Page 83 of UNAwere

‘Jude, you big dumb-dumb,’ I gasp out.

He collapses to his knees before he can make it to me, and I scramble to my feet.

‘Jeepers, Jude!’

He makes a noise of agreement, panting. His eyes flicker.

‘Shit,’ I hiss.

‘Two dollars.’

I feel like whacking him, but the slur in his voice is too concerning. I bend down and grab his arm, throwing it around my shoulders.

‘Come on, you big lug.’

He groans, trying to help me carry him over to the car, but all he does is stumble and slow our progress. When we reach it, I open the passenger door and shove him inside. I take off my cardigan and push it against his belly, grabbing his arm and pressing his hand against the wound tightly.

‘Hold it firm, okay?’ I say, face bent low over his. ‘Nice and tight.’

He nods, his eyes on my face. ‘Fuck, you’re pretty…’

I blink at him. ‘What… Jude, no. Stop. You’re bleeding. Don’t compliment me, and hold tight!’

He says nothing, but nods again. I run around the side of the car and get into the driver’s side. The seat is so far back, I can’t reach the pedals. I quickly adjust it and the mirrors and start the engine.

My hands are shaking, covered in Jude’s blood, and I leave red fingerprints over the screen as I type in directions to the nearest hospital.

‘No,’ Jude says, seeing. ‘Just… type in Riverside Motel. You can… patch me up there.’

‘I don’t know how to patch you up!’

‘I’ll talk you through it.’

‘Jude, you’ve been stabbed in the stomach.’

‘I’m alright,’ he murmurs.

‘I don’t think you are—’

He’s starting to shiver, in shock. I grit my teeth and lean towards the back seat, finding another one of my cardigans in my bag and throwing it over him. He groans, burrowing his face into the material and inhaling.

‘Smell so good…’ he mumbles.

Heat rises to my cheeks.

‘Riverside,’ he murmurs, voice muffled by my cardigan. ‘Please, sweetheart.’

I let out a resigned breath. And then switch the directions to the motel.

The drive feels like the longest hour of my life.

Jude loses consciousness halfway to the motel, and as much as I try to shake him and speak to him, he stays asleep. I can still hear him breathing, and his blood smells as if it’s begun to coagulate, so I don’t bother pulling over and checking on him.

I cast him glances every so often, gazing at his sleeping face, the dark circles under his eyes. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s slept properly. Since he’s slept in a bed.

I reach over and find his hand, which is still clutching onto my cardigan. I grip it, feeling how big it is compared to mine. It’s calloused and warm, and I smooth my fingertips over the blunt edges of his nails, the ridges in his knuckles. And then I realise what I’m doing and pull my hand away.

We reach the motel. I park and get out, running up to the front office to book a room. A woman is behind the counter, and she smiles sleepily at me when I step up to it. Several strands of her grey hair have escaped her bun, and they glow a yellow-orange from the desk lamp that sits by her.