Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(98)

“Fuck,” I curse.

Quinn repeats another possible threat, but Oscar and I don’t bat an eye.

He tosses the protein wrapper in the red first-aid bag. “I hate how desensitized I’ve become to some of this shit. How do we even think that’s normal?”

“I know.”

I watch Maximoff depart from the huddle of girls. He lifts the corner of his red shirt and wipes sweat off his brow. Revealing his front-page-worthy abs—then he pulls the shirt up and over his head.

Damn.

Camp-goers shriek and whip out their phones. Some must be Snapchatting a video, their cameras pointed at him for a while.

A girl strolls nearby and stops dead still. Wide-eyed. “Oh. My. God.”

I know.

I stretch my arm, my blood rushing down to my dick.

She whips out her phone and narrates. “He’s more beautiful in person.”

Accurate.

“Are you guys seeing this?!” she shrieks in glee to her video followers.

“Boners and wet pussies everywhere,” Oscar whispers to me.

I shove his arm.

He laughs.

Then we both quiet and watch a redhead simultaneously sprint and gawk at Maximoff. Completely not paying attention to her feet. Like slow motion, her ankle catches on a tree root. She collapses hard with a loud thunk.

Maximoff saw the whole thing. And of course, he’s the first one sprinting to the girl. I already grab the first-aid bag.

“Akara to Farrow. You’re the closest with first aid. Doesn’t look bad enough for a real doctor.”

I roll my eyes and click my mic, mid-jog. “I am a doctor.” I have an MD.

While I slow down to the girl and Maximoff, Donnelly has to chime in, “Anyone else think it’s strange he only reminds us that he’s a doctor when we say he’s not a doctor? Any other time, he’s the one telling us he can’t prescribe medicine. Can’t work in a hospital. Can’t—”

I swivel my radio’s knob. Cutting him off in my ear. I squat down beside the girl. She clutches her ankle, wincing.

Maximoff is knelt close. Me and him exchange one look in brisk greeting.

“Hey, sweetie,” I say to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Ella.” She winces through her teeth.

Maximoff says to me, “I think it’s just a sprain,”

I tilt my head. “And what year did you graduate medical school?”

“What year did you finish that residency?”

“Still better than you.”

He gives me a middle finger and a few cameras flash. #HMCCampAway has been trending on Twitter all day. Maximoff even has a link on his profile page to donate to One More Day.

I focus on Ella. She came down on her hands, then head. “Are you dizzy?”

“A little.”

I slide the first-aid bag to Maximoff who is dying to do something. He’s such a fixer. “Find an ice pack.”

I inspect her ankle: reddened skin, not a lot of swelling. I press a few fingers on the area. “Does this hurt?” I ask, but she’s already shoving my hands away.

Then she bemoans like I stabbed her throat.

Okay.

I’ve seen my fair share of dramatics. I can discern what’s real and what’s bullshit. She turns toward Maximoff. “I can’t…” She tries to produce tears that don’t come.

“You’re going to be okay,” he assures her. He wraps his arm around her shoulders in a side-hug. Then he hands me the soft ice pack.

I don’t even touch the pack to her ankle before she winces.

“On a scale of one to ten,” I ask, “what’s your pain like?”

“Nine point five.”

Okay. Sure. I felt enough of the area to know the bone’s intact.

Maximoff looks seriously concerned. “Maybe we should just be safe and call an ambulance—”

“No, no, no.” She raises her hands. “Really, it’s not that bad. I could…walk on it…or try to.”

I place the ice pack in her hand. “Use this for your head. I can wrap your ankle, and we can find you crutches if you need them. How about that?”

She nods vigorously. Then bites her lip at Maximoff. “Would you…could you stay with me for a bit?”

My brows spike.

“Of course,” Maximoff says, sincere and offering another side-hug. I dig through the bag for a wrap, and then I glance up.

In earshot next to a drink station, a group of white guys in their early twenties talk shit about Jane. She’s chatting to a few girls further in the forest.

“Jane Cobalt is disgusting,” a guy says. His familiar angular face and aquiline nose sparks my memory. The red-marked sheet of possible threats. He’s on it. His name is Tyler.

“She wants to get banged so badly. It’s kind of pathetic.”

“I’d fuck her. But I’d have to tie her down first.”

They laugh.

My nose flares, jaw tight.

Maximoff is busy listening to Ella, but his cheekbones are sharpening. He hears.

I glare at them as I search through the first-aid bag.

“The BDSM shit is such a lie,” a blond says. He’s also on the sheet. Brad. “Anytime she gets shoved in this capture the flag game, she practically has an orgasm. Just watch her.”