Fragile Little Things ?

23 fall

“I—” she stutters, drawing a ragged breath. She’s definitely been crying, and the thought guts me. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Okay,” I say calmly. “It’s okay. Tell me what you see around you. Any street signs? Building names?”

“Amethyst, I think?” Another hiccup as she fights back a sob. “I don’t know­—it’s dark.”

I have a vague idea of where she is, and it’s not too far away, thankfully. But I need a little more if I’m going to get to her quicker. “Tell me about the buildings.”

There’s a pause, and she must be looking around. “There’s no paint. It’s just face-brick.”

Perfect.

“Stay where you are,” I say, reaching for my jacket. “I’m coming.”

My mind is swarming. I know so little about her situation—just that she called me. She needs me. I don’t give a shit about much else. Clearing my mind, I think logically. I can get to her in ten minutes on foot. Or . . .

My gaze lifts to Mason’s precious motorcycle parked neatly in the corner of the garage.

*

IT’S FUCKING FREEZING outside. It takes three minutes for me to pull into the street Indie described. It’s dark, but there’s just enough streetlight for me to catch the small figure at the edge of the pavement.

Indigo.

She goes rigid as I draw closer on Mason’s motorcycle, narrow, then her figure visibly calms when she realizes it’s me. I switch off the cycle light, so it doesn’t flash in her eyes anymore.

As I get closer, she becomes clearer. Jesus Christ. She looks so small. So fragile. Still beautiful, though. So beautiful it makes my chest ache. She’s lost weight from the last time I saw her.

Bits of snow descend from the sky, catching in her hair. Her curls are gone—straightened out. I don’t know if it’s the cold that makes her look pale. If those are dark circles or just smudged make-up.

I kill the engine after I edge the curb, and I’m off the seat in seconds, turning to ask her what the hell is going on when she rushes into me. She’s pressed against me, her cheek against my chest as she takes small fists of my shirt in her hands.

My mind flashes back to the party all that while back. But this time, she’s not drunk. This time, there’s no warmth. She’s cold to the bone. And this time, there’s no one to rip her away from me.

She shakes a little, and initially, I think it’s because of the cold, but—she’s crying. And refuses to lift her face from my shirt.

She doesn’t want me to see her cry.

I bring an arm around her midriff and settle the other on the crown of her head. It’s surreal, that she’s here, right now, in my arms. But she’s no more herself than I am me.

“Indigo,” I murmur softly, “What happened?”

She doesn’t answer, just tries to control her breathing. I give her the time. Then, finally, she speaks. “He cheated.”

She doesn’t have to elaborate. Suddenly everything makes sense. Why she’s in the middle of upper Manhattan, all alone. Why she called me—her friend must still be at that party. I know her words should make me happy, but she’s so fucking miserable that I can’t help but sympathise with her.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, running a thumb across the crown of her head. Then, anger courses through my veins as a thought crosses my mind. Settling my hands on her shoulders, I separate her from me, scanning her body for any signs of injury. “Did he hurt you?”