Unbroken
Page 20
Emerson smirks, his eyes glinting dark under the lanterns. “You’re going to cycle back, two miles, in the dark, wasted?”
“Don’t even try and stop me.” I glare.
He shakes his head, amused. “This I gotta see.”
I find Lacey on the dance-floor with Garrett, and let her know that I’m leaving. She doesn’t take much convincing, already leaning in close to him with her arms around his waist.
“I’ll get her home safe,” Garrett winks at me.
“Yeah,” Lacey coos back, “But to whose home?”
I leave them laughing, and stalk back across the party to where we locked the bikes up. Emerson strolls behind me, and I do my best to keep walking in a straight line. “Stop following me!” I call over my shoulder.
“It’s a free country.” The laughing reply comes.
I grit my teeth, and haul the bike up, trying to mount it without showing off my underwear to the whole entire world. And Emerson. It takes three tries, but I finally get my leg over the saddle and feet lined up for the pedals.
“You know, I can give you a ride.” He points out. He’s leaning up against the railing, watching me wheel out to the street.
“No thanks.” I push off, and shakily start pedaling away. There! “See? I’m fine, perfectly capable of taking myself home—“
The front wheel suddenly catches on a pothole, and I go hurtling to the ground with a crash. I cry out in pain as my knee scrapes on the gravel; my ankle twisting under the metal frame as I slam against the concrete.
“Juliet!” I hear the concern in Emerson’s yell, and a moment later, he’s beside me. “Are you OK?” he demands, lifting the bike off me as if it weighs nothing. “Jesus, you really are wasted. Are you out of your f**king mind trying to ride like this? You could have hit a car or something!”
“Fine! You’re right! Happy now?” I demand, trying to hold back a sob. My knee stings like crazy, and there’s a sharp shooting pain in my ankle. But worse than that is the humiliation of looking like a total f**king mess in front of Emerson.
He softens. “Just wait here, I’ll go get my truck.”
“I’m fine!” I insist. I try to get up, but pain shoots through my foot again. I let out a yelp, and crumple back to the ground.
“Don’t move,” Emerson tells me, and then jogs away.
I sit on the side of the street, sniffling with pained tears. Where does he expect me to go? I can barely even stand, let alone run away. If I could, I’d hit the road, and not stop until I was all the way back in the city locked safely in Daniel’s arms.
Daniel. I feel a twinge of guilt, and check my phone. He’s texted twice tonight already, so I quickly tap out a reply.
All good. Lacey’s partying it up, I’m heading home 2 sleep.
Within minutes, a brand-new blue truck comes to a stop beside me. I tuck my phone away, guilty as Emerson jumps down, and throws the bike in the back. “You need me to carry you?” he asks.
“No!” I cry quickly. I manage to get upright and hobble over to the truck. It hurts like hell, but it’s better than the alternative: me, in Emerson’s arms, crushed up against that strong, chiseled chest…
I clamber up into the passenger seat. The door slams. Emerson is in the driver’s seat beside me. He looks over, then rolls his eyes. “Here,” he shoves a wad of paper towels at me. “Clean yourself up, you look pathetic.”
“Gee, thanks for the sympathy.” I snipe back
“I’m driving you home. How much more sympathy do you want?”
“None. Absolutely nothing at all.” I reach over to turn the radio up, some classic Springsteen song, and then turn to stare out of the window. Emerson gets the message, because he doesn’t speak again, not until we’ve pulled into the driveway back at the beach house, and he’s turned the engine off. “Don’t move,” he says, getting down and coming around to my side. “Come on,” he says, holding out a hand for me.
“I don’t need your help,” I inform him icily. I ignore his hand, and try to scramble down myself—without putting any weight on my ankle, which by now feels like it’s swollen to twice its normal size.
“Oh, for f**k’s sake, Jules.” Emerson growls, then before I can resist, he puts one arm under my legs, the other around my torso, and swings me out into his arms.
“Put me down!” I yelp, shocked at the feel of his body, so close to mine. “Emerson!”
He ignores me, striding up the steps to the porch. I struggle against his body, but his arms are like steel around me. I’m helpless against the flood of sensation overwhelming me: the heat of him, the deep, masculine scent, the friction of his shirt against my bare arms. “Emerson,” I try again, desperate. “I’m warning you!”
Emerson looks down at me, his dark eyes flashing. “Do you ever shut the hell up?”
He opens the door, and takes me through the hallway to the living room, depositing me gently on the couch. I scoot back the minute he lets go of me, trying to put the maximum distance between our bodies.
“I told you I was fine.” I snap angrily.
“Yeah, well your ankle says different.” Emerson glowers down at me. “Maybe you should pay more attention to what your body’s telling you.”
