by Freya Barker
“Trouble breathing?”
Dimi crouches down on the other side of her.
“I’m okay,” she mumbles, even managing a fucking smile for him.
“Like hell you are.” I look over my shoulder and yell. “Where the fuck is the ambulance?”
“Ten minutes out,” a disembodied voice sounds behind me.
“Ms. Graves, can you tell me what happened to you?”
An older guy I assume is the lead detective, Russel, steps up to her head and looks down on her. That pisses me right off.
“Fuck off,” I snarl. “Your goddamn questions can wait.”
“Mazur. Cool it.”
Bill is behind me, putting a warning hand on my shoulder which I immediately shrug off.
“I’m not waiting around,” I announce. “I’m taking her to the hospital.”
Her skin is almost translucent and her gray eyes look far too big for her face. Before anyone can stop me, I slide my arms underneath her and lift her off the damp ground. She hisses sharply with the movement, but when I ask her softly if she’s okay she clenches her jaw and nods.
“EMTs will be here any minute.”
“That’s a minute too late. You wanna help, clear the way for me. We’ll intercept the ambulance,” I tell Bill.
“Wait…I dropped a fire poker. It has his DNA on it.”
Bree’s words are slurred and the next moment her eyes flutter shut.
“Let’s fucking go.”
Hutch keeps his hand on my back for support as I carry my load up the embankment to the Yukon. Dimi is already ahead, getting into the driver’s seat and Hutch helps me into the back seat with Bree in my arms. I bend down and press a kiss to her forehead.
“Gonna get you help, Tygrys,” I mumble against her skin.
The endearment slides from my lips effortlessly, even after more than a decade.
I used to call her that: Tiger. She reminded me of the character in the book our grandmother used to read to us. Fearless and full of energy.
Of course, that was before it all went to shit.
“Are you her husband?”
“No, her boss,” I snap at the nurse trying to hold me back when I attempt to follow the stretcher with Bree down the corridor.
“Then you have no right to go in with her,” she fires back, unintimidated.
Each of my arms is grabbed and I’m pulled away from the door by Hutch and my brother.
We ran into the ambulance on Deer Creek Road and I hopped in the back with her. I was able to relay her reported injuries to the EMTs, since Bree was still out.
On the way to the hospital while they cut off her shirt and pants—revealing bruising on her ribs, a long nasty cut on her leg, and a bad-looking ankle—I had time to think. Too much time, unfortunately.
The last time I sat in the back of an ambulance with her, she’d been shot in the shoulder during a rescue attempt. We’d been tasked with the protection of the rebellious, seventeen-year-old daughter of a wealthy client and had allowed ourselves to be distracted.
With each other.
It was during a late-night shift change, Bree showed up early for hers with a hot meal for me. I was outside of the home in our surveillance van, watching the monitors. She’d been enthusiastic and both of us were insatiable back then. By the time we came up for air, the meal was no longer hot and the girl had managed to turn off the alarms and sneak out of the house to meet with an online ‘boyfriend’ without us noticing. The boyfriend turned out to be a forty-two-year-old man who’d been grooming the girl for weeks so he could kidnap her for ransom.
It took us twelve hours to get her back, but not before she’d been severely traumatized. Both Bree and I had been riddled with guilt and too eager to take down her captor, resulting in his death and Bree’s injury.
While I was in the back of that ambulance, I came to the decision working together and sleeping together had been a mistake. Thinking I was doing the right thing, I broke it off with Bree, half-expecting her to pack it in.
But then her mother died just three weeks after Bree got shot. She was still on medical leave at the time and requested an additional few months’ leave to get her mother’s affairs in order. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when she returned to work three months after the shooting, she had a wedding ring on her finger.
It fucking hurt, and for the longest time I hated that I’d meant so little to her she turned around and married someone else. I knew I had no right to feel that way, since I was the one who broke things off, but it burned for years.
I never met the guy she married. She didn’t speak of him, or her life outside of PASS. We found a way to work together. She was too valuable to lose with her special combination of skills. By the time Dimi joined PASS, she no longer wore her ring. I never wanted to know and she never volunteered what happened.
Yet here I am, many years later, sitting once again in a hospital waiting room to hear the extent of her injuries, wanting to know it all.
They say love and hate are two sides of the same coin and over the past years I’ve started to believe it myself.
After last night I know it to be true.
Bree
Someone is shining a bright light in my eye.
“Brianne? It’s Dr. Finley. You’re at Littleton Adventist Hospital.”
I force my eyes open, blinking a few times to clear my vision.
“Hi.”
“Do you remember what day it is?”
“Sunday.” I think hard. “No…Monday.”
By the time they pulled me out of the back of the ambulance the sun was starting to come up. I’d been gone for almost twenty-four hours.
“I need to talk to the police,” I announce, trying to sit up.
A firm hand on my shoulder keeps me in the bed.
“First we take care of your injuries,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for argument.
For the next however long, I’m probed and prodded, X-rayed, CT-scanned, poked for blood, cleaned out and stitched up, and my ankle is stabilized. Then Dr. Finley leaves the room, telling me to rest while we wait for results.
