Fever (8 page)

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Authors: Joan Swan

BOOK: Fever
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“This ... this ... this is ...” Her mind couldn’t grasp the enormity of the situation, of the aftermath this would leave on her career, on her reputation, on everything she’d struggled so long and hard to build. “This is unbeliev—”
Creek came to a hard stop at the end of the aisle. As he did, the handle of the cart knocked Alyssa’s wound. Pain burst in her torso. She doubled over and cried out, but the air stuck in her lungs. Creek released the basket and turned into her, yanking her against him. With a hand behind her head, he gripped her hair and smashed her face to his chest, where the pained moans that eventually leaked out were absorbed by his bulk.
She breathed through the torture and tried to push away, but he had her trapped in those big arms that felt like crushing steel.
“What did you say to that woman?” It was an accusation, not a question.
“You were right there, moron.” Her words came out muffled against his chest. “You know I didn’t say a darn word to her. Let me go. I can’t breathe.”
“There are all kinds of ways to say something without words.” He unwrapped her, but closed his long fingers around her wrist and edged toward the end of the aisle to peer around the corner toward the far bank of registers.
Alyssa tried to twist out of his grip, his fingers like hot rings on her skin. “You’re burning me again.”
He ignored her, his attention riveted to the front. Alyssa craned her neck to see what he was looking at. The woman who’d approached her minutes ago stood at the customer service desk talking to two men in uniform. A surge of hope made Alyssa gasp.
Then she looked closer, scanning the men for weapons. None. They weren’t real cops. They were unarmed security guards. And, unbeknownst to them, they faced a desperate escaped convict with a gun and a hostage in a store still occupied with at least a few customers. They didn’t know it yet, but they were way out of their league. As was Alyssa.
Her mind fast-forwarded through her options, then over the repercussions of each. Nothing panned out favorably.
If he didn’t have that damned gun ...
The
gun
. Her gaze dropped to his waist, to the outline of the weapon beneath his tee. Just the thought of taking that risk pushed her heart into her throat. But if she could get it, if
she
had control over the gun, all her options turned a hundred and eighty degrees.
Her gaze skipped to his face. His attention was still focused on the front.
She had to do it. It was the only answer.
Adrenaline rushed up her chest.
Alyssa sucked in a breath. Held it. And made the grab.
S
IX
A
lyssa didn’t remember the second between reaching for the weapon and finding it in her hand. She put as much distance between herself and Creek as his grasp on her opposite wrist allowed and pointed the gun at his chest.
“What the fuck?” Creek turned on her with shock and anger darkening his eyes to navy. “Give it back, Hannah.”
A sickening combination of terror and hope rolled beneath her breastbone. “Now who sounds like a two-year-old?”
“This isn’t funny,” he rasped in a furious undertone. “Give me the gun before someone sees it.”
“Let me g-go.” The pathetic stutter would have embarrassed her if simply holding the gun didn’t scare her enough to pee on herself. The thing was so heavy, so awkward. She didn’t know the first thing about how to hold it or fire it. “That’s all I want. Let go of my hand, turn around and walk away. I won’t stop you. Just let me g-go.”
“Or what?” His gaze dropped to the gun, then lifted to her face again with something new floating there, something sly. “You’ll shoot me?”
No.
“Y-yes.”
“Honey, you can’t shoot me with the safety on.”
Sa fety ... ?
Her gaze dropped to the gun. But by the time her eyes landed, it was gone. Whipped out of her hand by Creek.
He slid the gun into the opposite side of his waistband, out of her reach. A fresh anger floated in his eyes, one that sent a chill over the back of Alyssa’s neck, despite the heat still searing her wrist.
“Try to remember this for next time,” he scraped out from between clenched teeth. “Glocks don’t have safeties.”
He took hold of both her hands in a hard, hot grip and lowered his face to within an inch of hers. His eyes were so clear, so crystal blue. So cold. “We’re going to check out. Don’t make a fucking sound, Hannah. Don’t try another goddamned thing. A man can only hold his patience for so long and you’ve been testing mine from the moment I set eyes on you.”
He reached around the back of her head, his fingers digging into the knot she’d secured in her hair.
“Ow!” The binding gave and her hair fell everywhere.
“No more showing off your bruises. Got it?” He grabbed one arm, yanked her forward and pushed the cart up to the closest unoccupied cashier.
Alyssa checked the length of the store from beneath her downcast lashes. There was no sign of the woman or the security guards. “The bathroom’s right there—”
“No,” he whispered in her ear. “And unless you want a set of knuckles in your side, stop bringing it up.”
