the bag. Whatever he’s looking for, he’s not finding it. I reach across his lap, grab the bag, and dump out the contents. Rolled hand wraps unfurl and land in our laps as energy bars and bottles of pain reliever clatter against the floor.

“Tell me what I’m looking for,” I plead.

“My inhaler.”

I push the items around, looking for the inhaler. I see it! I pick up the inhaler and put it in Owen’s hand. He takes two puffs and closes his eyes.

“Should I call 911?”

His eyes fly open and he grabs my arm. “No!”

“Relax.” I raise my hands so he can see them. “I’m not calling.”

Unless he gets worse.

When Owen closes his eyes again, I grab a T-shirt from the bag and wipe the sweat off his face. My hand lingers on his jaw, my thumb only inches from his lips. I listen to his breathing until it evens out, our faces so close they’re almost touching.

“I’m okay,” he says, as if he senses me watching him.

Owen’s breathing is returning to normal and he sounds like himself again. But without knowing exactly what’s wrong with him—and why he needs an inhaler—I have no idea if I should be worried about anything else, like his pulse rate or blood pressure.

“No, you’re not.” Tears prick my eyes. I feel helpless. “I think we should go to the hospital and get you checked out.”

The color still hasn’t returned to Owen’s cheeks, and his expressive eyes, which usually give away his feelings, look dull and glazed over.

His back stiffens and he shakes off the fog. “No hospitals. My medicine is kicking in. I’ll be fine in a couple minutes.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

His eyes drift past my face to the narrow space between his chest and mine. The way I’m leaning over him makes it look like I want to jump into his lap.

I pull back, suddenly self-conscious. “Tell me what happened. Did you take a bad hit? Tell me if this hurts.” Without thinking, I gently run my fingers over Owen’s rib cage. The moment my fingertips touch his bare skin, my nerve endings buzz.

“Nothing’s broken,” Owen says, staring at my hand. I yank it away, drawing even more attention to the fact that I was touching him.

The disadvantage of putting more space between us is that now I have a better view of Owen’s chest—and the rest of his gorgeous body.

I pick up his inhaler. “Why do you need this?”

“I don’t like talking about it.”

I stare at him. “Then you’ll have to get over it, because I just found you sitting on the floor of an empty locker room, gasping for air. You don’t know how bad you looked. I thought…” My voice wavers. I can’t say it.

Owen reaches up and trails a calloused thumb over my cheek. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me.”

“About which thing?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Coming in here.”

“Doing the opposite of what I’m told is my specialty.” I hold up his inhaler. “So are you going to tell me why you need this?” I ask.

Owen rubs the back of his neck and frowns. He glances at his wrapped hand and brings his wrist to his mouth, tugging on the end of the wrap with his teeth.

“Stop.” Taking his wrist, I quickly unwind the wrap—following it around his wrist three times and threading the cloth out from between his fingers and then back down to his wrist, before moving on to the next finger. After that, it’s easy. Around the knuckles several times, then back down to his wrist and up to the thumb loop.

My thumb grazes the soft skin under his wrist, and Owen’s pulse drums against the pad.

“Have you done this before?” Owen asks as I slip his thumb out of the loop and toss the other wrap aside. “You’re better at that than I am.”

“No,” I say automatically, realizing my mistake. It takes practice to unwrap someone’s hands. “You don’t have to be a genius to figure it out,” I add. “The … cloth stuff only unwinds in one direction.”

Owen rubs his wrists. “Most people still need practice to do it that fast.”

“I’m super coordinated, and don’t try to change the subject to get out of answering my question.” Which is exactly what I’m doing.

He takes a deep breath. “Is there any chance you’d be willing to put that question on hold?”

I cross my arms. “No.”

Without a word, Owen stands and extends his hand to help me up. As soon as I’m back on my feet, he picks up my leg brace and gives it to me. I put it on, watching him from the corner of my eye. Owen’s hands are on his hips and he’s staring at the floor, the contents of his gym bag scattered around his feet.

But he won’t look at me.