I’m missing chunks of time when I was either drugged or out of it, but I remember everything I took an active part in. I recall the log home, the trek through the woods, and flagging down the wrong damn car. I remember how every part of me got hurt. Crawling up the embankment to try and catch the first truck that rumbled by, leaving me despondent. By the time I heard the second one approach, I was able to do little more than wave the poker in the air, hoping someone would spot me.
I also recall everything after that, Yanis’s sharp bark but worried eyes. The way he lifted me in his arms, that cruel mouth of his nothing but a thin line, but his touch exquisitely gentle.
I’m so tired, I don’t even have the energy to protest and close my eyes.
The next thing I know the doctor is back, this time with Yanis who lingers by the door.
“So, Ms. Graves, looks like you’ve torn ligaments in your ankle but no fractures. It’s a significant injury that’ll require rest and—”
“How long?” I interrupt, the prospect of any time off work not a happy one for me.
“It can take anywhere from three to six months to heal. A lot depends on you.”
Dr. Finley outlines the treatment plan for my ankle, which is basically sit on my ass with my foot up for the next three to four weeks to start with. After that I have to see a PT, who will tell me when I’m ready to start moving again.
I’ll heal.
The cut took twenty-four stitches to close and will leave a mark but is otherwise of no concern. The two broken ribs will heal on their own, as long as I don’t sleep lying flat and keep breathing deeply, even though it hurts like a motherfucker.
I’ll heal but it’s going to be hell.
Rest is not in my vocabulary and the thought of being stuck in my two-bedroom apartment with only a small balcony for a month or God forbid, longer, is almost as terri
fying as the past twenty-four hours have been.
I glance over at Yanis, who has been quiet so far.
“Because you’ve been through quite an ordeal and were dehydrated when you got here, we’re gonna keep you overnight.”
Dr. Finley lifts his hand to silence me when I open my mouth to share my opinion on that. Behind him I catch Yanis grinning and I send him a dirty look.
“You’re going to need some help at home, though. At least until the swelling is down; I don’t want you to put any weight on that ankle.”
“She won’t.”
The first words from Yanis and they’re imperious. Figures, he’s rarely anything but bossy.
Dr. Finley leaves saying he’ll stop by in the morning to check in on me, and then I’m left with Yanis still looming by the doorway, staring at me.
I can’t make out what the funny expression on his face is supposed to mean. I’d say it’s concern, but I don’t trust my instincts when it comes to this man. This morning he seemed pissed and started barking at me, but then seconds later he kissed my forehead and called me Tygrys.
The last time I heard that was before he dumped me while I was recovering from a gunshot wound in the hospital. I still remember the utter devastation I felt, despite putting on a strong face. I had no choice; I’d just found out my mother was terminally ill, and with no one else to look after her I had to stay standing.
But something died inside me that day and I’m not about to be fooled by his gentle lips and sweet words again.
“What?” I snap, suddenly angry he’s even standing in my room.
He inhales deeply and releases his breath slowly before walking up to the bed.
“Scared the fuck out of me.”
See?
Words like that. Words that make me hope perhaps he still cares, when I know damn well I’m just another employee to him. One he can barely seem to tolerate at times.
I’m still trying to come up with a snappy comeback when he adds, “The boys are gonna want to see you before heading back to Grand Junction. That okay?”
Does that mean they’re all driving back?
“By all means.”
I wave my hand haphazardly, determined not to be disappointed. Yanis frowns, eyeing me curiously for a moment, before turning and disappearing down the hall.
Dimi and Jake don’t stay long and keep the visit light and easy, but I don’t like it when they leave. I suddenly feel like an outsider.
At some point I’m sure the cops will show up, wanting their pound of flesh, but until they get here I’m going to get some rest.
Not much, as it turns out, when the scraping of a chair wakes me up.
“Aren’t you heading back?” I ask Yanis, who takes a seat beside the bed.
“Tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say with you, but it’s implied.
There it is again, that pesky bubble of hope, but I quickly squash it before it has a chance to grow. He’s being a responsible employer, that’s all.
Chapter Seven
Yanis
A handful of hours of restless sleep in three days isn’t cutting it.
I woke up on a waiting room couch two doors down from Bree’s room. It’s as far as I was willing to go after the nurse booted me out. Bree tried to get me to leave for hours, but her threats to kick my ass didn’t quite hold their usual punch. Not while lying in a hospital bed, but I’m sure once she recovers, she’ll make good on the promise to clean my clock.
She’s still sleeping—I poked my head in a few minutes ago—so I’m on the hunt for some coffee. It’s barely five in the morning and I’m eager to take her back to Grand Junction.
Yesterday afternoon, Bill Evans showed up with his colleague to get Bree’s statement. Good thing Bill was there, otherwise I might’ve taken a swing at that idiot Russel, who was doing most of the questioning and he wasn’t gentle about it either.