With one arm around her waist, Creek used the other to unload the cart. His body heat continued to simmer, as if in silent warning. Alyssa kept her gaze on the tired, middle-aged woman at the checkout, but she never even looked up. They could have been aliens and the cashier wouldn’t have known the difference.
“Ma’am,” Alyssa said, “is there a water fountain—?”
Creek settled his hand on her side, just below her cut, enough of a warning to stop Alyssa in mid sentence.
“Right over there, by the bathrooms.” The woman never made eye contact.
Creek kept darting looks toward the aisles, but ultimately managed to pay and exit before the Good Samaritan and security guards returned. He continued to watch the parking lot like a skittish fox.
At the truck, he lifted the rear door. “Get in.”
“I’m not riding back there,” she said. “I don’t care how mad you are, I’m not—”
One shove was all it took to tip her into the cargo space. She stumbled, but managed to stay on her feet. He tossed in the bags alongside her, then climbed in as well, closing the roll-up door halfway.
She eased to the farthest wall of the enclosure as Creek rummaged through the bags with jerky, angry movements, muttering to himself. He pulled out a small lantern and a strip of batteries, plunked the light on the floor, and with a hard, quick push to his feet, swung around and kicked the side of the truck. The bang exploded in the small space, echoing off the metal walls.
Alyssa started and squeezed into the corner.
“Stupid,” he muttered, then kicked the wall again. “Stupid.” And again.
“Stupid.”
Alyssa jerked with every bang. Her shoulders crawled up around her ears. Now she was captive in the back of a truck with an armed escaped convict who had cuffed her, burned her and jerked her around for the last few hours. On top of that, he was royally pissed off.
A strategist she was not.
With a new level of calm, Creek opened the packaging, stuffed the lantern with the batteries and turned the lever until bright light filled the truck. Then he unfolded the blanket and set out supplies in what Alyssa slowly started to recognize as a procedure area.
She knew it was a bad idea to ask him anything right now, but she couldn’t help herself. “What are you doing?”
“We’ve got to get that gash closed.” He knelt alongside the blanket and leaned over to lower the rear door all but a couple inches. “Lie down, let me get a good look.”
“Wh-what? A few minutes ago you were ready to skin me alive.
Why
in the
world
would I let you treat me now?”
He pressed both hands to his thighs and leaned back on his heels. “Because I was a paramedic for twelve years in my past life.” His blue eyes stayed steady on hers. “I’m not happy with you right now, but I’ve never hit a woman in all my thirty-four years, and I’m not going to start with you.”
“A-a
paramedic
?” She didn’t like this new stutter. It was annoying as hell and undermined her already failing self-confidence.
“Yes, a paramedic and a firefighter. Let me look.”
As if she’d donned a pair of those funky red-and-blue glasses for three-D movies, Creek rounded out into a full-fledged human being. A man with a past, a present, a future. A man who’d once contributed to society, who’d healed the injured, who’d saved lives. A man who had a mother, father, siblings, possibly a wife and children ...
I don’t have anyone
. . . or not.
“How did you go from paramedic to prisoner? For
life
?” she asked, incredulous.
“I’m not giving you my life story. Just lie down and let me look at this cut. It needs to be cleaned and bandaged, minimum. Or would you rather get an infection that could kill you a hell of a lot faster than I ever would?”
While she debated, Alyssa examined the supplies he’d laid out, wondering when he’d put most of them in the cart. The combination of blood loss, sleep deprivation and stress was turning her mind into mush.
“Looks like you’re planning surgery,” she said.
“Just a few stitches.”
How did she know he wasn’t a pathological liar? She had no proof he’d ever seen a stitch before let alone placed one. He obviously had some altered body chemistry he wasn’t talking about, and—
An alternative idea clicked.
“What about ... ?” Alyssa shifted on her feet and gestured in his general direction. “What about that ... that ... heat thing you do?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t you dare tell me I’m imagining things.” She held out her wrist. “Those are your fingerprints burned into my skin.”
His gaze lingered on her arm. “What about it?”
“Can’t you ... fix me with that?”
“No.” He looked away, as if embarrassed. “I’m not ... it’s not ... I can’t.”
She hadn’t thought so. But she’d had to ask. “If I let you ... do
this
, will you tell me how you do
that
?”
His mouth compressed. “Fine.”
Dammit. He’d agreed too easily. Now she had to decide. “How many times have you done this?”
“Stitches? Couple dozen. I’m competent.”
“What method will you use?”
