“I’m sorry. Sorry, is this . . . let me see if I can get whatever it is pressing against you off,” I offer, working into a position to feel around us.
Her hips jerk back into mine. “No, no, no. It hurts and might collapse. Don’t, please.”
“Jules, I’m going to see if I can lift it with my boot enough for you to pull free. I won’t move anything. We’ll go real slow,” I promise.
“I’m pretty sure I might pass out if you touch it, West. Please leave it.”
Ignoring her, I poke around the area using the toe of my boot, searching for whatever landed on her. When I find a board, I tap at it, testing its strength and weight load.
“Damn it, you’re taking this Spike thing too far.”
Her ire brings a smile to my face as I kick the board a second time. “Ha, you know you like it, Buffy.” She huffs and tightens her grip on my hand, turning my fingers numb. “Okay. Look, all I have to do is kick it and it’s going to slide off easy, like Jenga.”
“Jenga?” she growls. “This isn’t a game, West. The whole thing could come crashing down on us.”
“It’s hurting you, I’m getting it off. Look, like I said, it’s Jenga.”
“Oh my word, what does Jenga have to do with this?” she shouts. I pinch her hip in frustration.
“If you’d shut up I’d tell you, geez,” I snap. “If the entire pile of rubble was resting on that board, I wouldn’t be able to move it. Just like the game—how you move the easy pieces because you know it won’t affect the pile—got it?”
“But what if you’re wrong?” Jules asks, and her worry tempers my reply.
“If I thought for a second I could hurt you, do you think I would try this?” My chest tightens as I say the words. I’d never hurt this girl.
Where in the hell did this concern for Jules Blacklin come from? I wonder, not for the first time tonight. Sure, I’ve harbored a crush—or perhaps it’s something more akin to lust nowadays—for her for years. I have no intention of acting on it. Ever. She is the girl who got away. The girl who I assumed wouldn’t ever be mine because the boy she might have wanted, the one she’d kissed at a party four years ago, died when his mother did a few weeks later.
“Ummm, I don’t know. You’re the crazy rebel, remember?” she flings back. I make a mental note to give her hell about her sugar and spice attitude the moment we’re out of here.
“Wow. That hurts, Buffy. I know we’re supposed to be enemies, but really?”
“If this doesn’t work and that pile comes crashing down, I’m so hitting you with a stake to the heart,” she threatens on a pitiful moan.
“You already did, cheerleader,” I acknowledge. Jules inhales sharply, then chokes and coughs.
“Fine, try it,” she manages on a rasp.
“On three I’ll push it and you try to pull your leg out at the same time. Ready?”
“Mmmhmmm,” she nods against me.
Lifting my hand to protect both our heads, I shift as close to her body as possible and count to three. I kick at the board over and over, feeling it give a little each time. Dust shifts around us. I close my eyes and kick again. My hips press against Jules’ backside as my foot reaches forward and my mind contemplates all of the things I would prefer to be doing with Jules and her body right now in this position. The thoughts torment me as I kick the board again, a low grunt of frustration ripping from my throat. This time when my toe connects, the board flies out and the pile above us shifts. I can’t see Jules, but I feel her body bend forward. She tucks her thighs into her chest, folding into a ball, as things move around us, and I follow, bracing for the worst.
“West! What’s happening?” Jeff shouts, his voice full of concern.
It worked. Nothing collapses down on us. So far, anyway.
“It’s all good, we’re just making a little room under here.”
Jules sniffs. “Making a little room? You mean you’re trying to kill me?” Sarcasm has replaced her earlier worry and I smile though she can’t see it.
“Why not? The way I see it we already beat death once tonight.”
“West?”
“Yup?”
“You’re not funny.”
“You’re not stuck anymore and you’ve calmed down, right?” I point out. “Don’t knock the methods if they work.”
Her reply is an exasperated puff of air.
Stretching my legs, I close my eyes and listen to the muted voices of our friends as they shift and discuss their options for getting help. Somewhere in the distance the sirens of a rescue vehicle ring out and I pray they’re heading our way. I return my hand back to Jules’ hip for lack of no place else to put it. She leaps at the touch, but she doesn’t protest.
