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“Dammit,” Garrett swore, glaring at Micah like it was somehow his fault Drew was swinging a knife at him. “Come on. Leave him.”
Drew growled deep in his throat and turned his irate, unfocused glare on me instead. I didn’t have Micah’s cat-like reflexes, and I didn’t even realize I’d been cut until the first drops of blood, so dark a red they looked black under the dim light from the entryway, splattered against the gravel.
I glanced down, almost in slow motion, and looked at the trail of red through the gash in my sleeve, the blood oozing down my arm and dripping off my fingertips. A wave of dizziness washed over me at the sight, and I swallowed thickly.
Micah’s swear was low and feral, and Garrett’s voice rang out loud in the still air.
“Micah, don’t.”
But it was too late. Micah raised his fist, and all I caught was a flash of motion and a grunt of pain before Drew collapsed to the ground.
12
Drew’s body was a dark formless shape against the gravel, and I wavered, wondering vaguely if I was about to join him in unconsciousness.
“Hold your arm up.”
Was someone talking to me? “What?”
Another voice. “Micah, let’s go. Now.”
“Hold your arm up and put pressure on it. Dammit, come on. Here.”
Someone grabbed my injured arm, lifting it overhead and I felt another hand clamp around the wound. I hissed, closing my eyes as my vision swam.
The voice cursed again. Abruptly an arm swept under my knees, pulling my legs out from under me and hoisting me up against a warm, hard chest, and then we were moving.
A car door opened, and I was carefully maneuvered onto a leather seat before the door slammed shut again. A second later the opposite door opened, and Micah slid in next to me.
“Here.” He took my arm again and wrapped a wad of tissue he’d procured from somewhere around the cut. “Keep pressure on it; we’ll take a look when we get back.”
The pressure stung, and a wave of nausea rolled over me. I closed my eyes, sliding down to rest my head against the seat as I tried to breathe through my nose.
“Are you okay?”
“Feel sick,” I mumbled.
“Don’t you dare throw up in my car,” came an angry voice from the front as I felt the car start to move, gravel crunching under the tires and jostling us out of the parking lot. The movement did nothing good for my roiling stomach.
“Dammit, Micah,” the voice continued. “I didn’t mean for you to bring her.”
“What the hell, Garrett?” the heated response came from next to me. “She’s bleeding. I couldn’t just leave her there.”
“Of course you could! The asshole was already unconscious—and what the hell was that, by the way, you know not to fight back.”
“Fuck off, G,” Micah said. “What was I supposed to do? He had a fucking knife.”
“So? You know—”
“Would you guys shut up?” I said, not bothering to open my eyes. “If you had just punched that asshole before he pulled the knife, none of this would have happened.”
Devan chuckled from the front seat. “She does have a point,” he said.
I could practically hear Garrett turn on him. “You know we—”
“I know, I know,” Devan cut him off. “Don’t fight back.”
“And why is that again?” I asked.
