Play It Again (8 page)

When my feet hit the ground, Piper is on her
ass on the pavement. She’s leaning against the roof of the truck,
with her arms wrapped around her shins, her forehead pressed
against her knees, and her body shaking ever so slightly.

Clutching her purse, I move to her quickly,
squatting down in front of her. “You doing okay?” I ask, reaching
out a hand, and grasping her shoulder gently.

Slowly, she lifts her head and her voice is
scratchy as she says, “Yeah, just dizzy. A little queasy, too. I
think I drank too much.”

I snort out an unamused laugh. I doubt the
dizziness and queasiness has little to do with the alcohol she
consumed tonight.

“Let me get a look at you,” I say, setting
her purse down beside her and cupping her chin in my hand. She
winces as I tilt her head to the side, and she cringes as I poke
and prod at her hair, looking for the source of all the blood.

The gash isn’t too long, or too deep, about
an inch, maybe an inch and a half above her ear on the right side
of her head.

“Is it bad?” she asks, a slight tremor coming
through in her voice.

I shake my head. “No, but you’re gonna need a
few stitches and we’ve gotta slow down the bleeding.”

Piper grimaces, but she doesn’t say anything.
I wonder if it’s the thought of stitches or the blood that makes
her cheeks pale further.

I glance around for something to use to stop
the flow of blood, thinking perhaps there’s something in the
truck—a towel, a shirt, something—but a snap second decision has me
pulling off my tee, bunching it up, and pressing it against the
side of her head.

“Ouch,” Piper whines, wincing away from the
pressure. She reaches up, batting away my hand, and takes the tee,
pressing it to her head nowhere near as firmly as I had it.

“Hold it tight,” I say, cupping her hand in
mine, applying more pressure. “Just like this, yeah? I’m gonna call
this in.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice shaking over the
word.

With another thorough scan of her, making
sure she doesn’t let up on the pressure, I pull my phone out of my
pocket, taking a couple steps back as I dial 9-1-1, quickly
rambling off our location and reporting the accident to the
operator. I describe Piper’s injury, saying we need police,
paramedics, and a tow truck.

The operator bombards me with a ton of
questions. Is she still bleeding? Is she awake? Did she lose
consciousness? How long was she out? Has she vomited? I answer the
questions, my tone crisp and concise, and my patience nears its
snapping point as she keeps firing them at me.

I want to get off the phone.

I need to focus on Piper.

Where the fuck is the ambulance?

Suddenly, Piper makes a noise, a mix of a
groan and a whimper, and I whip my gaze back to her. She meets my
eyes, and my chest tightens at the distress I see swimming there.
“Gonna be sick,” she gasps, sniveling. “Gonna be sick.”

“Gotta put the phone down,” I bark out,
darting back to Piper’s side, and setting the phone down on the
pavement. I manage to pull her hair back from her face, and grab
the tee before it falls from her wound, just as Piper vomits onto
the ground beside her.

My gut clenches, unease and concern twisting
me in knots, as her body shakes and convulses through wave after
wave of sickness.

When she stops heaving, she just sits there,
staring down at the ground. “Thanks for holding my hair,” she
mumbles, her voice barely a whisper.

“Do you think you’re gonna be sick again?” I
ask gently.

“Feeling a little better now,” she says,
reaching up and taking hold of the tee again.

“Okay,” I say with a nod, eyeing the puddle
of vomit. “Let’s get you moved then.”

The sounds of sirens ring out in the
distance, so I don’t bother to pick up the phone again. Instead, I
scoop up Piper, cradling her against my chest, and stride over to
the curb, well away from where she was just sick, and I take a
seat, keeping her in my lap.

“Police are close,” she says, shivering and
burrowing into me, as though seeking my warmth.

“Yeah,” I respond, wrapping my arms around
her shoulders. Fuck, I hate seeing her like this, hate not being
able to do more to make her feel better.

A bucket of rage settles itself in my chest.
Goddamnit!
She shouldn’t have even been hurt in the first
place.

I should have pulled over quicker.

I should have held onto her tighter.

