Stripped by Jasinda Wilder
Page 37
I can only writhe in agony and try to breathe, seeing stars, head throbbing.
A voice above me: “Fuck. Fuck! Grey?” It’s Dawson.
I can’t even moan. I’m gasping, my throat raw and throbbing. I cough, suck at the oxygen.
I feel Dawson’s gentle hands touch me. He tugs at my pants, pulling them up. Even though it’s him, I shrink away from his touch.
“Ssshh. It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Dawson. I’m here. You’re okay. ” He puts a hand under the small of my back and lifts me slightly off the ground, tugging my pants in place. “I’ve got you. I’m gonna put my shirt on you, okay?”
He does something, and the remnants of my bra, which I realize got ripped somehow, fall away. I sob again, a shuddering indrawn breath, and Dawson’s palm smooths down my cheek, wiping at the tears I realize are pouring down. “It’s okay, Grey. You’re okay. ”
My head throbs, and there’s something wet and sticky on the back of my head. “Head…” I moan. “Think ’m…bleeding. ”
Dawson curses, and I hear fabric rustling, and then something soft that smells of Dawson is eased over my head. He takes my hand in his and gently guides my arm through the hole, like I’m a child, does the same thing to the other side. I’m dressed, now, covered, and it eases the pounding terror in my gut. Dawson saved me.
I sob then, and Dawson’s hand touches my forehead, brushes away tears. Fingers curl tenderly under my neck and help me sit up, and I hear a whispered “fuck” from Dawson as he sees the blood. I watch him grab the ripped shred of my pink T-shirt and press it to the back of my head, and then his arm goes beneath my legs and he lifts me easily. The door of his Mustang is open, the engine idling with a noisy animal rumble. He sets me in the passenger seat, leans over me to click off the radio, which is playing the heavy metal I’ve come to associate with Dawson. I’m dizzy, seeing double, and I’m tired. I glance out into the parking lot, and I see a lump on the asphalt, dark pants, and a white shirt stained red. A pool of dark liquid glints around one end of the form. It’s him, the ra**st.
He’s not moving.
Dawson has his phone to his ear and he’s murmuring into it. “…Piece of shit…yeah, he’s pretty f**ked up…. I don’t know, maybe? Just take care of it, okay? Got it. ’Bye. ”
He shoves the phone into his pocket and stalks back to the Mustang, folding his tall frame into the driver’s seat. A glance at his face scares me. He’s lost in a murderous rage, his eyes all pupil, jaw clenching and teeth grinding, all angles and anger. His eyes catch mine and go soft. He glances out his window, catches sight of my attacker, and slams the shifter into reverse, guns the engine, and we spin around in a backward circle. Another violent jerk of the shifter, and we’re rocketing forward out of the parking lot and onto the deserted street.
I wonder if I’m the reason for his anger. He had to save me at three in the morning, when I rejected him.
He’s driving with mad precision, hitting over ninety and a hundred miles per hour on the straight stretches of road, blowing through red lights and taking turns in wide, drifting, squealing arcs. Red and blue lights flash behind us, but Dawson drives on unheeding. He jerks us through a dizzying series of lefts and rights in a random subdivision, squeals to a stop, and reverses suddenly into a narrow alleyway, shutting off his headlights. The police car flies by, siren howling. I can only clench the armrest in white-knuckled fingers and try to breathe. Dawson is still seething, his breathing coming in long, deep gasps, as if he’s trying to contain himself and barely succeeding.
“Dawson, I’m sorry. ” I can’t quite look at him. “You can just take me home now. I’m fine. ” I press the shirt to the back of my head, and the pressure hurts, but when I pull the cotton away, it’s only lightly blotted with blood. I press again, and it comes away clean.
He glances at me in utter confusion. “Sorry? What?” He stares at me for a long moment before understanding. “Oh, Jesus. You think I’m mad at you?”
