Read Damage Me (Crystal Gulf Book 2) for Free Online Page B
Authors: Shana Vanterpool
the blood off with my blanket, but there was no denying what I’d done. I stared at the puckered bleeding flesh of my leg, picking the blood from under my fingernail absentmindedly. Any minute now my door would open. I’d signed my release papers this morning before I went apeshit on my wounds.
I knew I had nowhere to go, no one to go there with, and that leaving this hospital meant I was on my own, I still wanted out. I folded the bloody sheet, so it was undetectable and then tried to pull my boxers down as low as they would go. It didn’t help much. The majority of the proof was still evident. If anyone saw this, I’d be forced to stay to wait for the wounds to heal. One more week could turn into two, another month.
I’d lose my mind.
My heartbeat increased. It was the first time in months I felt it pound. The last time it pounded I was in Afghanistan. My fear of staying in this bed became the panic of being shot. I could smell the blood in the air, the dirt on the wind, and the screams of my unit. I was eight thousand miles away from home, from my daughter, and my girl.
I enlisted to give Aubrey a better life. There were choices in the army. There were no choices I wanted in Crystal Gulf. But my plan had been rooted in my lie. I’d lied right into my uniform, and the Dylan I really was didn’t know it until I’d been given a gun and orders. My false confidence shriveled up fast. I left the people I loved for a chance that amounted to nothing because my wants disappeared with the truth.
I made it home. But when I got here all I thought was waiting for me was gone. I didn’t know what to do with the man who made it back.
I gave up on hiding and laid there, staring at CNN . The nightshift nurse put it on when she checked in on me this evening. The monotone voice of the reporter lulled me into painful boredom. I wanted out of this bed, into a bottle, and ripping off a pair of panties. To escape from myself for one second. My left leg twitched, aching to move. To run. To lie my ass off again so I could stand being alone with myself. I was stuck within my thoughts.
Minutes faded around me, ticking and marking my silence. When the door opened I looked over, expecting the nightshift nurse to come in, take one look at my wounds, and demand I stay here forever.
Instead, it was Bach. He was dressed this evening in jeans and a white shirt, pushing a wheelchair. There was a set of crutches balancing precariously on top. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, and his cocky dickhead grin was in place. Even Harley couldn’t erase that grin. It’d been there his whole life. I was sure of that because I had the same one.
The bastard was right. We were the same.
“It’s Friday.” He closed my door and took his backpack off, setting it on my bed. “You’re out of here. The nurse said she’d be here in a minute.”
I pulled my boxers up in response.
His eyes shot to my leg. I watched him take my wounds in. His mouth opened slightly, and he blinked slowly, as if his thoughts were trying to understand not just the wounds I’d just created, but the ones that ruined my leg.
“If she sees this she won’t let me leave.”
“What did you do to yourself?” he demanded, stomping over to get a closer look. “They’re infected.”
I grabbed his arm and dug my nails into his skin. “Get me out of here, Bach. She can’t know. I have to get out of here.”
He pulled free and glared, stomping over to the backpack once more. Unzipping it with an angry pull, he wrenched out shorts and a shirt. “Put these on, you douchebag.”
I plunged the shirt over my head, but when I got to the shorts I balked. Maybe staying here wouldn’t be such a bad thing. It was undoubtedly preferable to the pain moving would cause. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath, despising the idea of asking Bach for help. He didn’t put me here, but his actions made my position that much worse. When I opened my eyes, he was standing
I knew I had nowhere to go, no one to go there with, and that leaving this hospital meant I was on my own, I still wanted out. I folded the bloody sheet, so it was undetectable and then tried to pull my boxers down as low as they would go. It didn’t help much. The majority of the proof was still evident. If anyone saw this, I’d be forced to stay to wait for the wounds to heal. One more week could turn into two, another month.
I’d lose my mind.
My heartbeat increased. It was the first time in months I felt it pound. The last time it pounded I was in Afghanistan. My fear of staying in this bed became the panic of being shot. I could smell the blood in the air, the dirt on the wind, and the screams of my unit. I was eight thousand miles away from home, from my daughter, and my girl.
I enlisted to give Aubrey a better life. There were choices in the army. There were no choices I wanted in Crystal Gulf. But my plan had been rooted in my lie. I’d lied right into my uniform, and the Dylan I really was didn’t know it until I’d been given a gun and orders. My false confidence shriveled up fast. I left the people I loved for a chance that amounted to nothing because my wants disappeared with the truth.
I made it home. But when I got here all I thought was waiting for me was gone. I didn’t know what to do with the man who made it back.
I gave up on hiding and laid there, staring at CNN . The nightshift nurse put it on when she checked in on me this evening. The monotone voice of the reporter lulled me into painful boredom. I wanted out of this bed, into a bottle, and ripping off a pair of panties. To escape from myself for one second. My left leg twitched, aching to move. To run. To lie my ass off again so I could stand being alone with myself. I was stuck within my thoughts.
Minutes faded around me, ticking and marking my silence. When the door opened I looked over, expecting the nightshift nurse to come in, take one look at my wounds, and demand I stay here forever.
Instead, it was Bach. He was dressed this evening in jeans and a white shirt, pushing a wheelchair. There was a set of crutches balancing precariously on top. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, and his cocky dickhead grin was in place. Even Harley couldn’t erase that grin. It’d been there his whole life. I was sure of that because I had the same one.
The bastard was right. We were the same.
“It’s Friday.” He closed my door and took his backpack off, setting it on my bed. “You’re out of here. The nurse said she’d be here in a minute.”
I pulled my boxers up in response.
His eyes shot to my leg. I watched him take my wounds in. His mouth opened slightly, and he blinked slowly, as if his thoughts were trying to understand not just the wounds I’d just created, but the ones that ruined my leg.
“If she sees this she won’t let me leave.”
“What did you do to yourself?” he demanded, stomping over to get a closer look. “They’re infected.”
I grabbed his arm and dug my nails into his skin. “Get me out of here, Bach. She can’t know. I have to get out of here.”
He pulled free and glared, stomping over to the backpack once more. Unzipping it with an angry pull, he wrenched out shorts and a shirt. “Put these on, you douchebag.”
I plunged the shirt over my head, but when I got to the shorts I balked. Maybe staying here wouldn’t be such a bad thing. It was undoubtedly preferable to the pain moving would cause. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath, despising the idea of asking Bach for help. He didn’t put me here, but his actions made my position that much worse. When I opened my eyes, he was standing