After a few minutes, Jules chuckles and I wonder what she finds humorous, so I listen to the chaos on the other side of our pile. I focus in on the conversations. There’s an amusing argument going on between Katie and Jeff, or it would be if we weren’t trapped in tornado debris. Katie argues with the guys about making some sort of human ladder to lift her out of the basement and Jeff seems angry.
“And then what, K? Who knows what’s out there, and I can’t let you go alone,” he argues.
“We need to get help.”
“Hey, Jeff you’re strong enough, if we lifted you up after she climbs out, you could pull yourself out. We’ve got this. We’ll get you both out, and you can get us help.” That calm voice of reason belongs to Mark Jones, another member of the football team, Mark has always been a leader. The smart, studious guy who I could never quite figure out because he doesn’t fit the stereotypical jock M.O.
There’s a moment of silence before Jeff agrees with the plan.
“What are you guys doing out there?” Jules shouts, startling me.
“We’re going to get Katie and Jeff out of here so they can get help, Jules. We don’t know how long it will take anyone to find us. Who knows what the town looks like, you know?” Mark replies. He must be taking the role of leader out there. The others are quiet now, all complaining has ceased, and the unknown girl’s crying has stopped.
“Whose idea was it?” Jules asks and I swear I detect humor in her tone.
Katie laughs as though she’s telling a private joke. “It was all me, Ju-ju-be.”
“Ju-ju-be?” I repeat with quiet laughter. “I like that almost as much as Buffy.”
“Way to go, K. Be careful!” Jules replies before she shifts her body. It’s pitch black in our tomb, but by the twist of her back I can tell she’s looking over her shoulder at me. “And only Katie and Tanya are allowed to call me that, Spike,” she points out, and I wish I could see her blue eyes flashing at me when she speaks.
I do my best to be serious. “Duly noted.”
“Did I ask you if you were all right yet?”
“Yeah, you did. I think I’m okay.” I curl my shoulders in, stretching my back, and experience the burning pain again. “I’m sure something took a chunk out of my back, but I can manage.”
“What?!”
“I’m fine. It hurts and I can tell I’m bleeding, but it’s not bad. I’ve had plenty of injuries, Buffy.”
“We’re trapped in tornado wreckage. Think you could stop making fun now?” Her voice wavers, the way a weak radio signal does.
“Jules?”
“I don’t feel so good. I feel dizzy.”
“Dizzy? Did you hit your head? Jules, are you sure you’re not injured? Are you bleeding anywhere?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know . . . my temple hurts, though. West, are we going to get out of here?”
“Yes, most definitely,” I promise without hesitation as I search her head for cuts or bumps. Coming from a family of football players, I’m immediately concerned about a head injury. “I don’t feel any blood.”
“That’s a good thing, since you’re an evil vampire and all.”
“Then you better stay awake, Jules. You wouldn’t want me to take advantage of you, after all,” I snap as her
voice fades out again.
I shake her arm when she doesn’t poke back at me. Shit. “Jules? Jules? C’mon now, wake up.”
“Buffy . . .” she whispers.
I nod. “Yes, Buffy—that’s right. Stay with me then, Buffy, okay?”
No answer.
“Buff?” Fear races in. “C’mon, Jules, you can’t do this to me. Jules!”
“West?” Jeff shouts, his voice is clearer, as though he’s standing closer to us than before.
“You need to get help, Jeff. Jules is out cold.” I’m not sure I recognize my own voice. I’ve never been this scared.
Katie shouts, her tone full of worry, but I don’t hear her over the blood pounding in my ears and Jeff’s reply. “We’re going, man. Hang in there, ‘kay?” I trust him to find help.
My hand rubs Jules’ hip and thigh again as I listen to the sounds of people working together to hoist Katie and Jeff from the basement. I sigh with relief once they’re out. Now, there’s nothing to do but wait.
