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Chapter 25
Dani
Please, don’t die, Fox.
Not again.
It’s impossible for me to guess how many times those words have run through my head so far. Ten hours on the road, speeding through fucking Nebraska of all places, and he’s still with me, breathing so softly I have to put a finger beneath his nose to make sure he’s not dead.
I turn off the highway onto a dirt road, following the slurred instructions he gave me the last time he was lucid. Go a mile or two and you’ll see a farmhouse with a rocking chair on the porch and a small cabin just off the driveway. There’s a dog, but he’ll be nice to you.
“Fox?” I nudge his arm, hoping I took the correct turn.
Finally, a house comes into view. It’s just like he described it would be. Two stories tall, white, with a smaller cabin. No dog in sight, though, but I spot the rocking chair. I check the clock on the dash. It’s just after five in the morning. Hopefully, Barbara Clark is a morning person.
I park in the driveway and detach my seatbelt. “Fox?” I ask.
He doesn’t move.
I force the tears down and step outside into the driveway. “Come on, Fox. Please…”
I pull open his door and tap his face to wake up him. His eyes flutter open. I sigh with relief.
“We’re here, Fox. It’s gonna be okay…”
He falls forward and leans into me as I stand him up. I carry us across the drive with heavy feet, struggling every single step of the way. When we reach the porch, Fox tries to help, barely raising his feet to hobble up the stairs. I adjust my arm and knock hard on the front door.
“Hello?” I cry out. I knock again, struggling to hold him steady. “Is anybody here?”
The door opens and an elderly woman stares at me through the screen door, along with a large husky dog attached to her hip.
“Are you Barbara Clark?” I ask her.
She studies my face with a raised brow. “Are you Roxie Roberts?”
I breathe a laugh. “Yeah.”
Her eyes fall on Fox and concern fills her face.
“He…” I pause.
Christ, how do I even begin to explain this?
She pushes the screen door open. “Bring him in,” she says without question.
I carry him inside, feeling his weight increase on my shoulder with each step.
“Put him on the table.”
She passes through the dining room toward the back of the house while I slide him onto the thick, wooden dinner table.
“Take his clothes off, honey,” she calls from the other room.
I hesitate, feeling a sting of embarrassment before obeying with trembling fingers. He shifts slowly with the movements, partially aware of his surroundings as I peel the layers off. His lips part with hisses of pain, especially when I manage to get his shirt off his shredded backside. The dog lingers near my feet, his senses on full alert with his tail wagging back and forth, but he shows no hostility toward me.
I look at the cobra tattoo. I can’t help but touch the dark, black ink again. His skin feels cold and hard like he’s already dead.
I try not to think about that.
