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26
WE DON’T PROCRASTINATE
In self-defense classes,you were taught how to fall.
When thrown down steps, instead of tensing and bunching up muscles—automatic instinct—it was crucial to stay loose, to flop, while protecting the head.
I did what I could to practice what was preached, but nobody promised it would hurt any less.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, I groaned, the sound buried under the slam of the door at the top of the steps. For some reason, coughing followed, as if during the spiral, my lungs fused flat to my spine. Lifting to my forearms, I took stock of the new environment. Weak light allowed me to case the room while squinting through the dust I kicked up, noting the naked walls, the cracked concrete floor, the two wooden support beams near the center, a cluster of wooden barrels in the corner. Carefully, I moved to a sit, rubbing my elbows and knees, which had taken the brunt of the short fall down one … two … eleven steps.
Then, I rubbed at my neck, thankful I seemed to be in one piece.
Scraping caught my attention, broke my focus on the details of the basement. I jerked to the sound coming from a far corner, noted a bent leg moving at the ankle between the barrels, then falling flat to the floor. Another groan, not mine, came from the same area.
“Theo?” I whispered, because that gurgle of pain, the ache of inflicted wounds in that tone, was not Sax the mafia prince. It was my Theo.
When did he stop being Sax in my mind? I supposed it was in Rada’s bathroom, his hands in my hair, guiding me back to my sister.
I wobbled to a stand, fell when my body recoiled, so adopted a crawling slide. “Theo? Can you hear me?”
The leg didn’t move.
“Theo.” A fit of coughs got to me again, but I didn’t stop sliding closer, nearer, to God knows what. “What have they done to you? Answer me, please answer. Don’t be…”
Don’t be dead.
At last, I made it to the tip of his shoe and jiggled it lightly. “I’m here,” I said to him, scooting closer. “You’re not alone.”
He was so far into the darkness, there was no way to gauge his injuries properly when I couldn’t see him. Gently, ever so carefully, I shifted him by the shoulders so his face would come into the light.
“Oh…” I said, thickness trickling into my throat.
Theo was bloody. Too red. One eye was swollen, the other fused closed, by stinging tears, saliva, who knew. His nostrils were black with clotted blood, his dried lips holding the streams that escaped. A quick scan, some light touches to his cheekbones, and my non-medical training told me perhaps nothing was fractured. The pieces of his face still made sense, nothing was crushed. And his skin was warm. Pushing back his hair on his forehead, I noticed a deep cut near the center, probably the reason for all the blood. Head wounds were terrible bleeders.
I prayed he hadn’t lost too much.
It appeared to have clotted closed, all his wounds had, meaning he hadn’t taken any recent hits. He’d been left in this basement for a while, on his own, with nothing to look at except for scarred wooden beams by other victim’s nails. If he’d been conscious at all, that is.
Now, the major worry was concussion and how long he’d been out.
“Theo, wake up.” I patted his cheek, using my other hand to feel for a pulse in his neck. The movement hurt, but I was able to get up on my knees to do it. “It’s me. Scarlet.”
Did I see that? I peered closer. A twitch of eyelashes, perhaps a small brow furrow, usually a sign that he knew I was near.
“Can you hear me? Or”—I gave a light poke near his jaw, hoping he had no loose teeth—“Feel this?”
“Mmf.” He moved his head away from my fingers.
“Thank God,” I breathed, and continued to lightly poke. “You have to wake up. All the way. I know it’s a bitch, but I’ll be even bitchier if you die. Come on, open your eyes.”
“Nuh…”
“Yes, you bastard. Open them before I pry them open with my broken fingernails.”
Adrenaline retreated to the back of my throat, leaving room for fear and anger.
“How dare you leave with him?” I asked through Theo’s grumbles. “What in the hell made you think that was a good idea? You knew what would happen, didn’t you? That instead of you bringing Trace home, it would become the opposite. Trace was always your dad’s favorite. He figured out that to get back in Gordon’s good graces, he needed to predict your moves. And you were going to escape this life, weren’t you, you jerk? After you found Trace, you were going to disappear again. Under the guise of keeping me safe. Speaking of which,whydidn’t you inform me that your father wanted medead?”