Four
My fingers travel the length of Jules’ side. Her bare skin is warm, a good sign. My brain works to recall what I’ve seen on medical shows and in science classes about the signs of shock. Cold would be bad.
“Weston—”
“Yeah, Momma?” She rarely calls me Weston, unless I’m in trouble, so I realize she’s looking for my father, but I hurry to her side anyway. I hate how weak her voice is. She’s so tiny now on the large chaise, all withered down to skin and bones. The chemo that’s supposed to make her better is killing her treatment by treatment.
“Oh . . . hi, baby. Where’s Dad?” Her body shivers violently under the pile of blankets tucked around her. It’s late July in Texas and she’s freezing.
“You’re cold,” I say, more to myself than her, as I walk to the ever present pile of blankets stacked in the game room. “Dad will be back soon, he took Austin to practice.” Returning to her side, I spread another blanket over her legs.
“Lay with me?” she asks. Her shadowed eyes crinkle around the edges, the only sign of a smile she can give most days, and I crawl next to her, my thirteen-year-old body taking up twice the space hers does. “What are we watching?”
My eyes glance to the television on the wall. I’ve been staring at it, not watching, with the sound muted. “Oh, the usual,” I say as her head touches my shoulder.
“More sports,” she whispers, her eyes drifting closed again. “You should have gone to the fields with your daddy, West. Don’t stop playing . . . you love it best . . . “
She trails off, her shallow, even breaths letting me know she’s asleep once more, and I sigh. “No, Momma. I love you best.”
Jules moans, a harsh cough rattling her chest as she shifts in my arms. The feeling so eerily similar to the moments shared with my mother that I have to remind myself where I am. Blinking away the memories of the past, I move my free hand to Jules’ face and touch her cheek. She no longer has her top over her mouth, it’s no wonder her breathing is so labored. Worried about what we might be inhaling under the debris of a one hundred-year-old house, I tug at her uniform in an attempt to cover her mouth and nose. She groans.
“Jules?” I touch her shoulder, hoping she’s coming too.
“Hmmm?”
It’s about time. “You passed out. You okay? Are you in pain?”
“Passed . . . out?” she wheezes with another cough. “How . . . you?”
As she struggles to form words, the warning lights go off in my brain. Dizziness, losing consciousness, slurred speech—her behavior is consistent with the symptoms of a concussion.
Jules’ body jerks side to side and I know a moment of panic—thinking she is having convulsions—until the movement changes to the shakes and wiggles of someone who’s merely restless. I press my fingers into her hip in warning. “Don’t move. You might hurt yourself or knock something.”
“Have . . . to . . .” she insists, pulling her hand free from mine for the first time since we entered the house. She groans, twisting her body about. Realizing what she’s doing, I reposition my arm to shield her head as I tug at her waist in an attempt to help her roll in place. Her knee bumps my leg and I chuckle as she grunts her way into a new position.
“Wow, Buffy—good thing you’re so tiny.”
“No fair,” she whispers with labored breaths as her face meets my chest. “The air seems . . . cleaner over here.”
That reminds me. “Here,” I say as I search for her hand in our new position and guide it down toward my waist. She pulls back, a small gasp escaping her lips as though I have nefarious plans for her. I wish the move I was making was one of pleasure. I suppress a dirty grin at the direction of her thoughts and clasp her hand again, steering it up under my shirt. “Hold it to your face and breathe through it.”
The cotton lifts from my body as her arm snakes up, her forearm grazing and resting against my stomach as she stretches the fabric to her face to use as a mask. I chew the inside of my cheek, distracting myself at the way her touch affects me. The torture is worth it when her breathing becomes deeper and more pronounced.
We’re cuddling face-to-face now instead of spooning as we were before. My left arm acts as pillow to Jules’ head still, but my hand is empty now that she’s rolled away from it. I touch the back of her head and allow my fingers to brush through her hair.
“We’re gonna be okay,” I tell her with confidence.
“How long do you think we’ve been down here?”
“Not long. They’ll look for us, we’ll be okay,” I repeat. We’ll be okay, I won’t stop thinking it.
