68 Whiskey (Possum Hollow Book 2) by Erin Russell

Author:Erin Russell [Russell, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Erin Russell
Published: 2024-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

“Carry me, bestie.”

It’s not the first time I’ve said it tonight, and a little piece of me is waiting to see how far I can push Ford before he finally flips and leaves me on a fire station doorstep in a cardboard box or something.

I’m aware that it’s self-destructive, but that doesn’t help me curtail the impulse. Everyone has their breaking point, and the one thing I excel it is helping people find theirs. I’ve been told I’m exhausting to be around by more people than I can count. In a variety of ways. Ford already has a basement-bargain tolerance for noise and human contact. I can only imagine I’m grating on his last nerve.

This is the push he might need to kick my ass to the curb.

Instead, he looks at me with the same weary but tolerant expression he’s held all night. Well, apart from the times that he just looked panicked. That was less fun.

Whenever I’m in a hospital, I feel at ease. Even as a patient. I know what’s going on, how things are going to play out and even in the worst possible scenarios, I know I’ll have the understanding and the ability to compartmentalize to deal with whatever happens. It’s easy to forget that most people don’t feel that way.

I spend a lot of time giving people platitudes as I pass them off to the ER staff for treatment, but it’s another thing entirely to watch someone that you know—someone who is so fundamentally strong—slowly vibrate apart with a latent, unspoken fear. Just because of where we were standing.

At least, that’s what I assume. The only other reason for Ford to be upset would be that I was hurt, which would make even less sense. Especially because he still barely tolerates me, and it really is just a flesh wound.

I’m so caught up in this train of thought-–and pleasantly coasting on the morphine train—that I forgot I said anything to Ford. So, when he reaches down and grabs me, I practically squawk with surprise.

I’ve already been shocked by how it feels when Ford manhandles me, but so far that’s been in a sexual context. Which is brutal and glorious and makes sense in my brain in a convoluted way. He wants something from me; I want to give it to him; he takes it.

This… this makes all sorts of things inside me go offline in a way I don’t understand.

Ford scoops one arm under my butt like you would do to an unruly toddler, hoisting me up the side of his body until I’m perched on his hip, my feet are dangling in the air and my good arm is clinging to his shoulders, and then continues his steadfast march towards the car.

Holy fuckballs, he’s strong.

And I’m being carted home like groceries.

There’s the barest flicker of an urge to protest, but it’s quickly extinguished by the cocktail of meds, liquor and exhaustion that’s swimming through my veins right now. I’ve never been one to seek comfort when I was sick or injured.

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