I should have …

“H-how did the tire come off?” she asks.

I hesitate, considering her question,
contemplating how to answer. I want to tell her shit happens, that
it was an accident and nothing more, but the thing is, tires don’t
just fly off vehicles. The bolts don’t just miraculously come
loose. My gut is telling me someone tampered with her truck.

Someone loosened the bolts.

More goddamn vandalism.

Except this is different.

This isn’t just some ruined rose bushes or
spray paint.

This is serious.

Someone wanted to hurt her. But who? And
why?

I don’t have a goddamn clue.

I shake away the thoughts and the questions
swarming my brain. There will be time to take apart everything that
happened tonight, examine it, look at it piece by piece, later.

I cut my eyes to her, seeing her inquisitive
expression marred with worry, and I mutter, “I don’t know, honey,
but I promise you, I’ll find out.”

Her expression softens, the concentration and
sickness melting from her features. “Freckles,” she says. “I like
freckles better. It’s more personal, not so generic.”

Despite myself, I chuckle, hugging her in
closer. “Freckles it is then.”

She stares at me for a tick, her expression
turning contemplative once more.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” I
ask.

“I need a good name for you,” she says
seriously. “You know something like freckles, but for you.”

It’s probably the alcohol still swimming in
her system, but she looks so goddamn serious, as though we’re
discussing politics or religion or some life and death situation,
that I nearly laugh again.

“I like the one you already have for me,” I
say, fighting to keep my tone just as serious as hers.

She lifts an eyebrow questioningly, looking
thoroughly confused.

“Badass hottie,” I say, feeling my lips quirk
up as laughter bubbles up my throat. “It has a nice ring to
it.”

Piper rolls her eyes, and I laugh.

“Bring that up again and I’ll start calling
you …” she purses her lips, frowning in concentration, before
huffing out a dramatic breath. “Well I don’t really know yet, but
you won’t like it.”

Piper

The next hour and a half passes by in a haze
with my truck being towed, me giving a statement to the police
officers while the paramedics check me over, being taken and
admitted to the hospital, and getting stitches—five to be exact,
right above my ear—all the while dealing with the lingering and not
so pleasant effects of the alcohol I’d consumed earlier and trying
(and failing) to wrap my head around how exactly my tire had fallen
off.

By the time I’m discharged from the hospital,
my hangover is kicking in with a vengeance, leaving me feeling
clammy, shaky, and a whole lot like I’ve been run over by a
truck.

Walking slowly, Vance guides me out to the
parking lot where Jase and Wes are waiting. His right hand, along
with his wrist and forearm, is wrapped in a tensor bandage. He
sprained it from trying to keep me in my seat.
He keeps me right beside him, his hand on my hip and
his big body pressed to my side
as we cross over to
them.

“How you feeling?” Jase asks me when we reach
them, regarding me critically, a frown filling the space between
his eyes.

“Hungover,” I say with a small, embarrassed
smile. “But I’m okay, steadier now, just a headache.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Five stitches
isn’t okay. They clear you for a concussion?”

I shake my head gingerly, the motion sending
shards of pain shooting through my skull. “Um … no,” I say. “The
doctor said I should sleep, but someone needs to wake me every
couple hours to make sure I wake up easily.”

I feel Vance suddenly stiffen beside me, his
muscles cranking tight. “Let’s get her home,” he says, slipping his
arm from my waist, and opening the back door on Jase’s black sedan.
He looks at me, his dark eyes stormy. “Get in, Piper.”

I
eyeball him for a moment, wondering
what the hell has gotten into him. He’s been a moody, broody mess
since the ambulance arrived and carted me off. Everything about his
rigid muscles and the ticking of his jaw screams that he’s pissed
off. Whether it’s at me, or at the fact that I have a concussion, I
don’t have a clue.

“Um …” I start, and then stall, considering
my options. “I should probably go to Kim’s.”

Wes lifts a brow, his expression stern. “You
think that’s smart?”

I shrug, not really sure why it wouldn’t be.
“She’ll wake me up.”