I shrug. “I guess. I mean…I don’t know. You’re scaring me, though. ”
He reaches out and places his palm on my knee. “Babe, I’m mad for you, not at you. ”
“I don’t…I don’t understand. ”
He frowns, and then sighs. “I’m taking you home. My home. We’ll talk there. ”
“But…I’m okay. I’d rather go to my dorm. ”
“Too bad. ” He pulls the Mustang out of the alley and onto the main road, and from there to the highway. Once we’re on the freeway, he puts the muscle car through her paces, accelerating steadily but evenly until the needle is buried. Going a hundred or more in a Bugatti is like being on a jet—the sense of speed is contained and dampened by the expensive hand-crafted shocks and whatever else. Going a hundred and twenty in a classic 1960s muscle car is terrifying. You feel every bit of the speed. You feel closer to the road, as if you’re strapped to a rocket that could wobble off-course at any second.
“Can you slow down a little, please?” I ask.
He shoots me a split-second glance, perhaps seeing that my hands are frantically clutching at the armrest and the dashboard. I feel him back off the accelerator immediately. “Sorry. ”
I can sense the questions in him. I have plenty of my own.
I want my bed. I want the familiar surroundings of my dorm. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.
He’s not taking me there, though. We’re pulling up to the gate and Dawson’s waving at a middle-aged uniformed guard in the guardhouse, and then we’re under the arch and softly jerking to a stop in front of his doors. I barely have time to register that we’ve stopped before the car is off and Dawson beside me unbuckling me and lifting me from the car. I should protest but I’m dizzy, and my neck won’t support my head. I’m so tired. I lay my head on his shoulder and let my eyes close.
Dawson glances at me, and then his voice rouses me. “Grey, no. You gotta stay awake for me, okay? You might have a concussion. You can’t sleep yet, okay?” He sets me down briefly, and I sway against him as he unlocks his front door and shoves it open, then lifts me again through the entry and kicks the door closed. I never got beyond the hallway with the half-bath the last time I was here. His footsteps echo on the marble of the foyer, and I see through cracked eyelids that we’re passing through an open-plan kitchen and into a huge but comfortable-looking living room. He sets me down gently on a deep leather couch.
I can only writhe in agony and try to breathe, seeing stars, head throbbing.
A voice above me: “Fuck. Fuck! Grey?” It’s Dawson.
I can’t even moan. I’m gasping, my throat raw and throbbing. I cough, suck at the oxygen.
I feel Dawson’s gentle hands touch me. He tugs at my pants, pulling them up. Even though it’s him, I shrink away from his touch.
“Ssshh. It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Dawson. I’m here. You’re okay. ” He puts a hand under the small of my back and lifts me slightly off the ground, tugging my pants in place. “I’ve got you. I’m gonna put my shirt on you, okay?”
He does something, and the remnants of my bra, which I realize got ripped somehow, fall away. I sob again, a shuddering indrawn breath, and Dawson’s palm smooths down my cheek, wiping at the tears I realize are pouring down. “It’s okay, Grey. You’re okay. ”
My head throbs, and there’s something wet and sticky on the back of my head. “Head…” I moan. “Think ’m…bleeding. ”
Dawson curses, and I hear fabric rustling, and then something soft that smells of Dawson is eased over my head. He takes my hand in his and gently guides my arm through the hole, like I’m a child, does the same thing to the other side. I’m dressed, now, covered, and it eases the pounding terror in my gut. Dawson saved me.
I sob then, and Dawson’s hand touches my forehead, brushes away tears. Fingers curl tenderly under my neck and help me sit up, and I hear a whispered “fuck” from Dawson as he sees the blood. I watch him grab the ripped shred of my pink T-shirt and press it to the back of my head, and then his arm goes beneath my legs and he lifts me easily. The door of his Mustang is open, the engine idling with a noisy animal rumble. He sets me in the passenger seat, leans over me to click off the radio, which is playing the heavy metal I’ve come to associate with Dawson. I’m dizzy, seeing double, and I’m tired. I glance out into the parking lot, and I see a lump on the asphalt, dark pants, and a white shirt stained red. A pool of dark liquid glints around one end of the form. It’s him, the ra**st.
