Play It Again Read online

  The truck shudders, the metal frame protesting this new, foreign position, and then everything goes quiet and still, only the calm idle of the engine remaining.

  For a beat, all I can do is sit here, unmoving, unbreathing, one hand gripping the steering wheel, and the other pressed against Piper’s chest.

  My mind works fast trying to put all the pieces together. The rattle, the shaking, a tire flying in the rearview mirror, the truck bouncing, the rotor hitting the ground, catching, tipping …

  When my lungs finally manage an in and out again, I blow out a long breath, ending it with the word, “Fuck.”

  And then, I turn to look at Piper.

  Her head is down, her face hidden from my view, and she’s breathing hard, her pulse hammering against my forearm, but her body is slack, pressed tight against the center console, and folding itself over my arm.

  “Piper,” I say, my voice rough. “You okay, honey?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  Not even a whisper.

  “Piper,” I try again, louder this time.

  Again, no response.

  Heart pounding, my panic kicks up once more and it’s all I can do to wrangle it and push it down. I shift in my seat, careful not to let her go. Shards of glass dig into my hand as I press it against the window frame, turning my body toward her.

  Something warm and wet trickles onto my forearm as I move, and my eyes slice to it.

  Blood. Oh shit, it’s blood.

  I lean up toward her, my eyes frantically scanning, searching for the source. The right side of her face is covered in it, sliding down her cheek from her hairline.

  My chest tightens, suddenly feeling as though it’s engulfed in flames, and another curse leaves my lips on a sharp exhale.

  I stare at it.

  A second passes.

  Two.

  And then I move into action.

  Changing my grip on her, I wind my arm around her, getting a more secure hold, and then I reach my free arm in between us, hitting the release on my seatbelt, moving closer to her, needing to see the rise and fall of her chest, the proof that she’s alive.

  She jostles in my arm, eliciting a sudden gasp and sob from her lips that sends ice running down my spine.

  “Freckles, talk to me,” I say, bringing my hand up to cup her bloodied cheek, tilting her face up, so I can get a better look at her. “Open those eyes.”

  She gasps again, followed by another quick sob and a loud groan, and then her eyes open. She blinks a few times, her eyelashes fluttering rapidly, and then she tilts her head back, looking at me.

  “Did you just call me freckles?” she rasps, scrunching her nose. Her expression might be comical, if I wasn’t so goddamn worried.

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice harsh with unease. “I did.”

  She eyes me peculiarly, her nose scrunching once more, the movement of her face causing more blood to slide down her cheek and run over my hand.

  She feels it. I see it in her eyes, a flutter of confusion, and then realization settling in their depths.

  “Oh, God, am I …?” she stalls, her shaky hand flying up to her cheek, pressing against mine. “Is that …?”

  Piper’s face pales as she pulls her hand away, staring at the blood staining her palm and fingers. Her lips begin to tremble, her breath hitches, her hand shakes.

  “Don’t think about it,” I say quickly, pushing her hand down out of her line of sight. “You’re fine.”

  And she is fine.

  She’s breathing.

  She’s talking.

  That’s good, right?

  Head injuries bleed a lot. It’s probably not as bad as it looks. It can’t be.

  She eyes me dubiously for a tick, her gaze flickering down to her hand once, twice, three times, before she blows out a shaky breath. “Are you o-okay?”

  I nod once. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “W-what happened?” she stammers out, her voice borderline panicked, her eyes wide with fear, as she scans them over me, searchingly, as though she’s not sure she should believe that I’m good.

  “Rear driver’s side tire came off,” I say.

  “You mean we got a flat?” she asks, frowning, as she presses her arm against the center console, taking some of her weight off me. “A flat tire flipped the truck?”

  “No, Piper,” I respond, my tone, just as disbelieving as hers. “The rim, the tire, it all came off.”

  She stares at me, a mix of muddled skepticism and blatant alarm flitting across her face. She doesn’t want to believe me. I don’t blame her for that. It’s not like a tire, rim and all, flies off vehicles every day.

