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“Go away,” she said to the windshield, knowing he couldn’t hear her. Heck, she could barely hear the car’s engine over the drumming of raindrops. He just stood there.
His shadow separated from the wall as the headlight beams reached him. The light moved up his body. His big, muscular body.
“Morgan!” She slammed on the brakes before she ran into him and the building. “What are you doing here?” She shook her head, feeling like a fool again. She shoved the car into Park and stared through the pouring rain.
He stepped forward, his face appearing in the light beam. She gasped. His arm went out and his hand splayed on the hood of her car. He stumbled but caught himself, barely. She shoved open the door and jumped out.
“What happened?” He looked awful. His other arm was close to his side and the right side of his face was covered in dark purple bruises. A deep cut ran through his right eyebrow, and a trail of blood slid down the side of his face.
The eyes that stared at her were unfocused and he blinked several times as he stood—leaned—there. “Tara?”
“Come on.” Before he fell on his face and she’d never get him on his feet again, she slipped beneath his arm and leaned into him. “Come with me.” She used that voice she’d perfected when Wendy and Wade got into it, the one that didn’t allow for any disagreement. It seemed to work on Morgan, as well, as he nodded and let her lead him to the passenger door.
This one didn’t open any easier than the driver’s had, but her hands weren’t as cold as they’d been before. The heat coming off Morgan’s body washed over her, and she made herself focus on putting one foot in front of the other to get him in the car. The rest she’d deal with later. Much later.
He fell into the car, the entire chassis shifting with the impact. “Turn around.” She pushed him to get his legs in. He leaned his head back, favoring his obviously injured arm as he buckled the seat belt and settled inside the car. She slammed the door and hurried around to climb in beside him.
“What happened?” She didn’t look at him, instead focusing on cranking the heat and aiming the vents toward him and toward her freezing hands.
He didn’t say anything. For half an instant, she thought maybe he’d passed out, but when she finally looked at him again and found him staring at her, she froze. No, he was very much awake.
Their gazes caught and held. He wasn’t going to answer her. When he leaned back again and closed his eyes, she was certain he wasn’t.
“Guess we’re just going to sit here.” She could be stubborn, too. “Isn’t like this is the first time I’ve spent the night here.”
Was that a smile? She hoped so.
“Here’s the deal.” He looked at her again. “Don’t ask any questions. You do not want to know the answers. Really. Just take me to an urgent care.”
She’d take him to the urgent care, but she got the impression he expected her to drop him off. Yeah, that wasn’t happening. She’d find out, even if he wouldn’t tell her.
Setting the car in motion, she headed toward the urgent care.
He didn’t talk, and neither did she.
* * *
NOT BEING RELATED to someone you took for emergency care sucked. Tara sat in the waiting area alone. Morgan was in with a doctor, and he wasn’t letting her know anything. Nothing.
And the doctor was supporting that secretiveness. Privacy rights, really?
Except for the stupid fact that he looked like hell, looked like he was in a great deal of pain, she’d leave him here to walk to his truck. Or take a nearly nonexistent cab.
She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. Then she stood and grabbed a well-worn sports magazine.
Uninterested, she tossed the magazine onto the table.
Just when she’d decided she’d open that door—go back and demand to know what was going on—the door opened from the other side, and Morgan stepped out.
He still looked like hell, except all the broken pieces had been bandaged back together. He actually tried to smile at her, but grimaced instead. That bruise was going to take a while to fade.
Butterfly bandages on his forehead and chin told her those were deep cuts. The wrap around his left forearm looked suspiciously like a splint. He had a plastic bag in his “good” hand, which was a relative term if you didn’t count the now-cleaned and dried scrapes on his knuckles. The bag’s contents rattled, sounding suspiciously like prescription medication.
