by Shandi Boyes
"I swear to God if you hurt her. . ." My words trail off as a wide range of ways I can kill him runs through my mind.
“I told them not to do it. I warned them that your crew wouldn’t stop until you found us, but they didn’t listen. None of them listened to me! Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”
“I’m listening.” I take a step closer. “But pointing a gun at someone to force them to listen won’t get you heard. Put the gun down, then we'll talk.”
Damon laughs a painful chuckle. "Like the talking your crew gave the other two men? They have pissed their pants the last two nights. That's how fucking scared they are that your crew will come back and finish what they started."
I shake my head. “That’s different. You came to me. That changes everything.”
“I came to see if you had any info on who the third man was. I didn’t expect to have the door opened by the same face that haunts my dreams. Why is she here? You don’t bring girls back to your place!”
“She’s my girl, Damon. That is why she's here. And if you hurt her, we’re going to have a problem. Is that what you want? Is that why you came back to Ravenshoe? To start trouble?”
Damon runs the back of his spare hand under his nose before using it to reinforce his brace on his gun. His hand is rattling so much, the gun is shaking like a leaf in a hot summer breeze.
“I came here to get away from that life, but they followed me here. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Then drop the gun.” My voice hints to my wavering constraint. “Drop it before you make another mistake you can’t take back.”
It appears Damon didn’t hear a word I spoke.
“How did you know it was me? I was wearing a mask,” Damon asks with his gaze fixed on Clara.
Clara’s lips quiver as she begins to speak, “I recognized your voice when you greeted Charity.”
Fuck, Charity. I forgot she was here with Clara.
My heart rate climbs into dangerous territory, spurred on by the potent rage of fury blackening my blood. Just as I begin to ask about Charity's whereabouts, my eyes lock in on a pair of red leather boots sprawled on the floor between Damon and Clara. They're the same pair of boots Charity has worn every day since she brought them two months ago. I hold my hands out in front of my body, signaling to Damon that I mean him no harm as I slowly pace to Charity.
Fury scorches my veins when I spot the welt on the top of her head. It looks like the mark a person would get when they're struck with the butt of a gun. I crouch down in front of her to check for a pulse. My heart starts beating again when I discover a pulse. It’s faint, but it is there.
In a hazed blur, the front door of my apartment is kicked open at the same time Damon launches for Clara. He curls his arms around Clara’s chest and plasters his body to her back. Holding his gun to Clara’s right temple, he retreats deeper into my apartment. My fury hits a never-before-reached level when Damon uses Clara as a shield to protect himself from Ryan's gun.
Damon stares into his brother's eyes while declaring, "Drop your gun or I'll shoot her." His voice is weak and pathetic. Like the man he is.
“If you don’t let her go, I will shoot you,” Ryan warns. “Don’t make me shoot you, Damon. Don’t put another death on my hands.”
Clara’s entire body shakes as her wide, horrified eyes drift between Ryan and me. New tears fill her eyes before spilling down her cheeks.
“Look at me, Princess. Keep your eyes on me,” I request, my voice scratchy as a range of emotions surge through me. “You’re okay. No one will hurt you.”
I take a step closer to her as Ryan and Damon continue with their negotiations. I don’t hear a word they're saying. I’m too fixated on calming Clara solely by using my eyes. My ploy seems to be working as the shivers racking her body simmer to a dull vibration. She keeps her tear-filled eyes planted on me while Damon’s remain arrested on Ryan. Using his distraction to my advantage, I charge for Damon. A gun being fired momentarily startles me, but it doesn’t stop my pursuit.
Ignoring the thick stench of fear plaguing the air surrounding me, I yank Clara out of Damon’s grasp with one hand while striking his unprotected face with my other. A bone cracking is barely audible over the deep “oomph” expelled from Clara’s mouth when she lands on her backside with a sickening thud.