  “We’ve gotta get you out of here so I can look at you,” I say, my gaze shifting past her, scanning over the door at her back. “The door is gonna be hard to keep open, so I’m gonna open your window, and you’re gonna need to climb out. You think you can do that?”

  She nods, wincing from the movement. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

  I reach behind me, feeling around for the button, not taking my eyes off her. After a moment of searching, my finger hits the button, and I press down, allowing the window to slide open.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  Piper nods again. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Grab onto the window frame and climb out. I’ll give you a boost, yeah?”

  She gives me a wobbly, watery smile and another nod, before she swivels in the seat and leans up, grasping the window frame with both hands, and hoists herself up. Shifting positions, I move my hands to her hips, grimacing at the stab of pain that cuts through my wrist as I give her a boost.

  Shit. I think it’s sprained.

  The truck groans and rocks as Piper scrambles out, nearly kicking me in the face as she goes, but I manage to avoid her flailing limbs. Her feet disappear from my view, and then the truck settles again as she hops down, the soles of her shoes clacking against the pavement.

  Once she’s clear, I maneuver myself out of my seat, crouching on the shattered remains of the window. As I rise, I spot Piper’s purse in the corner of the back seat and I snag it, before standing and pulling myself out the window.

  When my feet hit the ground, Piper is on her ass on the pavement. She’s leaning against the roof of the truck, with her arms wrapped around her shins, her forehead pressed against her knees, and her body shaking ever so slightly.

  Clutching her purse, I move to her quickly, squatting down in front of her. “You doing okay?” I ask, reaching out a hand, and grasping her shoulder gently.

  Slowly, she lifts her head and her voice is scratchy as she says, “Yeah, just dizzy. A little queasy, too. I think I drank too much.”

  I snort out an unamused laugh. I doubt the dizziness and queasiness has little to do with the alcohol she consumed tonight.

  “Let me get a look at you,” I say, setting her purse down beside her and cupping her chin in my hand. She winces as I tilt her head to the side, and she cringes as I poke and prod at her hair, looking for the source of all the blood.

  The gash isn’t too long, or too deep, about an inch, maybe an inch and a half above her ear on the right side of her head.

  “Is it bad?” she asks, a slight tremor coming through in her voice.

  I shake my head. “No, but you’re gonna need a few stitches and we’ve gotta slow down the bleeding.”

  Piper grimaces, but she doesn’t say anything. I wonder if it’s the thought of stitches or the blood that makes her cheeks pale further.

  I glance around for something to use to stop the flow of blood, thinking perhaps there’s something in the truck—a towel, a shirt, something—but a snap second decision has me pulling off my tee, bunching it up, and pressing it against the side of her head.

  “Ouch,” Piper whines, wincing away from the pressure. She reaches up, batting away my hand, and takes the tee, pressing it to her head nowhere near as firmly as I had it.

  “Hold it tight,” I say, cupping her hand in mine, appl
ying more pressure. “Just like this, yeah? I’m gonna call this in.”

  “Okay,” she says, her voice shaking over the word.

  With another thorough scan of her, making sure she doesn’t let up on the pressure, I pull my phone out of my pocket, taking a couple steps back as I dial 9-1-1, quickly rambling off our location and reporting the accident to the operator. I describe Piper’s injury, saying we need police, paramedics, and a tow truck.

  The operator bombards me with a ton of questions. Is she still bleeding? Is she awake? Did she lose consciousness? How long was she out? Has she vomited? I answer the questions, my tone crisp and concise, and my patience nears its snapping point as she keeps firing them at me.

  I want to get off the phone.

  I need to focus on Piper.

  Where the fuck is the ambulance?

  Suddenly, Piper makes a noise, a mix of a groan and a whimper, and I whip my gaze back to her. She meets my eyes, and my chest tightens at the distress I see swimming there. “Gonna be sick,” she gasps, sniveling. “Gonna be sick.”

