Copyright © 2008 Jambrea Jo Jones
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
By reading this excerpt, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are younger than 18 years old, you must exit this site at once.
Lost in thought, Butch settled in his seat on the train, shook his head, and glanced around at the others occupying his space. His gaze landed on an attractive man who sat a few seats up. It couldn’t be who he thought it was, but something tickled his thoughts and brought back memories. He continued to stare at the handsome man and gasped as the stranger looked up. Butch became absorbed in the man’s dark brown eyes; a spark of recognition flared, but it was jolted away by a loud screeching noise. As darkness descended, he thought, it’s Mitch.
Butch tried to blink away the fuzz.
What happened? Where…oh, my God. The train...oh no, Mitch.
His vision wouldn’t cooperate, so he closed his eyes to focus his other senses. He took a deep breath and then gasped in shock at a sharp pain in his side. His hand hovered over the area. He explored the wound and felt something wet and sticky. He didn’t apply much pressure for fear he would make the injury worse.
“Baby, please don’t move.”
A small kiss fluttered on his forehead.
“Mitch? Is that you?” His injury forgotten for the moment, he waited for an answer.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m here. Just don’t move. You can’t—” Mitch choked on his words.
“What is it, Mitch? What’s wrong?” He didn’t want to panic, but he heard the fear in Mitch’s voice.
A hand rested on Butch’s forehead, and he stopped questioning. He remembered those hands; he’d dreamt of them—missed them. Now they stroked his hair away from his face in an attempt to calm him.
Why did I run?
“I don’t know much. The train crashed into something, and then the conductor came over the PA and made an announcement to ask us to sit tight until the rescue crews get here.”
“Mitch, I have to sit up. Would you help me? I don’t want to lie here and...why can’t I feel my legs?” Panic laced his voice. “And what’s that noise?”
Butch struggled to sit up, only to have Mitch hold him down.
“Butch, stop moving. I said stop, damn it! Listen to me.” Mitch paused. Butch heard the catch in his voice again.
Things must be worse than I realized.
“Your legs are caught under some rubble and—”
“And what, Mitch? Tell me. I can take it.”
“You have something stuck in your thigh.”
Blood dripped down his leg, splattering on his hand as Butch moved to grab the object that protruded from his leg.