Time ticks by and my right hand becomes restless. It brushes Jules’ shoulder, her waist, then her hip before I can’t stand it and I weave up and under the arm she has in my shirt. My fingers skim her forearm as they seek out their target. Her fingers are spread wide as they hold my shirt to her face and I cover them with a sigh, happy to once again be holding hands with her. I’m a weak man. If she calls me out on it, I’ll use an excuse. Tell her I wanted to give her a break from holding the shirt, or pretend I’m worried she’ll pass out again and I want to be sure she can breathe safely. I form several replies to cover why I had to hold her hand, but she doesn’t question me at all.
I get the impression she wants my hand in hers as much as I do. Somehow I know it.
“I feel sick,” Jules moans. I cringe on her behalf. I had a concussion once, it’s comparable to hell. I felt both drunk and sick at the same time as my brain beat against my skull in an attempt to escape my head. I certainly don’t envy her right now.
“That’s normal if you have a concussion. Just breathe deeply and try to stay awake,” I remind her as she shakes her head. “Keep talking to me, Jules.”
“Fine, tell me something I don’t know,” she mutters.
Your boyfriend can be a real prick.
You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.
“I was at the game tonight,” I say out of the blue.
“Our game?” As though there were a million other games I might have been at tonight.
“Yeah, Buff. Your game. I never miss one.”
“You—really? Why haven’t I—didn’t know?” she flounders and I decipher her words the best I can. She’s wondering why she hasn’t seen me? Years of games and she’s never noticed me there. I don’t take it personally. I go out of my way to not be seen by those who might question my appearance. I’ve been working on perfecting my I-could-care-less attitude since the eighth grade. Plus, it’s not as though I attend the games to stalk her, or anyone for that matter. I go because I can’t help it. I’ve tried to skip out, and when I do, I’m always miserable. My heart wants to be there, with my best friend and old teammates, doing what it loves. Damn, the truth hurts sometimes.
I admit the truth out loud to someone for the first time in years. “I miss playing.”
“Why—”
“We’ve been here for an hour,” shouts Mark, interrupting Jules, saving me fro
m opening a can of worms best left on the shelf. “West, Jules, you two still good?”
“Yeah, I do want to speak with management about the conditions of our room when we get out though,” I reply sarcastically. “What do you think, Buff, want to order some room service?”
No answer.
“Jules?”
Her hand goes limp under mine. She’s out again.
Five
Waiting sucks. Outside our pocket of safety, I attempt to follow the muted conversations being tossed about by my classmates. I’ve learned that their cell phones don’t work, the other girl who sought refuge with us is named Lola, and Ruben is hungry. Occasionally Mark comes closer to our pile and shifts things around, looking for an opening to help us.
Jules jolts in my arms. She’s restless, so I press her head into my chest to keep her from jumping the way she did the last time she came to.
“Where—can’t breathe—what—”
“Hey, Jules. It’s West. You’re okay, I’ve got you,” I soothe as her panicked questions evolve into painful sobs.
“I want to go home,” she cries, stretching her arm around my waist and pulling herself closer to my body. Her hot tears sear my skin as I tuck her head under my chin.
“Me too. Soon okay?”
“I can’t—I can’t stay here.”
“Yes, you can. Close your eyes and take deep breaths.” I obey my own instructions, hoping she’ll follow. Instead, she continues to cry, her raw emotion brings tears to my eyes for the first time in years. I’d whispered those exact words to my mother once upon a time. They’re the same ones she’d whispered to me as a child after I’d have nightmares.
“Close your eyes and take deep breaths, my sweet boy,” she would say, smoothing my sweaty hair from my head and kissing my cheek. “Let them go.”
Let them go. I haven’t allowed myself to think of those days—her last days—in years. Let them go, I’d told her . . .
“Who will cook you boys dinner when I’m gone?” she asks brokenly one night while we rest together on her chaise, the television the only light in the room. “Who will wash your uniforms and make sure your homework gets done?”
West Page 3