  “Gotta put the phone down,” I bark out, darting back to Piper’s side, and setting the phone down on the pavement. I manage to pull her hair back from her face, and grab the tee before it falls from her wound, just as Piper vomits onto the ground beside her.

  My gut clenches, unease and concern twisting me in knots, as her body shakes and convulses through wave after wave of sickness.

  When she stops heaving, she just sits there, staring down at the ground. “Thanks for holding my hair,” she mumbles, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Do you think you’re gonna be sick again?” I ask gently.

  “Feeling a little better now,” she says, reaching up and taking hold of the tee again.

  “Okay,” I say with a nod, eyeing the puddle of vomit. “Let’s get you moved then.”

  The sounds of sirens ring out in the distance, so I don’t bother to pick up the phone again. Instead, I scoop up Piper, cradling her against my chest, and stride over to the curb, well away from where she was just sick, and I take a seat, keeping her in my lap.

  “Police are close,” she says, shivering and burrowing into me, as though seeking my warmth.

  “Yeah,” I respond, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. Fuck, I hate seeing her like this, hate not being able to do more to make her feel better.

  A bucket of rage settles itself in my chest. Goddamnit! She shouldn’t have even been hurt in the first place.

  I should have pulled over quicker.

  I should have held onto her tighter.

  I should have …

  “H-how did the tire come off?” she asks.

  I hesitate, considering her question, contemplating how to answer. I want to tell her shit happens, that it was an accident and nothing more, but the thing is, tires don’t just fly off vehicles. The bolts don’t just miraculously come loose. My gut is telling me someone tampered with her truck.

  Someone loosened the bolts.

  More goddamn vandalism.

  Except this is different.

  This isn’t just some ruined rose bushes or spray paint.

  This is serious.

  Someone wanted to hurt her. But who? And why?

  I don’t have a goddamn clue.

  I shake away the thoughts and the questions swarming my brain. There will be time to take apart everything that happened tonight, examine it, look at it piece by piece, later.

  I cut my eyes to her, seeing her inquisitive expression marred with worry, and I mutter, “I don’t know, honey, but I promise you, I’ll find out.”

  Her expression softens, the concentration and sickness melting from her features. “Freckles,” she says. “I like freckles better. It’s more personal, not so generic.”

  Despite myself, I chuckle, hugging her in closer. “Freckles it is then.”

  She stares at me for a tick, her expression turning contemplative once more.

  “What are you thinking so hard about?” I ask.

  “I need a good name for you,” she says seriously. “You know something like freckles, but for you.”

  It’s probably the alcohol still swimming in her system, but she looks so goddamn serious, as though we’re discussing politics or religion or some life and death situation, that I nearly laugh again.

  “I like the one you already have for me,” I say, fighting to keep my tone just as serious as hers.

  She lifts an eyebrow questioningly, looking thoroughly confused.

  “Badass hottie,” I say, feeling my lips quirk up as laughter bubbles up my throat. “It has a nice ring to it.”

  Piper rolls her eyes, and I laugh.

  “Bring that up again and I’ll start calling you …” she purses her lips, frowning in concentration, before huffing out a dramatic breath. “Well I don’t really know yet, but you won’t like it.”

  Piper

  The next hour and a half passes by in a haze with my truck being towed, me giving a statement to the police officers while the paramedics check me over, being taken and admitted to the hospital, and getting stitches—five to be exact, right above my ear—all the while dealing with the lingering and not so pleasant effects of the alcohol I’d consumed earlier and trying (and failing) to wrap my head around how exactly my tire had fallen off.

  By the time I’m discharged from the hospital, my hangover is kicking in with a vengeance, leaving me feeling clammy, shaky, and a whole lot like I’ve been run over by a truck.

  Walking slowly, Vance guides me out to the parking lot where Jase and Wes are waiting. His right hand, along with his wrist and forearm, is wrapped in a tensor bandage. He sprained it from trying to keep me in my seat. He keeps me right beside him, his hand on my hip and his big body pressed to my side as we cross over to them.

