AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Zelda lay on his sofa, under the old crocheted afghan he’d lifted from their parents’ house when he’d moved out. Doofus sat beside the sofa, his head on her head. Her arms were wrapped around his neck.
Doofus was a dope about a lot of things, but he was an expert at being what his people needed. If he was being a security blanket for Zelda, so committed to that role he’d ignored Zaxx’s entry, then something was seriously wrong with her.
“Hey,” he said, forgetting all his irritations and frustrations about his sister. “Zel?”
She didn’t respond, but he could tell she was awake. Doofus stayed in place, but his tail wagged slowly, dragging across the carpet.
Fully worried, Zaxx crouched before the sofa, patting the dog’s head before easing Zelda’s arms from his neck. And then he hissed in shock.
His baby sister’s face was a bloody mess—both eyes swollen almost shut, her lips split, a blood-soaked Band-Aid fighting to cover a gash across her nose.
“Peach, what happened?! Who the fuck did this?!” Gently as he could, he lifted her head on his palm. She whimpered and flapped a hand at him, and he saw bruises on her arm, too—and her shirt was torn.
A new horror slammed into his brain, and he yanked the afghan away.
Her miniskirt was filthy, and her bare legs were scraped, bruised, and bloody. Smears of blood coated her inner thighs.
“No, no, no,” Zelda mumbled through her broken mouth. She flailed her hand out. “No, no, no!”
Understanding, Zaxx reached for the afghan and covered her again. She calmed slightly, but still lay whimpering. Was it all she could do?
Pure, one-hundred-proof rage surged through Zaxx in a flood, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Some fucking animal had hurt his sister—really hurt her. When he found the son of a bitch, it would be the last fucking time anyone saw him anywhere.
Doofus hadn’t moved from beside the sofa, but Zaxx nudged him away so he could get in closer. He put his own head on the cushion before Zelda’s. Stroking her hair with the lightest touch his fury-shook hand could manage, he murmured, “Peach, can you talk to me?”
“Hurts,” she mumbled.
“Okay. Okay. I’m gonna pick you up now. I’ll be careful as I can, but we gotta get you to the hospital.”
“No!” she cried with slightly more volume and energy. “No! Please!” He thought she was trying to open her eyes more, and she lifted her head a little. “No, Zaxx. Don’t make me.”
“Peach, you’re too hurt. You need help.” He could do some minor-to-moderate first aid, but this was not minor-to-moderate injury.
“I don’t—if they—they’ll ...” she gave up with a long, heartrending whine. “Please,” she added as a final gasp.
She was worried about how invasive they’d be at the ER. Any lingering shred of hope he’d had that she hadn’t been raped evaporated right there.
“What about the clinic here?” he asked. “Tasha.”
Again, Zelda tried to open her eyes. She studied him blearily for a few seconds and then conceded as her head fell to the sofa again. “Okay. Tasha.”
Len’s old lady was a doctor, and her clinic was set up as a full urgent-care center. Right here in Signal Bend. It didn’t have everything an ER had, but it was pretty well appointed—and definitely better than he could do with his first-aid supplies.
It was after-hours on a Friday night, but there was an after-hours number for the clinic. But she had two other doctors on staff with her, and they were both men. Zaxx didn’t know which doctor was on call tonight, but he knew he didn’t want a man taking care of Zelda right now.
He called Len instead.
~oOo~
The lights were on at the clinic when Zaxx flew his truck onto the lot, and a black, electric Cadillac SUV—Tasha’s car—was parked near the door, sidelong to the building. An empty horse trailer was hitched to it.
He’d called Len, who’d told him to get Zelda to the clinic while Len got hold of his old lady. Apparently she’d been doing something horse-related when Len got hold of her.
He brought the truck to a sharp stop in the nearest actual parking space and winced when Zelda cried out softly.
She lay in a curl on the passenger seat, the seat back down as flat as it would go. She held that ratty old afghan under her chin like it was chainmail and not the cheap, polyester yarn some grandma they’d never met had crocheted. The pained gasps and whimpers she made every time the truck hit a bump were the only signs he’d had that she was conscious.
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered and jumped out of the truck to run around to the passenger side. He tore open her door. She didn’t participate at all, neither to help nor to resist, as he slipped his arms under her and lifted her from the cab.