“Won’t know until I get a good look at the cut. Either a horizontal mattress or a Smead-Jones. Depends on length and depth of the cut.” He paused, and while no grin turned his mouth, Alyssa sensed a smile simmering inside him. “Do I pass?”
“I suppose.” With a sick sense of anticipation, Alyssa lay down on her back. She lifted the T-shirt over her belly, exposing her injured ribs. They both inspected the wound. Creek’s touch was deft and gentle, checking the depth of tissue damage. Heat sparked beneath each point of contact. “I can’t believe I’m considering this.”
“Considering?” He sat back and met her eyes. “If you don’t let me do this, you’ll have one hell of a scar.”
“No matter what, I’ll have one hell of a scar.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Alyssa remained fearful over the grave mistake she was probably making, but didn’t protest as he poured instant hand sanitizer in his palms and scrubbed thoroughly before uncapping the hydrogen peroxide and cleaning the surface of the wound.
Her gaze focused in on the shamrocks on his knuckles, a well-known Aryan Brotherhood symbol, and her mind jumped to Taz. “Is there enough time?”
“There has to be. I won’t be responsible for a red, welted scar on this perfect body.” He tossed the bloody gauze into an empty Walmart bag.
“Was that a compliment?” Alyssa asked. “If I weren’t already lying down, I might faint.”
When his mouth tilted up, a fluttery sensation winged around her stomach. One she hadn’t felt in a long time. One she shouldn’t ever feel with this man. She forced it away. Forced herself to refocus as he poured saline into a Ziploc.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
With the nearly bursting plastic bag in one hand, he turned it bottom-side-up and ripped a hole in the corner with his teeth. “Cleaning the wound.” He spit out the plastic bit and poised the bag to turn it over. “Brace yourself. This isn’t going to feel very good.”
The cool saline hit her skin and stung as it flushed the gash. Then Creek squeezed the bag and drove the sterile solution out under pressure. The water knifed into her side. Sweating, panting, Alyssa fisted her hands in the blanket beneath her. She clenched her teeth around a scream and seethed air. Just when she thought it would never stop, the stream ended and the torture along with it.
“Sorry,” Creek said, his voice low and sincere. “That will be the worst of it.”
Dizzy with pain, Alyssa opened her eyes and stared at the scraped metal roof, illuminated by the lantern’s glow. “Liar,” she breathed. “I know the stitches are going to kill me.”
“I’ve got something to take the edge off.”
He flipped open a bottle of topical anesthetic and poured the solution on gauze four-by-fours, then dabbed it along the length of the wound. Sure enough, her skin started to tingle, then numbed.
Creek performed another round of hand sanitizing, threaded the smallest of the curved upholstery hooks with the nylon fishing line and set a pair of scissors nearby. The stress of the cleansing had left Alyssa weak and exhausted. She relaxed against the hard surface beneath her and watched Creek.
A kind of peace and purpose shimmered around him like an aura, giving Alyssa an unfounded confidence in his abilities. For the moment, she felt secure in his hands.
He tested the needle on the far edge of the wound. “Feel that?”
“Barely.”
“How about that?”
“A little. It’s fine. Let’s get it over with.”
 
She continued to amaze him. Teague made the first pierce of her skin at the distal edge of the wound. A wound, he’d discovered after inspection, that was far more extensive than he’d expected based on the way she had continued to function. He’d seen many a grown man—child molesters, rapists, murderers—howl like whipped dogs with injuries far less severe.
His limited attempts to heal her had done nothing but temporarily quell the bleeding, but then he hadn’t had the time or opportunity to make additional passes over the wound. Not that it would have mattered. His powers were too weak to heal this deeply.
“You promised.” Her voice brought his gaze up from her firm abs. Her eyes were closed, her fingers curled into the hem of the shirt bunched up beneath her breasts.
“Promised what?”
“To tell me about all that heat.”
He’d love to tell her about all this heat. Better yet, show her about all this heat. Tell her
while
showing her just how hot it could get.
Sweet Jesus, the images that filled his head would get him arrested all over again. He wiped at the sweat forming on his temple with his forearm. Too damn bad the heat she was talking about and the heat he was talking about were not one and the same.
“Right.” He pulled the nylon through and secured the anchoring stitch. “I don’t know.”
Her eyes opened and her head came up, tightening her stomach muscles and shifting his supplies. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Put your head down. You’re messing up my work space.” When she complied, Teague continued stitching. “I mean, I don’t know what it is. An anxiety disorder or something. When I get angry or stressed, my body temperature rises. It happens to everybody.”

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