Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(99)

Fuck you.

Oscar starts approaching the guys. He clicks his mic. “These yellow T-shirt twats need to be watched. I’m going to keep an eye on ‘em.”

I turn my head and whisper into my mic so Ella can’t hear. “Give them a fuck you from me.”

“We’re all thinking it,” Oscar says.

I rip plastic off a wrap and return to the girl. “How are you feeling, Ella?” I ask before I touch her ankle.

She shrugs uncertainly.

Maximoff drops his arm off her shoulders. That was odd for him.

I set the wrap down and near him, my hand on his bicep. “Maximoff?”

He palms his collar, rubs his throat, struggling to breathe—and I know.

He’s going into anaphylactic shock. I rapidly dig through the first-aid bag while he wheezes, the sound very close to someone being choked to death.

His throat is swelling closed.

He tries to say my name.

“You’re okay. Stay calm,” I tell him like I’m at complete ease. No care in the world.

Where’s your fucking EpiPen? I touch my mic. “Get me an EpiPen.” It’s not in this bag.

“Oh my God, Maximoff?!” Ella almost clutches onto him, but I gently push her back. Maximoff grasps the back of my neck. His head hung, his sporadic breaths cut off short.

“You’re okay.”

He’s not okay. I react calmly in any medical crisis, even when I know the person. Even when my heart wants to lodge in my throat. I swallow it down, and I have one mind that says, fix this. Help him.

Help him.

Do not leave him.

I can’t leave him. In the distance, Quinn sprints urgently towards us with an EpiPen.

“He’s allergic to fire ants!” Ella yells at me.

“I know.” I cup his jaw. His narrowed eyes are determined to breathe when he can’t. He tries to open his mouth for air.

If I could give him mine, I would.

I would in a fucking second—but his passageway is closing, tongue swelling. His blood pressure is dropping, his heart rate slowing. CPR solves nothing.

He needs epinephrine.

I should’ve had an EpiPen on me. It’s the first week of December. We both thought there wouldn’t be any fire ants.

His face reddens. He wheezes, eyes watering. I tighten my grip on his jaw. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Maximoff wears no fear. He’s just fighting his body to stay conscious.

“He’s going to die!” she screams and bursts into tears.

“No he’s not.” I stare right at Maximoff. “You’re not dying on me, wolf scout.” I promised you.

Maximoff can’t breathe anymore, close to passing out.

Quinn drops the EpiPen on my lap. I bite off the cap and stab Maximoff’s thigh. I hear the click. A spring-loaded needle pierces through his clothing.

And he gasps a lungful of air. Like he’s breaching the surface of a pool after almost drowning.

I hold the pen in place for ten seconds.

He tries to speak.

“Don’t talk,” I say and click my mic. “Akara, we need to call an ambulance. His vitals need to be checked at the ER.” And I need to find where he was bitten.

Maximoff doesn’t argue. For once.

Really, that just concerns me more.





36





FARROW KEENE





The medics check his vitals on the ambulance before driving off the property, and I find a small, reddened bite on the back of his neck. After they clear him, he jumps off the ambulance and returns to today’s schedule. Barely missing a thing.

“Slow down for one second.” I catch his wrist before he enters the mess hall for lunch.

Maximoff stops and checks his watch. “They’re here for me and my cousins. I can’t bail on anyone—”

“No one will fault you if you need to rest,” I interject, taking note of his ashen complexion.

“I feel fine, or at least, good enough to eat.” He stares deeper into my gaze with the same words he said the minute he could speak: I’m glad you’re here.

Me too.

I almost reach for his hand, but a gaggle of girls and guys pass and snap photos of him.

And then a voice in my ear pulls my attention. “Akara to security.”

Maximoff motions with his head to the mess hall. I nod and follow by his side.



Among the rows and rows of wooden cafeteria tables, I sit beside Jane at one of the emptiest ones.

Only one table away from Maximoff. He has a throng of people squished close. Likewise, Sulli’s table is swarmed with people who want to hear stories about the Olympics.

Akara, Donnelly, and Oscar all surround her protectively.

Our earlier coms conversation stays with me.

Oscar: how could an ant be on his neck?

Akara: he may’ve been leaning on a tree.

Donnelly: or someone put it there.

Quinn: no way.

Me: I would’ve seen it happen.

I’m not subscribing to that conspiracy theory. No one collected fire ants just to put them on Maximoff and watch him choke to death. And even if I somehow missed a dipshit who tried to intentionally or unintentionally kill him, the person failed.

And they’ll lose an arm if they try again.