Page 89 of I’m The Worst

“AJ! Where the fuck are you?” I shout, my voice reverberating off the walls.

A faint clink of glass jerks my head.

I move toward the sound, shoulder slamming into the doorframe as the room tilts again, and I push open the bathroom door.

She’s curled up naked in the tub, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol. Fucking hell. I go to shake her awake, yell at her for being so fucking stupid—for getting blackout drunk while we’re being hunted, for compromising her ability to defend herself, for making me deal with this mess.

But I stop when I get closer.

Tear tracks line her cheeks. Her hands tremble in her sleep.

Why the fuck does that bother me?

I don’t care if she’s been crying. I don’t care if she drank herself into oblivion. I hate how my eyes keep tracing the lines of her—the curve of her spine, the hollow of her stomach, the faint scars I know weren’t there before Akim took her.

My jaw clenches as an unfamiliar ache spreads in my chest.

I don’t know how long I was out.

But judging by the empty bottles and the state she’s in…it’s been long enough. I glance down at my side. The stitches are rough and uneven, but they’re holding. She didn’t do half bad, all things considered. I reach into the tub and lift her into my arms. Her naked body is limp against mine.

Gritting through the pain, I carry her to the bed and lay her down, then pull the blanket over her. My hands linger for half a second too long on the edge of the blanket.

I’m pathetic.

I locate the hidden safe in the closet, grab the gun and extra ammo, and swallow a handful of painkillers dry.

It takes me too long to get the fire going in the old stone hearth. Every movement sends fresh pain through my side and shoulder. My head is still fucked, vision blurring, balance off. The concussion is bad. It’s slowing me down, making me sloppy.

I need to do an inventory. Assess the damage. Figure out our next move.

That’s where my head should be.

Not here.

Not on her.

But my attention keeps shifting back anyway. Like something inside me is hooked in and won’t let go. A twitch hits my hand at my side. Unfamiliar and fucking irritating. The urge to reach out—to touch—is cut off fast with a long, steady exhale.

No.

Reining myself in, I turn and leave the room. Fucking focus.

It was a long shot that I even remembered this place—one of the mountain safehouses from my merc days. But it’s rotated through enough hands over the years that staying here is a risk on its own.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk back to the bedroom.

She hasn’t moved.

I drop onto the edge of the bed before I think better of it, the mattress dipping under my weight. My head throbs, pressure pulsing behind my eyes that won’t let up.

This is a waste of time.

There’s a plan to make. Routes to rebuild. Everything’s gone. My gear. Our papers. Supplies. My fists clench, knowing the ghosts from my past that I’m going to have to contact.

But she’s what my focus locks onto.

Lying too still for someone who never shuts the hell up. A weight settles low in my chest. Not like the pain in my side. Not anything I can fucking name.