Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Elara

The motel was called Bronx Motor Lodge. The sign was half–burned

out. Mason paid the clerk in cash. The man behind the counter didn’t

look at us. Just took the money and handed over a key.

The room was on the second floor. Small. Clean enough. One bed. A

table. A bathroom with a rust–stained sink.

Mason set down my backpack. “I’m going to get some ice. And a first

aid kit. Just… stay here, okay? Lock the door.”

I locked it after he left. Sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were

still shaking. I looked down at them. At the dirt under my nails. The

scrapes on my palms.

The watch was in my pocket. I pulled it out. The glass was shattered.

The hands were bent. It would never work again.

A knock. “It’s me.”

I opened the door. Mason came in with ice wrapped in a towel and a white box with a red cross on it.

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Chapter 33

“Okay.” He sat on the chair. The only chair in the room. Put the first

aid kit on the table. Opened it. His hands were shaking too. Just a

little. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. But we should clean those

cuts. Stop them from getting infected.”

He opened a package of alcohol wipes. Moved the chair closer to the

bed. “This might sting.”

It did sting. He pressed the wipe to my cheek. I flinched. He pulled

back immediately.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m trying to be gentle.”

“It’s okay.” I took a breath. “It’s okay. Keep going.”

He cleaned the cut on my cheek. Then the scrapes on my jaw. His

touch was light. His face was close to mine. I could see his eyes.

Brown. Worried. He kept looking at me and then away. Looking at me

and then away.

“I saw them following you from Franklin Street station.” His voice was

quiet. “I was coming back from practice. You looked scared. So I followed. To make sure you were okay.”

“You saved my life.”

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“I don’t know about that.” But his ears turned red. He opened a tube

of antibiotic ointment. “But those guys were bad news. Anyone could

see that.”

He dabbed the ointment on my cuts. Then put bandages over them.

Small ones. His movements were clumsy. Careful.

“Your shirt is torn.” He said it to the first aid kit. Not to me. “Do you

have another one? In your bag?”

I checked. I had a spare t–shirt. Black. Plain. I’d packed it this

morning. This morning felt like a year ago.

“I’ll wait outside while you change.”

He left. Closed the door. I changed quickly. My hands still shook. The

t–shirt was too big. It hung on me. When I opened the door, he came

back in. Sat down in the chair again. Looked at his hands.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to tell me what happened?

Why those guys were after you?”

I sat on the bed. Pulled my knees up. Wrapped my arms around them.

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

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