I lean into the back seat of the cop car, their door wide open. Emmett is in their passenger seat. Our bruised and cut legs are perched out the side of the car on the pavement. I try not to notice his eyes burning into me every chance he gets. But I can feel the weight behind them.
I can practically hear his voice warning me telepathically…You just wait. You’re really in for it now.
The EMTs get to work on us like busy bees – patching this, sanitizing that. Just enough to get us ready for a trip to the hospital. The reality swirls around my swaying head, my vision unable to focus. But my mind intact enough to piece together what’s about to happen. There’s only one ambulance. They’re going to make us ride together.
The thought of being crammed into th
at tiny space with Emmett makes my stomach churn too quickly for me to hold anything back.
Chunks of whatever I managed to eat that day crash into the back of my throat as I thrash forward, puking onto the ground right there in between my legs.
I’m instantly plagued with embarrassment…that I puked in front of Emmett, which only makes me sick again.
I want to ask the doctors what is wrong with me. I must have a brain tumor. Why the hell do I still care what he thinks? How I look in front of him?
They barely let my stomach settle before piling us both into the back of the ambulance. I want to feel comforted by the additional presence of the EMT guys but knowing they’re probably just as much on Emmett’s side as the cops lessens my hope.
No one asks my side of the story.
It only gets worse at the hospital. We’re both treated in the same room, our beds side by side which I’m sure Emmett is getting off on. I fight off any positive feelings I have about getting to stay close to him.
This is Stockholm Syndrome. Has to be. I wonder if that sort of thing shows up on a brain scan.
I’m treated for a concussion and a sprained wrist. I want to scream at the doctors that my wrist wasn’t from the car accident, but I know better. I bite my tongue. Emmett is treated for whiplash which brings me a sick joy. It’s about time he got hurt for once.
Once we’re all bandaged up and our hands are stuffed full of printed papers for aftercare instructions, we’re left alone while the doctor draws up our discharge papers.
“You fucking bitch,” he grumbles the first chance he gets, with no one around to hear.
“Oh yeah…” I scoff. “This is my fault, right?”
“You grabbed the steering wheel.”
“Why didn’t you just let me go!?” I cried, my voice cracking from frustration.
He slowly stands to his feet and makes his way over to my bed, taking a seat right next to me. His arms wrap around me, squeezing too tight. He envelops me, towering around me with a threatening eeriness.
I keep my eyes glued to the passing nurses and doctors in the hall, hoping one of them will barge in and stop him, but of course to them he looks like a caring guy, merely comforting me.
His lips sink down to my ear. “But the fucked up part is…you’re wondering what I planned on doing to you. And not just in a terrified way…but in a curious way, huh?”
I struggle to push him away, “Fuck off!” But his grip is too tight. I barely move a muscle.
“You’re dying to know how I would have hurt you in all the right ways… How I would have had my way with you, not giving you a choice…then you wouldn’t have had to feel guilty about wanting it. You wouldn’t have had to blame yourself for not trying hard enough to get away.”
“Obviously,” I retort sarcastically, barely able to get the words out as he tightens around me like a boa constrictor. “That’s why I was willing to risk our lives and slam us into that telephone pole before you could get away with me. Because I was so excited about whatever sick shit you had planned.”
I crash my foot down onto his, brutally pinning his toes beneath my sneaker. He winces and accidentally loosens his arms, giving me the chance to run to the other side of the room.
We’re both panting like wild animals by the time he stands up and starts to close in on me. His eyes and nostrils flare with rage with each slow scary step he takes. Like a lion about to pounce.
And he does pounce. Too quickly for me to react. But just as soon as his arms are around me again, his lips are against mine. I tense up, refusing to melt into his kiss. I turn my head away as much as his grip will allow and crash my hand into the side of his face.
The slap only encourages him. He glares into me, burning on nothing but fumes of adrenaline, anger and lust. I take in the sight of those gorgeous plump lips, sickened by the fact that I only find them to be more enticing with the giant gash from the accident.
An urge to fight back surges through me, but it’s coupled with longing. Before I know it, our mouths collide once more.
The doctor barges in, ignoring our teenage horniness, rattling off directions for leaving the building and filling prescriptions.