Damon’s eyes roll to the back of his head before he plummets to the ground, his body crashing lifelessly to the floor, knocked out by one punch. Bullets from the cylinder of his gun fall to my feet when I disarm it before sliding it into the back of my jeans. A mass surge of adrenaline pumps through my veins as I stoop down onto my knees to gather Clara into my arms. My pulse pounds into my ears as my eyes assess every inch of her. She's alarmed and highly distressed but uninjured. Thank fuck.
My gratefulness doesn’t last long when Clara gasps, “Ryan!”
I swing my eyes to the entranceway of my apartment. A heaviness slams into my chest when I see a pool of blood seeping into Ryan’s crisp white business shirt. His eyes lock with mine. They're lifeless and tormented. His gasps are wheezy and uncontrollable as he battles to secure a full breath. He mumbles the quickest apology—spraying his lips with droplets of vibrant red blood—before he crumbles to the ground.
I scramble across the floor, ripping my shirt off in the process. Dropping to my knees, I wrap my shirt around my fist and apply pressure to the bullet wound in Ryan's stomach.
“Stay with me, Ryan,” I beg into his desolate eyes. He stares straight ahead, not blinking, not moving, not making a fucking sound. “Don’t you fucking quit, Ryan. Don’t you give up.”
After using my mobile I left on the floor to call for an ambulance, Clara falls to her knees next to Ryan.
“What can I do?” she asks, her voice breaking into a sob.
“Hold this.”
I release my hands from applying pressure to Ryan’s wound and replace them with Clara’s. The rattle of her hands is felt all the way up her arms, but she maintains enough pressure to slow the gushes of blood pouring from Ryan’s stomach.
Fear grips my heart when I move my hand to Ryan’s neck to check for a pulse and fail to find one. Acting purely on instincts, I commence the CPR resuscitation technique Ryder made all the Inked employees train in last year. I’ve never been more grateful for Ryder’s analness for protocol as I am right now.
I continue to pump Ryan's chest as a brunette female wearing a sleek pantsuit enters my apartment. She has a government issued gun drawn in front of her chest, and her dark brown eyes are scanning the room. When she discovers Damon sprawled unconscious on the floor, she balks and takes a step backward.
“Ryan?”
“That is his brother, Damon.” My words come out garbled as a range of emotions smack into me. “He shot Ryan. He shot his own fucking brother.”
The brunette’s eyes snap down to mine. She takes a few seconds to absorb the scene before she calls in a command over the police radio strapped to her shoulder. “We have a 10-71 at 1314 Coulson Avenue. Officer down. I repeat, officer down.”
She moves over to check on Charity who is slowly coming to while I continue pumping Ryan’s chest. My heart is smashing my ribs, and tears are swamping my eyes, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
After helping Charity sit on one of my couches, the brunette drops to the floor next to me. “How long has he been unresponsive?”
“Five minutes,” Clara responds on my behalf.
The brunette’s eyes rocket to Clara, the shock on her face intensifying.
"Can you call Isaac? He will get the surgical team at Ravenshoe Private on standby," Clara requests to the unnamed police officer. "They may be Ryan's only chance."
The brunette curtly nods as her hand delves into the pocket of her black pants to retrieve her phone. Just as she begins talking into her cell, feet stomping booms through my ears, closely followed by the sight of two first responders.
“Thanks, we can take it from here,” one of the
officers advises me, replacing my hands pumping Ryan’s chest with his own.
I take a stumbling step backward, landing on my ass a foot from Ryan. As the paramedics work on his lifeless body, the realization of why Ryan feels guilt for Chris’s death smashes into me. Ryan was the one who discovered Chris. He worked on him for over thirty minutes while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Even after they officially pronounced Chris deceased, Ryan wouldn’t give up. He only stopped pounding his chest when I dragged him away kicking and screaming. He didn’t want to give up on Chris. Just like I don’t want to give up on him.
Crawling across the small space between us, I bang my enclosed fist on Ryan’s chest. “Come on, Ryan, fucking fight!” I roar, pounding on his chest over and over again. “You’ve never given up before, so don’t start now!”
