All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(8)
“But you—”
“I’m not going to slit my wrists,” I said.
The conflict was evident in her face. “You won’t do anything stupid? You won’t hurt yourself?”
“It was an accident. Promise.”
Doubt lingered, but she wanted to believe me. “You’re sure?
“You can’t make me get in the car. I’m going to walk. You decide what you want to do.”
Becca straightened in her seat and brushed at her hair and then threw a questioning glance my way.
I kicked the door shut and waved her away. Through the glass, she mouthed thank you, and as she flipped a u-turn, she was smiling like Cinderella in a pumpkin carriage. Maybe it really was a fairy tale. After all, that guy definitely had some princely good looks.
With my hand throbbing, I started walking towards the hospital. And as I walked, I tried to figure out how to make things right with Austin—my boyfriend.
At the hospital, the wait dragged on almost an hour. I spent that hour enjoying the tan color scheme and the speckled linoleum and the shiny chrome. Even the smells were new: new plastic bag, new floor cleaner, new fabric upholstery. When a doctor finally saw me, she was a thin, elegant woman with a drooping left eye. Everything about her—her hair, her posture, her calm speech—made you think big dollars, big city, big ego. But that drooping eye punctured the rest of it. She introduced herself as Dr. Fossey, shaking my good hand once and then settling down to business.
After she had stitched me up, the doctor left the curtained-off cubicle, and I lay back on the exam table. Paper bunched and crinkled under me, and the lights overhead were giving me a headache, so I closed my eyes.
Fuck up of all fuck ups: it was his birthday. Ok, there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. And it wasn’t Austin’s fault, no matter what I’d been thinking earlier. So what did I do now? That dark, vicious part of me said leave before he does. Cut it off, hurt him as bad as you can so he can’t hurt you first. And that was tempting.
But I thought about Becca, and that smile splitting her face as she drove off, and how Austin kept asking what was wrong when I acted like a dick. So what were my other options? First, of course, apologize. And explain. And then kiss him. I mean, that part was obvious, the kind of kiss that would knock off shoes and socks the way a lightning strike sometimes did. And then something that showed him I cared, I really cared. A present, although that made me wince, because where would I get the money? I needed something that would be perfect for him. Something that would tell him how much I cared about him and how grateful I was for him. Something that would make him smile that enormous, ten thousand-volt smile that changed him from ruggedly handsome into magnetically sexy, dragging me towards him no matter how I dug in my heels.
So, problem solved. I had the perfect plan, with one small obstacle: I had no idea what to give him.
The curtain rustled, and Dr. Fossey’s footsteps came across the linoleum. I stayed where I was, head back, eyes closed, because I needed another minute to decompress. When she grabbed the fingers of my injured hand, though, my eyes snapped open.
It wasn’t Dr. Fossey who sat in the chair next to the exam table. It was Austin Miller, his fingers playing with mine as he examined the thick bandage. He didn’t look mad, at least, not on the surface. He looked like he’d just tumbled out of bed. Two little spots of color marked his cheeks, and his mussed sandy hair was a bit more mussed than usual, and his pupils looked unusually small and dark and soft. And he was here, sitting next to me in the hospital.
A long moment passed and then, shaking my head, I said, “I’m sorry for being a tool earlier.”
“You were being a tool?”
“An ass, a dick, a jerk, a fucking moron.”
“So you’re sorry.” The words sounded a little off, a little too slow, a little choppy. Was he still angry? His fingers tightened painfully on mine, and he shifted on his seat.
“You all right?”
With his face unreadable, he slipped out of the chair and hooked an arm under me. I can tell you this much: the boy had pacing. The kiss probably only lasted a few heartbeats, but it felt like time had slipped off the track, given us an extra hour just to ourselves, and it still didn’t feel long enough. I tasted him, and I tasted the beer on his lips and the cherry lip balm and a hint of sweat.
“Yeah,” I said, wishing I didn’t sound so breathless as I slipped my hand down his chest. “I think you’re feeling ok.”
He kissed me again, and this time, if anything, it was better.
“So you’re not mad?” I asked.
“What the fuck do you care?”
His ducked towards me again, but I held him back. “What?”
Ignoring my resistance, he leaned closer, nuzzling my neck. “I was at a birthday party. One that my friends threw me,” and the edge on friends was so sharp it could cut. “Not that I have many of those left.” He bit my ear hard.
“Stop it,” I said, trying to push him back so I could look at him. Normally I was stronger than him, but with my hand injured, and without good leverage, I found myself at a disadvantage.
“And while I’m at this party with my friends,” there was that edge again, “Becca sends me a text that says you’re walking to the hospital because you cut your hand. That’s right. I have to find out from Becca that my boyfriend is cutting himself.” I tried to sit up, but he planted a hand on my chest and held me down. “Stay right fucking there.”