Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 15: Change and Smooches of Victory

Gats prays for a merciful death while Heaven screams that if we don't die in a car crash she'll kill me anyway.

I dig my fingers into the steering wheel, begging God to spare me from my terrible driving. Tires screech, the car jolting to another sharp stop.

After too many near-death experiences to count, I steer the gilded deathtrap into our building's parking lot. I glance at the rear-view mirror, sighing at the beads of sweat clinging to my forehead.

Heaven pumps her fist in the air. "Hallelujah! Lord, Angel, How'd you pass your driver's test?"

"You think I know?" I shrug, unbuckling my seat-belt. "Gats, you feelin' better?"

"Y-yeah," he says, "just a little light-headed."

"Carry him," Heaven commands, kicking the door open. Gats squeaks, and I can't tell if it's from Hev's treatment of his car or the thought of me holding him. Probably both.

"Please," Gats begs, "don't—"

"He'll faint," Heaven says as she steps out. My body aches, but at least I'm not in the back of someone's van. I creep to the passenger side, my skin warm under the early March sun.

Gats lies moon-pale, clutching his ripped shoulder. Heaven's not as terrible at doctoring as I thought she'd be. I mean, Heaven! Sealing wounds! It's crazy. 

Still, Gats looks...colorless. No red in his cheeks, his already gray eyes dim, and his skin ghost-white. I frown, even with so much blood loss that doesn't look natural.

Project. Cat fuse. Failure.

What's up with Gats? He likes to parade around and call himself 'mysterious,' but I never thought his secrets were important. 

"I still vote we take you to the hospital," I sigh. Why can't he listen to common sense for once? He pulls himself into a sitting position, clutching his hands over his ears.

"No," he says, glaring halberds at me, "I'm fine!"

"You aren't," Heaven counters, a tired edge to her voice, "you'll let him pick you up or I'm calling an ambulance."

He directs his murderous glare at Hev, and she sends him a look equally scary. I shiver, caught in the crossfire.  "Bridal style or firefighter carry?" I ask, butting into the silent war. He crosses his arms over his chest, scooting from his seat. He looks...helpless. Not the macho, kick-butt womanizer who crushes people twice his size, but a child. My chest tightens. Poor guy. He must be crushed.

He stiffens. "How about neither?"

"Alright," I clap, forcing my grimace into a smile, "firefighter carry it is." I snatch his elbow, but before I heave him over my shoulder, he gives a quiet plea.

"Wait," he says, "the, uh, first choice sounds more comfortable."

Heaven raises an eyebrow, her grin wider than the Cheshire cat's. "Am I hearing right? Mr. Bond wants bridal style? "

Gats blushes, and since this is the guy who reads 'Fifty Shades of Grey' in class, I take that as a sign of emotional distress. Serious emotional distress. 

"Chill." I scoop him to my chest. "A bunch of villains slugged and trampled you. No one here's questioning your toughness."

He clenches his jaw, frowning into space. His body's stiff. Heaven's expression shifts to a mask-like one, and she scurries ahead to open the door.

"I...I'm not weak," Gats says, curling his fingers into fists.

I shrug. "You bore that into my head everyday."