I pound, and pound, and pound his chest until I have nothing left to give. The stranglehold on my heart is crippling me, and my lungs refuse to secure an entire breath. Feeling defeated, I slump to the ground, my heart beyond broken, my eyes full of tears. I gave it my all, and I still failed.
Just as the first lot of tears escape my eyes, a ragged gasp booms through my ears. I run the back of my hand across my cheeks before lifting my eyes. Ryan’s blue eyes are open and staring directly at me. They're haunted and brimmed with worry, but they're open, and that is the only thing that fucking matters.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Clara and I have spent the last two hours sitting in a little blue room at the Ravenshoe Private Hospital waiting for an update on Ryan's condition. Other than the nurse who came in to complete a set of observations on Clara, the room has been void of any other visitors. Although Clara is clearly in shock, she refused to take the sedative offered by the nurse. Understandably, she wants to remain lucid until we receive an update on Ryan. Charity received four stitches to the welt on her head. With a prescription for a heavy sedative and pain medication, Diesel and Johnny took her home. Although she was adamant she was fine, I didn't feel comfortable leaving her alone.
Plain-clothed detectives and police officers have lined the corridor throughout the past two hours, but surprisingly, none have requested statements from Clara or myself. Their priorities also remain focused on Ryan and not police protocol.
When another shiver racks through Clara's body, I sling my arm around her shoulders and pull her into my lap.
Twenty minutes later, our heads lift in sync when a creak of a door sounds through the quietness passing between us. The beat of my heart turns crazy when a small Asian-looking doctor with a crisp white coat enters the room. Her inky black hair is pulled off her face in a twisted design, and her lovely green eyes are issuing silent sympathies.
I stand from my chair, taking Clara with me. I feel the rapid surge of her pulse when I enclose my hand over hers. We stare at the doctor, blinking and muted. I release a deep sigh when she says, “He's okay.”
Clara squeezes my hand tightly while the doctor continues talking, "He was fortunate he had you both there. The amount of blood he was losing would have seen him hemorrhaging within minutes. By applying pressure to the wound, and keeping his heart pumping, you saved his life." Her eyes drift between Clara and me. "Both of you. He has a long way to go, but he's doing remarkably well."
The doctor accepts my offer of a handshake before she runs her tiny hand down Clara’s forearm. The instant she steps back into the corridor, Clara collapses onto the floor. Tears roll down her cheeks as a devastated sob tears from her throat.
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” she cries through a barrage of hiccups.
Gathering her in my arms, I stride to the chair I’ve been sitting on the past two hours. Carefully, I pull her back and peer into her red-rimmed eyes. “This is not your fault.”
“I should have taken off my jewelry. I should have listened to you.”
“You shouldn’t have had to listen to me. You should be able to wear anything you want. This is not your fault.”
“But—”
“No, Princess. No buts. Damon pulled the trigger. Damon shot his brother. You did nothing wrong.” I cup her cheeks in my hands and run my thumbs across her cheeks, catching her tears. “This is not your fault.”
She looks like she wants to push the issue further, but thankfully, she leaves it as is, nuzzling into the crook of my neck.
I don’t know how long we stay huddled together, but it is long enough that the watermarks Clara’s tears created on my shirt have dried, and she has fallen asleep nestled into my chest. Even though my ass is dead from the rock-hard ground, I refuse to move. Not just because I don’t want to wake her, but because comforting her is helping heal some of the cracks that chipped my heart tonight. Her touch soothes me in a way no words can.
My eyes lift from Clara when the main door of the waiting room swings open. I'm not surprised, more apprehensive when Cormack hesitantly enters the room. His eyes are restless, and his composure is distraught. The crisp dark blue suit he was wearing earlier today is disheveled, and his hair is messy like he has been running his fingers through it regularly. The smell of expensive cologne filters through my nose when he crouches down in front of me. Sensing another presence in the room, Clara's head pops off my chest. She inhales a quick, jagged breath as her eyes bounce between her brother's remorse-filled gaze. Launching out of my lap, she wraps her arms around Cormack's neck.
