Page 27 of Chasing Creed

Somehow, she had managed to convince both Jason and Ryder that she didn’t need to go to an ER. After a few phone calls, it was decided that Jason would take her to their hotel, a Holiday Inn just up the road. Hannah had booked them rooms earlier in the day.

Even the suggestion of an ER had almost leveled her. She knew Ryder caught a glimpse of the panic in her eyes when the idea was mentioned. He was getting better at recognizing her emotions despite how good she was at hiding them. Whether she was slipping, or he was just getting good at breaking her code, neither was something she was happy about. Luckily, both men didn’t seem able to read how much pain she was in.

Hiding pain was her specialty. Absorbing it, ignoring it, pretending it didn’t faze her. This hurt. It hurt bad. But on a scale of one to ten of others she had experienced, this was probably a seven. In fact, this current pain reminded her of being stung by dozens of wasps.

The memory came easily, still fresh in her mind. Aaron swung the broom at something in the corner under the porch roof, smiling the entire time. He smiled even as the black-winged creatures swarmed Brodie and covered her skinny twelve-year-old legs and arms. There was no swatting them away. They stung her over and over with their deep needle-stingers, injecting their venom.

And Iris had been angry with Brodie. Not the wasps. And of course, not with her precious son, Aaron.

Stupid girl!

The memory of Iris’ words, the calm cadence of her voice still came too easily. The words hurt almost as much as the stingers. She’d found Brodie helplessly trying to pluck the wasps off. Aaron was nowhere in sight.

Iris told her that the wasps were only doing what wasps do. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.

By then, Brodie already knew it was worthless to explain that it was Aaron who had bothered them, not Brodie. She was still trying to stay in the woman’s good graces, only to find out quickly that the words “grace” and “Iris” didn’t belong in the same sentence.

“How are you doing?” Jason’s voice pulled her back.

They stopped in front of a Holiday Inn Express. She could hear the nearby traffic and smell the diesel of trucks. The fog still hung in wispy clumps. Darker now, triggering parking lot lights and headlights.

“I’m okay,” she lied.

“I’ll check in and get the key cards.”

As soon as Jason disappeared into the hotel, Brodie leaned her head against the back of the seat. Closed her eyes. Listened. The dogs panted. One of them snuffled at the partly opened back window. A breeze slid through with the scent of pine trees and the promise of rain. She thought about Jason and Ryder, both trying so hard to stay calm, arguing about who should drive her to the hotel, who should take care of her.

How lucky was she? How far had she come to have two people arguing about who got to take care of her, not who had to?

In what seemed like only minutes, Jason returned. Brodie’s eyes flew open at the sound of the car door and just in time to see him give her a worried smile. He pulled the SUV around the back of the hotel to a side door that was probably closer to their room. Then he fumbled around in his daypack. Pulled out a small container of Tylenol.

“I should have given you these before we left.” He gestured for her hand and slipped two capsules into her palm. As he handed her a bottle of water, he checked his wristwatch. “I’ll keep track of doses, so you don’t have to. Wait here. I’m going to take the bags and dogs up to the rooms first.”

“Hank won’t leave me behind.”

“Good point. I’ll take the bags and cooler up and come back for you and the dogs.”

“I’m perfectly capable of going with you.”

“I know you are.” He was already lifting a large duffel bag and two backpacks out the side door, wrapping straps around his shoulder and arms. “Just let me do this. I want to check out the rooms. Make sure there aren’t any problems. Okay?”

“Okay.” She rolled her eyes to tell him he was being ridiculous, but she made no effort to argue or to move. Instead, she watched him disappear again into the building.

She glanced back at the dogs, grateful for their company. The pain kept her from turning around to them or giving them her hand.

“Everything’s fine. You're all good dogs.”

Scout wagged his tail, thumping it against the bench, but Hank couldn’t be fooled as easily. He stared at her as if to say, I know you’re lying to me. He sniffed at her, pointing out that he could still smell her blood.

“I know. I’m a bloody mess, but I’m okay,” she told him.

She started to raise her arm to reach over and pet him. The pain stopped her. Pinned her down. Reminded her not to move too much.

She gritted her teeth and sat up. She hated this. Hated not being able to control the pain. Hated how vulnerable she felt right now.

Still, she was anxious to get a glimpse of the damage.

Gently, she tried to tug up a pant leg. It stuck. The fabric was stitched to her skin. The thorns acted like staples or thumbtacks. She worked on the canvas where it had ripped. She plucked and unraveled the threads until she could see underneath.