12
Zeke wavered.
Liv was not in any condition to be driving. But fear gripped her features, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the aftereffects of her assault.
“I’m not letting you behind the wheel,” he said. “I’ll drive you anywhere you need to go.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he’d spent thirty-four years battling his brothers for the upper hand. She couldn’t win. “Either I drive you, or I’ll call nine-one-one. You choose.”
Whatever ticking clock was chiming in her head won out over stubborn pride.
“My keys are in the side pocket of my purse.”
He retrieved the keys, and she nearly ripped his arm off, reclaiming her purse and laptop. With one hand braced against her vehicle, she circled around and climbed into the passenger seat. Any other day, he would have opened the door for her, but he liked having his head attached to his neck.
He took his place behind the wheel and started the vehicle. “Where to?”
“Western Avenue.” She spewed out the directions while hitting the speed dial on her phone. “Come on, come on,” she said in a broken whisper, “pick up.” When no one did, she left a voice mail message. “Pierce, it’s Liv. Call me as soon as you get this.”
Who the hell was Pierce? Husband? Boyfriend?
She jabbed her thumb against the phone’s screen to disconnect. “You’re driving like an old man. Faster, Zeke.”
“If I drive any faster, we’re going to have liftoff.”
She propped an elbow on the window seal and clenched her fingers around her nose, closing her eyes.
“Headache?”
Silence.
“The cut on your neck needs attention.”
Silence.
His irritation spiked. If either of them should get the silent treatment, it should be her. “Dammit, Liv. Are you hurt?”
She cringed. “Keep it down, or it will be on your head if my brain explodes.”
“You may have a concussion.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Why?”
“Your neck is bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch.” She reached up to inspect the damage and her fingers came away covered in blood. “Shit.”
She fumbled to open the console between their two seats. From inside, she retrieved a plastic package filled with tissue paper, removed half, and slapped the wad against her cut.
“That works, too,” Zeke said. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
He gave her a sidelong glance, trying to determine if she was telling him the truth. It was difficult to decipher any emotion beyond the intensity riding her features. He tried to think of something that would take her mind off whatever was bothering her, but the only thing that surfaced was what brought him to Asheville in the first place.