Page 36 of Property of Rattler

Down? That gives me at least a clue. I look to the side of the path where it drops off sharply. A few more yards, and yes. I see something. Drawing closer, my first reaction is to laugh.

“Bitch! Don’t you dare find this amusing.”

Assessing his pride’s more injured than his body, I continue letting my mirth out.

He, on the other hand, finds nothing about his situation entertaining. “Fuckin’ help me up.”

I eye his situation. He’s obviously slipped down the steep drop, and one foot has been caught under a tree root. He’s lying on his back upside down. Blood rushing to his head has stained his cheeks red. I watch as he scrabbles to gain purchase. There’s nothing for him to hold on to. I bite my lip to stop guffawing as he tries to curl himself up to free his boot—his core muscle strength actually impressive—but gravity’s against him and he can’t reach high enough to free himself. The only way to describe it is like a turtle trying to get right side up.

Crouching down at the top, I clasp my hands together. “Keep doing that, and you’ll get great abs.”

“I’ve already got great abs,” he growls.

I can’t actually disagree, as his t-shirt has slipped down, revealing said muscles.

He tries again but is unsuccessful. “Bitch, help.”

“Stopping calling me a bitch and asking nicely might work,” I casually observe. “Or I could go back to the cabin. Give you a chance to rethink your attitude.”

“Get me out of here now!” he roars. “I’ll fuckin’ end you if you don’t.”

I shrug. “Good to know.” Standing, I turn my back and start to make my way down the path.

I’ve not gone far before I hear, “Ames. For fuck’s sake, help me, please.”

I retrace my steps. I hadn’t really intended to leave him. “Since you asked so nicely…” Close to him once more, I sink to my haunches again, trying to figure out the best way to help. “Rattler, if I remove your boot, your foot should come free. Can you brace yourself so you don’t slide down further?”

He scrabbles with his free heel, trying to dig it into the earth and stabilizes himself with his elbows. “I got it.”

“Okay, hold on.” Inching forward on my stomach, I lean over and reach down to take hold of his boot. I undo the zip, then push the leather to the side and his foot comes free.

It’s a simple fix. Within moments, he’s scrabbled back up the bank and is on the path, hunched over next to where I’m now in a sitting position. I notice he’s breathing heavily as he rests his head in his hands.

I recover his boot, then watch him with concern. “You okay?”

He stretches out the foot that had been trapped and winces but manages to turn his ankle in a circular motion, albeit stiffly and not without pain. He tries it again the other way. “Think I’ve strained or sprained it, but it’s not broken. But hell, give me a moment. I’m a bit dizzy. All the blood’s gone to my head.”

“At least it’s the right one for a change,” I murmur under my breath.

He hears me and snorts, then shakes his head. “Give me my fuckin’ boot, will you?”

He’s asked relatively nicely, so I pass it to him. He puts it on, but his rapidly swelling ankle prevents him from fastening the zip. After glaring at it, he turns and looks at me with a slight smirk. “Thought you were going to leave me there.”

“I thought about it,” I genuinely admit.

He barks a laugh. “You run fuckin’ fast.”

I raise and lower my shoulders. “I like running. I’ve done a few ten-Ks and a half marathon. Haven’t yet got up to a full, but one day I’d like to.”

Expecting mockery, I’m surprised at his response. “I preferred track to football when I was at school.” His eyes glaze as if he’s remembering. “I won a medal once.” That figures. He’s got more of an athletic build. Then he huffs out a breath. “But like everything else, that all went to shit.”

He seems lost in the past, and not in a good memory. I try to lighten the mood. “So, you’re saying you could catch me if you weren’t trying to run in motorcycle boots?”

“Which reminds me,” he says, absently, ignoring my question. “I need to fix a hobble on you.”

“Or you could wear more appropriate footwear,” I point out.

“Ain’t got any,” he replies. He raises a boot. “These are all I need.”