  “How you feeling?” Jase asks me when we reach them, regarding me critically, a frown filling the space between his eyes.

  “Hungover,” I say with a small, embarrassed smile. “But I’m okay, steadier now, just a headache.”

  He lets out a humorless laugh. “Five stitches isn’t okay. They clear you for a concussion?”

  I shake my head gingerly, the motion sending shards of pain shooting through my skull. “Um … no,” I say. “The doctor said I should sleep, but someone needs to wake me every couple hours to make sure I wake up easily.”

  I feel Vance suddenly stiffen beside me, his muscles cranking tight. “Let’s get her home,” he says, slipping his arm from my waist, and opening the back door on Jase’s black sedan. He looks at me, his dark eyes stormy. “Get in, Piper.”

  I eyeball him for a moment, wondering what the hell has gotten into him. He’s been a moody, broody mess since the ambulance arrived and carted me off. Everything about his rigid muscles and the ticking of his jaw screams that he’s pissed off. Whether it’s at me, or at the fact that I have a concussion, I don’t have a clue.

  “Um …” I start, and then stall, considering my options. “I should probably go to Kim’s.”

  Wes lifts a brow, his expression stern. “You think that’s smart?”

  I shrug, not really sure why it wouldn’t be. “She’ll wake me up.”

  He smirks, shaking his head. “She was out cold by the time I got her home. Had to carry her up to bed, and Jimmy wasn’t much better off.”

  “You’re going home,” Vance says, his tone non-negotiable. When I don’t move, he leans in to my side once more, his hand sliding to my lower back, and his thumb stroking my skin through my thin shirt. “I’ll stick around tonight. Make sure you’re okay.”

  I frown at Vance, and he gives me a look that tells me he’s not going to listen to a single protest.

  When he gestures for me to get in, I oblige, climbing into the back seat. I know there’s no point in arguing and the truth is, I’m somewhat glad he wants to stick around.

  Okay, wait. I’m really glad. Ecstatic, actually.

  The ride back to my house is tense and … awkward. I want to jump ou
t of my own skin. I don’t know what to say, or what to make of Vance’s uptightness, and he isn’t giving me any indication of what made him so unhappy.

  And as for Jase and Wes … well, they’re no better, both looking just as broody as Vance.

  By the time we make it to my house, my head is beginning to throb and the blood in my hair has started to dry, turning crusty. A shower is in order before the freezing around my stitches wears off.

  We make our way inside, and Vance disables the alarm. I don’t bother to ask why Jase and Wes are coming along, because I figure if the car ride is any indication, I won’t get much of an answer.

  “I’m going to shower before the freezing wears off,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “Is there anything I can get you guys before I go?”

  Vance stares at me for a moment, and for the first time since the ambulance showed up, amusement touches his lips. “I’m here to look after you,” he says. “Not the other way around.”

  “Right,” I say with a little nod. “Um, okay, but if you need anything … just make yourself at home, okay?”

  He smiles. “Sure, Piper. Go on and shower.”

  I make my way through the house, turning on lights as I head to my bedroom, gathering up a change of clothes, before locking myself in the bathroom and turning on the water.

  I shimmy out of my jeans, taking my panties with them, and struggle to get my top off without catching my hair. I don’t bother throwing the clothes in the hamper, just leave them where they fall, and climb into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me.

  I stand under the spray for a few minutes as the hot water warms my skin and eases my taut muscles, before I grab the shampoo and get to work, carefully massaging it in around the stitches, and rinsing out the blood.

  It takes three washes before I’m confident that my hair is clean. I quickly scour the rest of my body before turning off the water and stepping out, smelling of coconut.

  I scour my dresser and closet for something to put on, and end up settling on a pair of gray yoga pants and an oversized tee, figuring that since Vance has already witnessed me vomiting tonight, what I wear now isn’t going to make a difference, so I might as well be comfortable. I scrub my teeth, carefully comb the knots out of my hair, and then scamper out of the bathroom to find Vance.