The idiot pushed Bree hard with his questions, was skeptical at all her answers, and all but accused her of making shit up. Unfortunately, when he produced a map, pointing out where she’d been found and asked her to retrace her steps to the house she was held at, she couldn’t do it. Never mind that she’d been drugged, injured, and had been trudging through the woods for hours.
Luckily Evans jumped in or I would’ve. The woman had given them more information than any normal person could have. She was detailed with what she did remember. Even recalled part of a license plate she’d only had a brief glimpse of in the dark.
I eventually walked the detectives out, leaving her to rest. She was exhausted, and Bill promised he’d keep me in the loop on the investigation. I got my phone charger out of the Yukon, grabbed a few of the snacks and a water Dimi bought earlier, and by the time I got back to the room she was sleeping.
This morning there are only two other people in the diner I find around the corner from the hospital. The moment I take a seat, a waitress shows up with a pot of coffee and holds it up in lieu of a question.
“Please, and could I have three eggs over hard, bacon, whole wheat toast, and home fries?”
All I’ve had to eat since leaving Grand Junction is a donut, two granola bars, and a bag of chips. I need something substantial in my stomach.
“You bet.”
She snaps her gum between her teeth, as she fills one of the mugs that was upside down on the table before taking off with my order.
I scan through emails and messages, answering what I can and forwarding the rest to Dimi until breakfast arrives. Business is picking up with another three booths filled in the meantime. My guess, hospital staff either coming off shift or about to start.
I’m shoveling down my meal when a message comes in from Lena asking how Bree is. Instead of messaging back, I call her. There are some things I want her to take care of before we get home.
“Jesus. Do you sleep?” she complains, answering on the third ring.
“Only when unavoidable. Bree is okay, sleeping a lot but we’ll be coming back today. How is everything at the office?”
“I called in Shep and spoke with Kai. He won’t be back until Thursday but Shep is coming in this morning. I’ve also adjusted your schedule for the vineyard, Shep will take over your place on the rotation for this week. We can adjust after if needed.”
“Good. Did Bree’s report on—”
“Yup,” she interrupts. “Went to the client yesterday. Also got two inquiries I passed on to Hutch and the order for Finley’s Fields came in yesterday afternoon. Dimi and Radar are going to head out there to do the installation. Everything’s under control, Boss. You just worry about Bree.”
Right, as if I don’t already.
“Okay. See if you can get into her apartment? Pack up some of her shit and get it over to my place.”
Lena is silent for a beat or two.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Fuck, no, I’m not kidding. She has a third-floor apartment in a building without elevators. I have a one-level house with extra bedrooms. It makes sense.
“No. She’s not allowed to put any weight on that foot for at least a week and her other leg has twenty-four fucking stitches holding it together.”
A slight exaggeration but the point is she shouldn’t be hopping around on that leg. She should also be looked after until she’s a bit more mobile.
Lena snorts. Apparently, she finds that funny. I don’t find it funny at all.
“Your funeral, Boss,” she jokes, chuckling. “I’ll see what I can do, but my guess is she’ll balk. She’ll want to be in her own space with her own things. I know I would.”
I take a moment to think that over and have to concede she may have a point.
“Fine. Then go to my place, pack up a bag for me, and get it over to her apartment.”
I don’t wait and hang up before she can launch an objection. One way or another, Bree needs looking after in the short term, and she may not like it, but it’ll be me doing it. I know her likes and dislikes, I know she takes
her coffee black and needs half an hour of quiet in the morning so she can wake up.
I also know she prefers cream cheese to butter on her toast and will eat any pizza you put in front of her but her favorite is Hawaiian. She bites her bottom lip when she’s worried, twirls her ponytail when she disagrees, and smiles way too brightly when she’s hurting. She pretends to be tough as nails, but her empathy is one of her best traits. She’ll be gentle with others but hard on herself.
I know her too well.
Which is how I also know Lena is right in her thinking. Bree will hate me invading her space and robbing her of her independence. She’s not going to make it easy, but that won’t stop me from doing what is right.
From what I should’ve done years ago.
Bree
“How are you doing?”
His finger lightly brushes the top of my left hand.
With my thumb back in its intended position—which had been almost as easy as dislocating it—I’m tempted to flip my hand palm up and tangle my fingers with his.
With the bleak prospect of the coming weeks, the comfort of his hand might feel good but wouldn’t be smart. I remember, not so long ago, taking the liberty of touching Yanis in comfort and it left me with an old wound oozing.
“I’m okay.”
I’m actually sore, the seat belt feels restrictive around me, my ankle is throbbing, and we’re only halfway home.
Surprising how you can feel fine in a hospital bed, but something as insignificant as sitting in a car knocks the wind right out of you.
I can feel Yanis’s eyes on me.
“Sure you are,” he comments dryly, patting my hand before putting his back on the wheel. “Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit, unless you need to make a stop?”
A stop? Hell no. I’d rather deal with a full bladder than have him pick me up again like he did, lifting me in the passenger seat. The lack of personal space makes it hard to stick to the colleagues-only relationship we’ve cultivated all these years. At least it does for me.