Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“I know what my contract says,” I snap. “But we have no choice.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
“Just keep an eye on the controls,” I say.
The space inside is tight and hard to maneuver.
Sweat drips into my eyes.
I’m almost done when it happens. The machine jolts.
Pain explodes through my wrist.
My vision blurs for a moment.
Fuck.
The pain is unbearable.
“Hudson!” Dad’s voice is panicked, but I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears.
I pull back, cradling my wrist as I stumble out of the auger.
Blood drips onto the dirt, the bright red stark against the pale dust.
“Shit,” I mutter, my knees buckling.
Dad’s there in an instant, his hands on my shoulders as he helps me sit down. “Let me see.”
I hold out my arm, and his face pales when he sees my wrist.
There’s blood everywhere.
Shit.
This is bad.
“Dammit, Hudson,” he says, his voice shaking. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I didn’t want you doing it,” I say through gritted teeth.
He grabs his phone. “We need to get you to the house.”
The walk back to the house is a blur. By the time we reach the porch, I’m sure I’ll pass out.
“Mary!” Dad calls, his voice urgent.
The living room is quiet.
This is hell.
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
I sit on the couch holding a towel to my arm.
This is bad.
The blood is soaking through.
This is really bad.
I try to keep my face neutral, but it’s damn near impossible.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Mom’s voice rises as she paces the room, her hands fluttering uselessly.
“Mom, I’m fine.” My tight voice betrays me. I’m not fine. I’m in a fuck load of pain.
“Fine?” She spins toward me. “You’re bleeding all over my floor, Hudson.”
“What happened?” Molly asks. Shit, when did she come into the room?
She’s the last person I want to see me like this.
All eyes snap to her. No one speaks.
“He-he got hurt. The auger jammed, and he—” Dad finally says.
“I tried to fix it.” Not that I think anyone will care right now. But for some reason, I feel defensive.
“You what?” Her eyes narrow as she stares me down.
“It isn’t a big deal.” I try to shrug but end up wincing. Real smooth, Wilde.
Goddamn, that hurts.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” she repeats, her voice rising, “yet you’re sitting here bleeding like you’re the star of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre?”
“Hex, please,” I say softly, trying to calm her down. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” Her green eyes blaze. “You need a doctor.”
“I can’t,” I say firmly, meeting her gaze.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
I glance at Dad, then back at her. “It’s against my contract,” I admit, my voice low. “If the team finds out I was doing farm work, I could lose my job.”
Her eyes widen, and she blinks at me, trying to process what I’ve just said. “Your contract forbids you from . . . what? Doing anything useful?”
“Anything dangerous,” I correct, glaring at her like it’s a perfectly reasonable clause.
“And this qualifies,” Dad mutters.
Molly lets out a frustrated breath. She’s quiet for a moment before running her hands through her hair. “Okay, so what’s the plan, then? Because you can’t just sit here bleeding out.”
“We’ll clean it up and wrap it properly,” Mom says. “Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
I clench my jaw, looking away. She doesn’t need to know how bad it is.
“It’s deep,” Mom admits quietly. “He needs stitches.”
“And we’re just . . . not going to do that?” Molly sounds pissed.
“We can’t.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “If I go to a hospital, they’ll ask questions.”
“Hudson, this isn’t just about you. If this gets infected—”
“It won’t,” I say, cutting her off. “We’ll take care of it.”
She glares at me. “This is ridiculous.”
“And risk my contract?” I say through gritted teeth as my mom cleans the wound with antiseptic. “No way.”
“You’re risking your life instead,” she snaps. “Great. Just great.”
“I’m not risking anything,” I grit out through the pain. “I need this job, Molly.”
The words hang heavy in the air.
“This is not okay,” Molly says.
“No, it’s not,” I admit, my voice softening.
She doesn’t say anything to that; she just focuses on holding my arm steady while Mom works.
Once the wound is cleaned and wrapped, I lean back in the chair.
I feel like shit. Everything hurts.
“All right,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “What’s next?”
“Next?” Molly repeats, crossing her arms. “Next is figuring out how you’re going to hide this from the team.”
“I have two weeks before practice starts,” I say. “I’ll keep it covered, take it easy, and hope for the best.”
“Hope for the best?” she practically growls. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s worked so far,” I say with a faint smirk.
She glares at me, her frustration bubbling over. “Hudson, this isn’t a game. If the team finds out—”