Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,34
seems to make sense. I pull my phone from my outer thigh pocket and scroll through my texts. I can’t make sense of any of it. Slowly, panic sets in. Why can’t I read the words on my phone? Why can’t I process what everyone is saying around me?
I elbow Tate’s leg and hold my phone up at him. “I can’t read what this says.”
The horror in those three pairs of eyes is too much to take. Tears burn at my waterlines as I shed every bit of my professional facade. I don’t understand why or how, but I’m in a dire state, and I don’t care who sees me falling apart right now.
Not even a second later, I’m hauled up by Tate’s hands. Calloused, firm, warm hands. Hands I want to hold me forever. When I take a breath, the spice of his cologne mixed with the musk of his sweat fills my lungs. In all the chaos of this moment, it’s strangely soothing.
Jamie reaches for me, but Tate turns me away from him. “It’s fine. I’ve got her.” The tone he uses makes it sound like a warning. Jamie steps away, crossing his arms against his chest.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Lynn says.
“No way.” I may be out of it, but I know that if I step foot inside an ambulance, I’ll fully lose it. The fluorescent lights, being strapped to a gurney, paramedics poking and prodding at me.
“It’s fine. Your insurance will cover it,” Jamie says.
“No, just . . . no. No ambulance. I mean it.” The pain hardens my voice into a strange mix of terrified and no-nonsense.
“I’ll drive her to the hospital,” Tate says. “It’ll be faster than waiting for an ambulance anyway.”
I nod my head in agreement. A car ride with Tate sounds infinitely better.
Lynn puts her phone back. “Let me grab her purse, and I’ll help you walk her to your car.”
Lynn is barely five feet two inches, and I don’t want to crush her as I wobble, so I lean most of my weight on Tate. Jamie offers to help along the way, but Tate snaps a refusal. The steady way Tate walks, he seems to support me with ease. The urge to retch hits, and I let out a single dry heave. Lynn asks if I need to stop, but I shake my head.
“This is definitely a concussion. She needs to see a doctor now.” Tate’s blunt words register just as his car comes into view. More bickering follows.
“This isn’t a two-person job. I said I’ve got it,” Tate barks as he lowers me into the front passenger seat.
“Look, I’m just trying to help. Dial back the intensity, will you?” Jamie’s impatience sounds on the cusp of anger. I try to speak, but instead I heave a wad of spit onto the concrete below. I shut my eyes.
“I don’t have time to argue with you,” Tate says. “I need to get her to the hospital.” When he touches my cheek, I open my eyes. He’s crouched down, staring at me. His entire milky forehead fills with a half dozen concerned creases. “She’s completely out of it. She needs to be at the ER now.”
Jamie says something about calling me, but Tate shuts the door and I can’t make out the rest. Tate speeds out of the parking lot. I bounce between the door and my seat with each urgent turn and press of the gas pedal. If social media doesn’t work out, he’d make one hell of a getaway driver. We’re paused at a stoplight when he seems to remember that I’m unbuckled. He straps me in with my seat belt.
“It’ll be okay,” he says calmly. “We’re almost there.”
The panic filling me is in direct opposition to the slow-motion gears crowding my head. “Do you promise?” I peek up at him from under a mess of sweaty hair.
“Promise.” He holds my gaze for a long second. “Don’t fall asleep though, okay?”
After pulling into the parking lot, he leads me to the ER with easy strength yet again. I’m clutching at him like an injured lemur, but judging by the firm way he grips my body, he doesn’t seem to mind. In the waiting room, he takes the chair next to me and fills out my paperwork, consulting my ID and insurance card when needed. I try to say thank you, but a lump lodges in my throat.
“Here. Come here.” He slinks his arm around me, and my face falls into the space