Chapter Nine
I'm sittingin U.S. Government, bored out of my skull, when I hear the sirens. Everyone's heads start turning questioningly, and the ones with a window seat peer outside. I glance over at Wes, who is shrugging a shoulder dismissively. It's not the first time someone has hurt themself in Chem. Usually, once a year, some dumbass whose IQ never developed past the single digits has to test if acids really hurt when you pour them on your hand or other body parts.
Then, my gaze lands on my ex-girlfriend. She’s already zeroed in on me, waiting for me to look at her.
I study her expectant expression. Something isn't right. At that moment, my phone starts vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans, and I know. I'm out of my seat and in the hallway before I have the device pressed to my ear.
My teacher yells after me, but I don’t stop.
"WHERE IS SHE?" I bark into the phone.
"Locker room. Hurry!" Denielle's hysterical sobs assault my ear, and my legs threaten to buckle as several scenarios flash through my mind. Denielle is never hysterical.
With Wes on my heels—apparently, he came to the same conclusion—I take three steps at a time down to the first floor and push through the double doors with so much force they slam into the brick wall, bounce back, and almost hit my best friend in the face. Thank fuck the guy has good reflexes. Without checking that he's okay, I break into a run and aim for the gym.
As I'm turning the corner from the east wing, an ambulance pulls into the small parking lot next to the fieldhouse. The paramedics jump out and rush inside with multiple bags strapped to their bodies. The sight makes me pick up my pace to almost tripping over my feet—my athleticism has officially exited.
Wide-eyed juniors file out of the doors of the gym as I approach and force myself to slow my pace. The whispers and murmurs stop instantly, and one guy flattens himself against the wall. I faintly register a random voice saying, "He’s going to lose it."
The closer I get to the girls' locker room, the slower my legs move. My feet feel like I'm dragging them through knee-deep mud. Commotion from inside filters into the hallway, and— Lilly yells out. Not in an I’m-having-an-argument-with-someone way, a full-on scream of pain. My throat closes up, and my hands shake violently as I push through the last barrier separating me from her. I have no idea what to expect.
The girls' locker room is a mirror image of the guys'. The paramedics crouch on the floor near the entrance to the showers. One is rummaging through his bag while the other is examining someone—please no. Not someone. Lilly.
I can’t move.
Her P.E. teacher and my coach stand off to the side, hands deep inside their pants pockets, and watch with a mix of worried and horrified expressions.
Another scream fills the room, and between the legs of the paramedic who’s prodding on Lilly’s back, I see her hand curl into a fist.
"Rhys." My head swivels to the side, and I take in Denielle's tear-streaked face. She's clutching her cell phone to her chest. Her eyes are wide, and she is anything but The Bulldog right now. She reminds me of a helpless child.
Lilly's whimpers get louder, and my head whips toward the sound so fast my neck cracks. Fuck, that hurt. My gaze turns to tunnel vision. I dart toward the group on the ground, getting my first direct glimpse of her, the sour taste of bile immediately coating my tongue.
What the fuck!
Lilly is on her stomach, one arm goal-posted, the other alongside her body. A bunch of school-issued towels are padding the tiled floor underneath her with more draped over her lower half, covering her legs and butt. Her back is fire-red with blisters ranging from marble size to golf-ball size across her shoulder blades to her lower back. I lift the back of my hand to my mouth.
Don’t throw up.
"Rhys, you can't be—" my coach starts but clamps his lips shut as I glower at him, daring him to continue.
I circle Lilly’s body to not interfere with whatever the EMT is doing to her back. My mind has gone blank, but somehow, I can think logically enough to understand that pushing the medic away from her would be counterproductive.
Dropping to my knees next to her, my shaking hands hover in the air, not knowing where to place them.
"Cal?" I rasp over the razor blades in my throat.
"Rhys?" Lilly attempts to lift her head and groans. I bend my upper body down farther to meet her eyes without her having to move. Her eyes are red and puffy, and despite lying on the cold floor—pretty much naked—she's covered in sweat. Her fingers inch toward me, and after a moment of hesitation, I gently place mine over hers. I'm scared to touch her. Her arms are as red as her back but show no blisters—at least from what is visible.
"I’m here, baby." I’m not sure who needs to hear the words more, Lilly or me. A sob escapes her, and my lungs close up.
I’m going to kill whomever is responsible for this.
"What happened?" My best friend’s question registers in my brain, but I can’t focus on the reply. All I see is my injured girlfriend. I don’t avert my eyes from hers and carefully interlace our fingers.
The paramedics treat Lilly's back, and words like "hot water," "burns," and "hospital" filter through the pounding in my ears. Whenever they come near one of the blisters, Lilly's hand in mine turns into a vise, and I clench my teeth to not make a sound. My emotions are all over the place. I border between numb—most likely shock—and losing my shit, wanting to trash the room and clock the damn guy causing Lilly pain—more pain, that is.
I have no clue how long they work on her until she is ready to be moved onto the stretcher that seems to have appeared out of thin air. After her lower half is covered with an emergency blanket, they place a light cloth on her upper body. Her long, wet hair is falling off to the side, and I briefly wonder if it should get tied up to not tangle in the stretcher's legs.