He’s not moving.
Dawson has his phone to his ear and he’s murmuring into it. “…Piece of shit…yeah, he’s pretty f**ked up…. I don’t know, maybe? Just take care of it, okay? Got it. ’Bye. ”
He shoves the phone into his pocket and stalks back to the Mustang, folding his tall frame into the driver’s seat. A glance at his face scares me. He’s lost in a murderous rage, his eyes all pupil, jaw clenching and teeth grinding, all angles and anger. His eyes catch mine and go soft. He glances out his window, catches sight of my attacker, and slams the shifter into reverse, guns the engine, and we spin around in a backward circle. Another violent jerk of the shifter, and we’re rocketing forward out of the parking lot and onto the deserted street.
I wonder if I’m the reason for his anger. He had to save me at three in the morning, when I rejected him.
He’s driving with mad precision, hitting over ninety and a hundred miles per hour on the straight stretches of road, blowing through red lights and taking turns in wide, drifting, squealing arcs. Red and blue lights flash behind us, but Dawson drives on unheeding. He jerks us through a dizzying series of lefts and rights in a random subdivision, squeals to a stop, and reverses suddenly into a narrow alleyway, shutting off his headlights. The police car flies by, siren howling. I can only clench the armrest in white-knuckled fingers and try to breathe. Dawson is still seething, his breathing coming in long, deep gasps, as if he’s trying to contain himself and barely succeeding.
“Dawson, I’m sorry. ” I can’t quite look at him. “You can just take me home now. I’m fine. ” I press the shirt to the back of my head, and the pressure hurts, but when I pull the cotton away, it’s only lightly blotted with blood. I press again, and it comes away clean.
He glances at me in utter confusion. “Sorry? What?” He stares at me for a long moment before understanding. “Oh, Jesus. You think I’m mad at you?”
I shrug. “I guess. I mean…I don’t know. You’re scaring me, though. ”
He reaches out and places his palm on my knee. “Babe, I’m mad for you, not at you. ”
“I don’t…I don’t understand. ”
He frowns, and then sighs. “I’m taking you home. My home. We’ll talk there. ”
“But…I’m okay. I’d rather go to my dorm. ”
“Too bad. ” He pulls the Mustang out of the alley and onto the main road, and from there to the highway. Once we’re on the freeway, he puts the muscle car through her paces, accelerating steadily but evenly until the needle is buried. Going a hundred or more in a Bugatti is like being on a jet—the sense of speed is contained and dampened by the expensive hand-crafted shocks and whatever else. Going a hundred and twenty in a classic 1960s muscle car is terrifying. You feel every bit of the speed. You feel closer to the road, as if you’re strapped to a rocket that could wobble off-course at any second.
“Can you slow down a little, please?” I ask.
He shoots me a split-second glance, perhaps seeing that my hands are frantically clutching at the armrest and the dashboard. I feel him back off the accelerator immediately. “Sorry. ”
I can sense the questions in him. I have plenty of my own.
I want my bed. I want the familiar surroundings of my dorm. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.
He’s not taking me there, though. We’re pulling up to the gate and Dawson’s waving at a middle-aged uniformed guard in the guardhouse, and then we’re under the arch and softly jerking to a stop in front of his doors. I barely have time to register that we’ve stopped before the car is off and Dawson beside me unbuckling me and lifting me from the car. I should protest but I’m dizzy, and my neck won’t support my head. I’m so tired. I lay my head on his shoulder and let my eyes close.
Dawson glances at me, and then his voice rouses me. “Grey, no. You gotta stay awake for me, okay? You might have a concussion. You can’t sleep yet, okay?” He sets me down briefly, and I sway against him as he unlocks his front door and shoves it open, then lifts me again through the entry and kicks the door closed. I never got beyond the hallway with the half-bath the last time I was here. His footsteps echo on the marble of the foyer, and I see through cracked eyelids that we’re passing through an open-plan kitchen and into a huge but comfortable-looking living room. He sets me down gently on a deep leather couch.