Cormack draws her in close to his chest before standing from his squatted position. He mutters into her ear, but he's so quiet, I can't hear a word spilling from his lips. I give them a few moments of privacy by stepping into the corridor. Warmth spreads across my chest when I discover the number of off-duty police officers lining the walls of the ICU hallway. It is a sea of law enforcement for as far as my eye can see. I shouldn't have expected any different. Ryan is a much-loved member of the entire Ravenshoe community, let alone his law enforcement colleagues.
My neck cranks to the side when the visiting room door opens, and Cormack strides out ten minutes later. Spotting me standing to the side, he raises his index finger into the air to a gentleman wearing a three-piece suit standing at the end of the corridor. When the dark-haired man curtly nods, Cormack spans the distance between us.
“Thank you for taking care of Clara,” he says, holding his hand out in offering. “I’ll take it from here.”
I keep my hands fisted in balls at the side. It isn’t that I'm ungrateful for his praise, but he said it like I was paid to take care of Clara, instead of doing it on my own free will.
“I didn’t take care of Clara because she's a member of my crew. I took care of her because I wanted to.” My angry sneer gains us the attention of a handful of officers in the hallway.
"I understand," Cormack replies, gently nodding. "But she needs more care than you can give her right now. She's in shock. She needs to see a doctor, have a shower, and eat a warm meal."
“I can give her that. You don’t need to step in.”
Cormack’s icy blue eyes spear into mine. “Can you take care of Clara and Ryan at the same time?”
A dash of indecisiveness tinges my blood.
“That’s what I thought,” Cormack replies, reading my internal dialogue. “If you care for Clara like you say you do, you will encourage her to come with me. A hospital waiting room isn’t the best place for her to be in her condition.”
Scraping my hand along the scruff of my jaw, I turn my eyes to Clara. She's sitting on the hard plastic chairs that line the walls of the waiting room. Her posture is slumped; her face is gaunt, and she looks both physically and mentally exhausted.
I swallow the bile sitting in the back of my throat before muttering, “If I step back, will you call a truce with Clara? Stop this stupid lesson you were supposed to be teaching her?” I try to keep my tone neutral, but my words still come out in a vicious snarl.
Cormack's lips tug into an uneasy smirk before he nods. "Yes. You have my word."
"Your word don't mean shit to me." I take a s
tep closer to him. "The fact you sat back and watched all the crap Clara went through the past four months and did nothing doesn't even make you a man in my eyes. Let alone a man of his word."
“Everything I did, I did for Clara. You may think it was cruel and unwarranted, but you should be thanking me, as that Clara you see in there,” he stretches his arm and points to his sister’s slumped figure sitting in the waiting room, “isn’t the same Clara she was six months ago. My tactics may have been harsh, but they were necessary.”
I hate to admit this, but part of what he's saying is true. Not the part about Clara not being the same Clara she was six months ago. To me, she will always be the same Clara; she just needed to be shown she deserves to be loved. My agreement is the part I should be thanking him for. If he hadn't forced Clara out of her comfort zone, she would have never walked back into my life. For that, I will forever be in his debt.
Ignoring the twisting of my heart, I say, “Give me a few minutes to talk to her.”
Not waiting for Cormack to reply, I walk into the waiting room. Clara’s downcast head lifts from staring at the floor when the door gives out a slight creak.
“Is Ryan okay?” she asks, wrongly intuiting the forlorn look on my face as concern for Ryan. The tightness in her shoulders slackens when I nod.
“Do you have your purse with you?”.
She nods while slipping her hand into the front pocket of her blood-stained jeans to produce her cellphone/purse. I've been so embroiled in everything happening; I didn't even notice we are both wearing blood-stained clothes. That just proves what Cormack said is true. I can barely take care of myself right now let alone Clara.
“Do you want me to have your luggage dropped off or will someone from Cormack’s staff come and collect it?”
Clara’s brows stitch. She stares at me, shocked and dazed.
“Cormack is going to take you home,” I advise her baffled expression.