Down and Out(33)

“No,” Declan groans, wincing as he tries to take the phone out of my hands. “No hospitals.”
“Are you insane?” I push his hand away. “You need help!”
“Please,” he chokes out. His hand grips my forearm with more strength than I thought he’d have in this condition. “Call Blake.” He grimaces, hissing in a breath between clenched and blood-stained teeth.
I’m torn. A huge part of me feels like I should get him the medical help he so obviously needs, but another, smaller part feels like if he’s aware enough to tell me “no,” maybe I should listen.
Every second that passes weighs on me until I think I might break. I have to do something, and I have to do it now.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, exiting the number pad and going into his contacts. Scrolling through, I find Blake’s number and double-tap it, then hold the phone up to my ear.
It rings twice, and the horrifying realization dawns on me that he might not answer. He could be busy or—
Before I can get too carried away, the line clicks and a deep voice says, “What up?”
Relief floods me, and I exhale a shaky breath. “Blake, it’s Savannah.”
“What’s wrong?” He’s instantly on edge.
“It’s Declan.” I choke on his name. “Someone beat the hell out of him and he won’t let me call nine-one-one. He told me to call you.”
Blake curses and says, “Try to get him upstairs. I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead, and I have half a second to realize he’s validated my choice before I’m shoving Declan’s phone in my pocket. I stand and grab him under his arms. “Can you stand?”
He nods, and when I try to lift, hisses out a breath. I keep pulling and God bless him, he tries to help, but every groan and wince breaks my heart. He weighs a ton and a half, and I use every ounce of strength I have to get him on his feet.
We hobble over to the foot of the stairs, and as I glance up at the impossible height, I wonder how the hell we’re going to make it all the way up.
You can do this.
I make Declan grab the railing for support, and to steady him on his wobbly feet. One agonizing step at a time, we ascend until we reach the top.
Leaning him against the tiny balcony’s railing, I pull out my keys and unlock the door, pushing it open before slinging his arm around my neck again. We stumble into the living room, where he has nothing to hold onto but me, and I almost buckle under his dead weight.
“Shit,” I mutter, staggering to the hallway.
His hand shoots out and braces himself against the wall as we shuffle toward his room. It’s dark inside, but the light pouring in from the hallway is enough to see by, and I lead him over to his bed, gingerly trying to set him down.
It’s about as easy as trying to set down an anvil.
He groans as he hits the mattress, and I have to stop him from trying to lie on his back. “I need you to sit up,” I say, wedging myself between his legs dangling over the edge. “I need to take your clothes off.” They’re covered in blood and if we aren’t careful, it’ll get all over his sheets.
My fingers snake under the hem of his shirt and pull it up, exposing giant, fist-sized bruises covering his stomach and sides. I falter briefly, horrified anew that someone would do this to him. Pain twists his face as he lifts his arms and allows me to pull his shirt over his head. As I toss it aside, my eyes roam over the ugly purple splotches dotting his beautiful body. I hope whoever did this to him gets what’s coming to them.
Times ten.
He flops onto his back as soon as his shirt’s gone, and then I pull off his shoes and socks one by one. Now for the pants.
The waistband of his boxers peeks out from his jeans, lying flush against the tautest skin I’ve ever seen. It’s all smooth, sculpted muscle. He even has those little veins popping out near his hip bones that disappear into his boxers. I don’t know why, but some inherent part of me wants to lick them. I swallow and tentatively undo his fly, then push the denim down his hips.
“I always imagined the first time you took off my pants would go a little differently than this.”
Declan’s hoarse voice has my hands faltering, and I look up to see his eyes closed with a faint smile tugging on his lips. I laugh despite myself and continue trying to tug off his jeans without removing his boxers as well. It’s not easy.
Just as I get them off, the front door opens, and I run through the apartment still holding them. The door slams behind Blake, his face paling as he takes in my bloody, disheveled appearance.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“He’s back here,” I say, turning to lead the way.
I flip on the light switch, and Declan groans as brightness floods the room. Blake looks him over while I pick up his discarded shirt from the floor and he says, “There’s a first-aid kit under the bathroom sink. I need that and a damp washcloth.”
Hurrying into the bathroom, I drop his bloody clothes on the floor and grab the items Blake needs, then rush back to the bedroom. “Is there anything else I can do?” I ask, watching him crack open the giant briefcase-like kit.
Pulling out a roll of gauze, some tape, and what appears to be a needle and thread, Blake shakes his head. “I’ve got it from here.”

Blake emerges from Declan’s room an hour later, looking weary as he quietly closes the door behind him. I stand from my spot on the couch, where I’d anxiously waited for him to finish.
“How is he?” My arms wrap around myself, like I can physically hold myself together if I just try.