Lie Like a Villain

Chapter 6 || What Was Doesn't Matter

Jason let the hot water pulse over his back. It swept away the dirt, blood, and sweat before spiraling down the drain. He watched it go eagerly, wishing he could do away with the last several hours as easily. They were a jumbled mess in his brain, a jigsaw that didn't fit together no matter how hard he shoved at the pieces. Just when he would think he was getting somewhere, a stabbing sensation would shoot through his arm, destroying his concentration. He hissed, both in pain and frustration. The involuntary car sleep hadn't done anything to clear his head; the Motrin wasn't doing anything to cut the pain.

Thank goodness he'd run into Rachel. Her sew-up job had done more for his arm than the medicine had. He wasn't sure what he would have done without her.

Probably died.

He shook his head under the stream, trying to wash the worry out of his mind. He had more important things to think about than death, than his mother's scream, than how close he'd come to losing Ana.

Whoever was after them had his parents. Or maybe they'd gotten away. Either way, Mom had been clear about what she wanted him to do, and he wasn't about to go rogue with some half-cocked plan to save her and Dad instead. His parents might not be easy to reason with, but that was because they'd always reasoned and counter-reasoned among themselves by the time they announced their decision. Jason couldn't count how many times they'd asked him to do something arbitrary, only for it to turn out to be the linchpin in their whole plan. They knew what they were doing; they always did.

In fact, if he'd been home when he was supposed to have been, all four of them would have been out of Hampton long before those cops caught up. The thought hit him like a punch to the face, and he leaned against the shower stall.

Regret crashed over him in a drowning wave. He dragged in a steam-filled breath as the pressure of it locked up his chest. What was doesn't matter—only what we do next. He chanted the mantra in his head, a lie he'd told himself every time they'd had to move, every time he'd left something behind. It was the one lie he allowed himself, because it was the one that let him keep going. His lungs clenched and unclenched, and he forced himself to regulate his breathing. What was doesn't matter. He slammed the faucet off.

He would take care of Ana, they would get to New York, and he would figure out some way to fix all of this.

He stepped out of the shower, carefully drying off with the thin motel towel. It was awkward, working the towel with one hand, but it gave him something to concentrate on. Methodical, slow motions sopped up the water from most of his body; careful dabbing dried the area around the wound. In the mirror, Rachel's sew up job looked like an angry mouth: red flesh and rows of teeth. But her stitches were small and neat. He stared at it for several long moments, but no blood beaded its way to the surface.

Still, he bandaged it back up, hiding it from himself and other prying eyes. The smart thing would be to ask Rachel to do it, play deeper into her sympathies, but he just wanted to be done with it.

He was half-dressed, about to towel off his dripping hair, when panic sliced through him. He had wanted so badly to shut the world out and wash it away that he'd left Ana in the other room. Alone. With a complete stranger.

What kind of brother was he?

He threw on his shirt and bit back a cry as he tried to shove his bad arm through the sleeve. Teeth gritted, he grabbed the edge of the sink as he rode out the wave of pain. His fingers turned white. He hissed a breath in slowly through his teeth. People who panic make mistakes. His mom had said it to him so many times that he could hear the words as clearly as if she were right beside him. You always have time to use your brain. If he had, then his arm wouldn't be screaming in protest right now.