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Letting out a steadying breath, I leant into the car and reached across him to release the seat buckle.
And damn near screamed when he jolted upright, snatching my arm in a fierce grip. “I’ll fucking kill you,” he snarled, stare locked on me.
His eyes were wild. Feverish. His fingers drilled into my arm.
“Lucas,” I yelped. “It’s me. Ronnie.”
Confusion etched his face. His eyes focused on mine long enough for me to see raw pain in them, and then he released my arm and touched my lips with a shaky hand. “Ronnie. I think I’m…”
He passed out. Again.
If I weren’t freaking out of my freaking mind, I’d be pissed. He was making a bad habit of passing out at the most inappropriate times.
It took me way longer to get him out of the Camaro and into the house than I was happy with. If I’d have known I was going to be lugging a 230 pound hunk of man around, I would have spent more time working out. By the time I got him into the living room and onto the closest sofa—if the low, sleek pristine-white leather piece of designer furniture could be called such a modest word—I was puffing and sweaty.
Mercifully, Lucas regained enough consciousness halfway into our hideout that I wasn’t so much carrying/dragging him as I was supporting/dragging him.
His feet moved and his legs supported him—just. He wrapped his muscular arm around my shoulders, his strength wavering.
When I stretched him out on the white cushions—not so white after this, what with the blood once again seeping from his side—he let out a low groan.
“I’m sorry, Lucas,” I murmured, crouching down beside him.
He looked like shit. Sexy shit, but still shit.
Sweat beaded his forehead. His eyes were closed. His hair hung about his face in damp strands. There was a pallor to his skin I didn’t like one little bit.
Crouched beside him, a part of me was aware soft music had started playing the moment we’d entered the house—AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell”—another part of me aware said the house smelt like jasmine and Lucas and pine forests. I brushed a clumpy strand of hair from his forehead. “Tell me what to do, Lucas,” I whispered, stare fixed on his face.
“Doctor,” he slurred, eyelids fighting to open. It was a fight they failed.
“Call a doctor?” I confirmed, tummy clenching.
“Winchester.” The name was as slurred at the word doctor.
“Doctor Winchester?”
I think he nodded. I could be wrong. He seemed to have slumped into unconsciousness again.
I pushed myself to my feet and went searching for a telephone directory. None.
Lips twisting with frustration, I pulled my phone from my pocket and googled Doctor Winchester.
The only result that came up relevant to where we were was a veterinarian located in the next county. I studied the man’s website.
Surely he wasn’t the doctor Lucas was talking about?
Right?
Stomach a mess of churning butterflies, and with no other option I could see, I hit the phone icon on the website and raised my cell to my ear.
Five rings later, a man with a scratchy voice answered. “Doctor Winchester’s Animal Clinic.”
“I’m not sure I have the right number,” I said, doing my best to sound relaxed but puzzled at the same time. “I’m after the Doctor Winchester who knows Lucas Pratt.”
“Doctor Winchester will be there ASAP,” the scratchy-voiced man said, voice no longer quite so scratchy and far more efficient and alert.
“Excuse me?” I said, shocked and confused.