He strides off into the house, leaving me weak and breathless with his last words. What my body is telling me? God, if I did that, I’d be na**d and on top of him right now.
“Don’t even try and stop me.” I glare.
He shakes his head, amused. “This I gotta see.”
I find Lacey on the dance-floor with Garrett, and let her know that I’m leaving. She doesn’t take much convincing, already leaning in close to him with her arms around his waist.
“I’ll get her home safe,” Garrett winks at me.
“Yeah,” Lacey coos back, “But to whose home?”
I leave them laughing, and stalk back across the party to where we locked the bikes up. Emerson strolls behind me, and I do my best to keep walking in a straight line. “Stop following me!” I call over my shoulder.
“It’s a free country.” The laughing reply comes.
I grit my teeth, and haul the bike up, trying to mount it without showing off my underwear to the whole entire world. And Emerson. It takes three tries, but I finally get my leg over the saddle and feet lined up for the pedals.
“You know, I can give you a ride.” He points out. He’s leaning up against the railing, watching me wheel out to the street.
“No thanks.” I push off, and shakily start pedaling away. There! “See? I’m fine, perfectly capable of taking myself home—“
The front wheel suddenly catches on a pothole, and I go hurtling to the ground with a crash. I cry out in pain as my knee scrapes on the gravel; my ankle twisting under the metal frame as I slam against the concrete.
“Juliet!” I hear the concern in Emerson’s yell, and a moment later, he’s beside me. “Are you OK?” he demands, lifting the bike off me as if it weighs nothing. “Jesus, you really are wasted. Are you out of your f**king mind trying to ride like this? You could have hit a car or something!”
“Fine! You’re right! Happy now?” I demand, trying to hold back a sob. My knee stings like crazy, and there’s a sharp shooting pain in my ankle. But worse than that is the humiliation of looking like a total f**king mess in front of Emerson.
He softens. “Just wait here, I’ll go get my truck.”
“I’m fine!” I insist. I try to get up, but pain shoots through my foot again. I let out a yelp, and crumple back to the ground.
“Don’t move,” Emerson tells me, and then jogs away.
I sit on the side of the street, sniffling with pained tears. Where does he expect me to go? I can barely even stand, let alone run away. If I could, I’d hit the road, and not stop until I was all the way back in the city locked safely in Daniel’s arms.
Daniel. I feel a twinge of guilt, and check my phone. He’s texted twice tonight already, so I quickly tap out a reply.
All good. Lacey’s partying it up, I’m heading home 2 sleep.
Within minutes, a brand-new blue truck comes to a stop beside me. I tuck my phone away, guilty as Emerson jumps down, and throws the bike in the back. “You need me to carry you?” he asks.
“No!” I cry quickly. I manage to get upright and hobble over to the truck. It hurts like hell, but it’s better than the alternative: me, in Emerson’s arms, crushed up against that strong, chiseled chest…
I clamber up into the passenger seat. The door slams. Emerson is in the driver’s seat beside me. He looks over, then rolls his eyes. “Here,” he shoves a wad of paper towels at me. “Clean yourself up, you look pathetic.”
“Gee, thanks for the sympathy.” I snipe back
“I’m driving you home. How much more sympathy do you want?”
“None. Absolutely nothing at all.” I reach over to turn the radio up, some classic Springsteen song, and then turn to stare out of the window. Emerson gets the message, because he doesn’t speak again, not until we’ve pulled into the driveway back at the beach house, and he’s turned the engine off. “Don’t move,” he says, getting down and coming around to my side. “Come on,” he says, holding out a hand for me.
“I don’t need your help,” I inform him icily. I ignore his hand, and try to scramble down myself—without putting any weight on my ankle, which by now feels like it’s swollen to twice its normal size.
“Oh, for f**k’s sake, Jules.” Emerson growls, then before I can resist, he puts one arm under my legs, the other around my torso, and swings me out into his arms.
“Put me down!” I yelp, shocked at the feel of his body, so close to mine. “Emerson!”
He ignores me, striding up the steps to the porch. I struggle against his body, but his arms are like steel around me. I’m helpless against the flood of sensation overwhelming me: the heat of him, the deep, masculine scent, the friction of his shirt against my bare arms. “Emerson,” I try again, desperate. “I’m warning you!”
Emerson looks down at me, his dark eyes flashing. “Do you ever shut the hell up?”
He opens the door, and takes me through the hallway to the living room, depositing me gently on the couch. I scoot back the minute he lets go of me, trying to put the maximum distance between our bodies.
“I told you I was fine.” I snap angrily.
“Yeah, well your ankle says different.” Emerson glowers down at me. “Maybe you should pay more attention to what your body’s telling you.”
He strides off into the house, leaving me weak and breathless with his last words. What my body is telling me? God, if I did that, I’d be na**d and on top of him right now.