He smirks, shaking his head. “She was out
cold by the time I got her home. Had to carry her up to bed, and
Jimmy wasn’t much better off.”

“You’re going home,” Vance says, his tone
non-negotiable. When I don’t move, he leans in to my side once
more, his hand sliding to my lower back, and his thumb stroking my
skin through my thin shirt. “I’ll stick around tonight. Make sure
you’re okay.”

I frown at Vance, and he gives me a look that
tells me he’s not going to listen to a single protest.

When he gestures for me to get in, I oblige,
climbing into the back seat. I know there’s no point in arguing and
the truth is, I’m somewhat glad he wants to stick around.

Okay, wait. I’m really glad. Ecstatic,
actually.

The ride back to my house is tense and …
awkward. I want to jump out of my own skin. I don’t know what to
say, or what to make of Vance’s uptightness, and he isn’t giving me
any indication of what made him so unhappy.

And as for Jase and Wes … well, they’re no
better, both looking just as broody as Vance.

By the time we make it to my house, my head
is beginning to throb and the blood in my hair has started to dry,
turning crusty. A shower is in order before the freezing around my
stitches wears off.

We make our way inside, and Vance disables
the alarm. I don’t bother to ask why Jase and Wes are coming along,
because I figure if the car ride is any indication, I won’t get
much of an answer.

“I’m going to shower before the freezing
wears off,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “Is there anything I can
get you guys before I go?”

Vance stares at me for a moment, and for the
first time since the ambulance showed up, amusement touches his
lips. “I’m here to look after you,” he says. “Not the other way
around.”

“Right,” I say with a little nod. “Um, okay,
but if you need anything … just make yourself at home, okay?”

He smiles. “Sure, Piper. Go on and
shower.”

I make my way through the house, turning on
lights as I head to my bedroom, gathering up a change of clothes,
before locking myself in the bathroom and turning on the water.

I shimmy out of my jeans, taking my panties
with them, and struggle to get my top off without catching my hair.
I don’t bother throwing the clothes in the hamper, just leave them
where they fall, and climb into the shower, letting the hot water
wash over me.

I stand under the spray for a few minutes as
the hot water warms my skin and eases my taut muscles, before I
grab the shampoo and get to work, carefully massaging it in around
the stitches, and rinsing out the blood.

It takes three washes before I’m confident
that my hair is clean. I quickly scour the rest of my body before
turning off the water and stepping out, smelling of coconut.

I scour my dresser and closet for something
to put on, and end up settling on a pair of gray yoga pants and an
oversized tee, figuring that since Vance has already witnessed me
vomiting tonight, what I wear now isn’t going to make a difference,
so I might as well be comfortable. I scrub my teeth, carefully comb
the knots out of my hair, and then scamper out of the bathroom to
find Vance.

I stroll down the hall, arms crossed over my
chest as I seek him out, wondering if Jase and Wes are still
around. I head to the living room, and I hear Wes’s voice as I
approach the doorway.

“Not your fault, man,” he says. “And I’m
really not seeing where exactly it is you think you failed her
tonight. The tire came off and as far as I can see, you did
everything you could to keep her from getting hurt. If you didn’t
hold her in her seat like you did, this shit could’ve been a hell
of a lot more serious. So pull it together, and help us figure out
where we’re supposed to go from here.”

What? Vance thinks this was his fault? He
thinks he failed me?

My mind can’t even begin to process this.

I stall a few feet from the door, not wanting
to interrupt. I know I should just walk in and let them know I’m
here, but I just stand in place.

Call it curiosity.

Call it nosey.

Whatever.

“Shit, okay,” Vance says after a moment,
blowing out a long, noisy breath. “You’re right.”

“Thank fuck,” Jase says. “So are we all on
the same page that tires don’t just fly off vehicles and that
someone most likely tampered with her truck?”

I shiver. I’m not sure if it’s my hangover or
head injury or their words that cause it.

“Yeah,” Vance says. “We gotta get a hold of
Sam; see if we can get our hands on the security video he has for
tonight. He’s got a couple cameras in the parking lot, maybe it
picked something up we can use.”