I’m dozing by the time he parks and comes around to pull me out of the car. Then I’m wide awake because the pain leaves me breathless. It’s as if blades are being shoved into my lower back and, I swear, my head’s about to split in half.
“Come on.” Zane frowns at me, then slings my arm over his shoulders once more, which is a good thing the way the street keeps tilting. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I follow him up the stairs, doing the best I can to keep up. Zane ushers me inside and drops me on his sofa. I groan and just sprawl there, wheezing. It’s so warm inside. I feel as if my skin is melting.
“Man, you’re fucked up,” he says and shakes his head in wonder as he shrugs off his jacket.
Yeah, you can say that.
He leaves and comes back with clothes—underwear, drawstring pants, a T-shirt. “You stink. Go shower. Towel’s on the rack.”
He’s merciless. He leaves me no choice, pulling me to my feet and helping me to the bathroom. “Want me to undress you?” he asks.
I give him the finger, and that seems to please him. Bastard. He makes kissy lips at me and leaves before I try to punch him in the face.
‘Try’ being the operative word. My balance is still shot to hell, and my stomach has been empty for a while. It sure doesn’t help with the dizziness.
I take a hot shower, hissing when the water hits plenty of tender spots. My whole back is a mass of pain. I can’t remember Dad hitting me so much but my memory is hazy. Or did he do it after I blacked out?
Shuddering at the thought, I rush through my cleaning ritual, shampooing my hair. The water swirls dark down the drain. I stare at it for a moment before I mentally shake myself and grab the towel. Securing it around my hips, I reach for the clothes.
It’s then I notice the banging on the bathroom door.
“What?” I throw it open and Zane steps inside, a frown on his face. He folds his colorfully inked arms over his chest.
“I’ve been knocking for a while” he says. “Are you deaf?”
I lean on the sink, not sure of my balance. “I don’t know, man. What do you need?”
“I was just checking you didn’t fall on your face and—” His eyes widen. “Fuck, Ash. Your back.”
Um yeah. I haven’t taken a look in the mirror yet, but I turn now.
Shit.
The scars aren’t what shocks me, although I’m pretty sure they’re one of the things turning Zane’s face pale. He’s never seen them before. I still have some impressive purple welts striping my pale skin, a souvenir from Dad’s last violent fit.
No, what shocks me is the color of my lower back, a really deep black and blue. Jesus Christ.
“There’s an urgent care not far from here,” Zane is saying, his voice hushed. “In fact, I’m taking you there right now. What if you ruptured something? Let me get my things and—”
“No.”
“Dammit, fucker, this is serious. I’ll just—”
I get in his face then. “If I go to the hospital and they see the damage, they’ll arrest my old man for parole violation. Leave it be, Z-man.”
“You’re eighteen now.” He sucks on the barbell studding his tongue, like he always does when he’s nervous. “You won’t be going into the foster system, so why do you care? Let him be locked up. Bastard deserves it.”
Foster care. That was my great fear after the accident, partly because of Zane. He told me some stuff from his own experience with the system that set my hair on end—and I have a feeling he hasn’t even told me everything that happened to him.
I’ve been lucky so far, in this at least. Dad received a suspended sentence and never went to jail. The fact he had no criminal record and Mom’s death had clearly affected him made the judge lenient.
But I can’t do it. I hate the bastard, but he’s the only family I have left. I guess I’m still hoping I’ll find a way to make him stop drinking one day. Help him find his old self.
“Ash.” Zane sounds exasperated. “Come on. Let me take you to the hospital.”
“Forget it, Z-man.” I swallow a sigh. “Look, if I ruptured something, I’d be dead by now. It’s been two days. I’ll be fine.”