Page 11 of I’m The Worst

“Extraction point.”

Her head falls back. A raw, guttural groan tears from her throat.

“It hurts. Everything. My head…my chest…”

“You’ve been drugged too long. Withdrawals are hitting.” It’s going to get worse.

I clench my jaw and reach for her. Grabbing her arm, I haul her upright, avoiding her face, her breath, her skin against mine.

“Please. Tell me what’s happening.”

My grip tightens as I drag her forward. The van door creaks open.

“No.” She stumbles, muscles buckling. “I don’t want to⁠—”

Every second we’re out here, we’re a fucking target. She sways. Trembles. Then fights.

I snap. My nerves are fucking shot. I scoop her up, my chest going rigid when she collapses against it. She’s hot and damp and shaking, and every inch of my body recoils from the contact.

“Hey!” She twists, fists pounding weakly against me. “Put me down!”

I toss her onto the van floor, then plant myself between her and the exit.

The doors slam behind me. The engine growls to life. Gravel spits beneath the tires as we tear into the night.

Savva glances at me from the driver’s seat. “We’re clear.”

I kneel beside her. Her breaths don’t slow, becoming more erratic. Fingers clawing at the floor, her body won’t stop shaking. I crack my neck and pull the bag off my back, ripping it open. My hand closes around the syringe.

Her eyes snap to it. “What’s that?”

Grinding my teeth, I curl my arm around her waist. She jerks and thrashes against my hold. My other arm traps hers against her side, holding her still.

“Please—”

“Do. Not. Fight me.”

“NO!” she shouts as she bucks again. Her sobs crack open the air. “Please, don’t!”

Her heart slams against my chest. Muscles tight and twitching, her skin is soaked.

I clench my jaw so hard my skull aches.

“Withdrawals are kicking in.” I need more time. Can’t deal with that shit in a moving van.

She sobs harder.

I force the needle in.

Shoving off me, she scrambles to the wall, her back slamming against it and making her wince. Her knees draw up, her head falling onto them. Her cries are cut short as she falls over. Unconscious.

I shift to the front of the van and drop into the passenger seat.

“She good?” Savva asks.

I yank off my blood-soaked shirt and shredded jacket, tossing them behind me. Reaching into my duffel, I grab a clean black tee and a hoodie.

As I zip the hoodie halfway, my eyes flick to the center console—Savva’s Glock jammed into the plastic tray between us. I pop the clip, eject the round from the chamber, and toss both into the glove box.