by Ginger Scott
“Joss, shhhhh!”
The whispering in my ear is hot, and the room is dark. My legs kick, my mind filling in the parts of my body that are missing until I come fully to, realizing that my right foot doesn’t exist, and I’m kicking no one.
“It’s me, shhhhh!”
The hot breath is back, but the tone is more familiar this time. I blink wildly, desperate for my eyes to adjust as my breath rushes in and out through my nose. My hands run up the arms holding me down, my fingers feeling along the neck, the chin, his face.
Wes.
I grab at him differently this time, holding onto him and knowing in my gut that the sound that woke me up is exactly what I thought it was. My body is shaking with tiny tremors, and I keep my lips closed tightly, knowing I must stay silent. When his hold on me loosens, I slip away from him and move to my window, lifting the slat of my blind just enough to see the car out front, the one I was so anxious to get rid of, surrounded by broken glass and blood, Gerald’s body slumped against the driver’s door. He was halfway out of his vehicle before the bullet caught him.
My breath quivers, and I cup my own mouth as I turn back to Wes, who is now on the floor, pulling me in to him.
“Where’s your leg?” he whispers.
I look over his shoulder with wide eyes, but keep my hand over my mouth. He nods, stretching over my bed to the other side where my prosthetic rests. He hands it to me, along with the socket, and I work to make myself mobile as quietly as I can.
“I was dreaming,” he says. I pause, the silicon fitting rolled halfway up my leg. I look up at him, and our wide eyes stare into each other. “I saw this. This is it.”
“My dad…” I choke out the words, my voice louder than I know it should be. I look beyond Wes, to my closed bedroom door. I listen to the quiet on the other side.
“You need to get out,” Wes says, his hands flexed on either side of my face, forcing me to look at him.
My eyes flit from his to my door and back again with indecision. I know Wes won’t give me a choice, but I can’t leave.
“My dad first,” I whisper.
“No.” His lips are tight and he shakes his head, holding mine in place still. “We get out. The cops are on their way. I called when I saw them shoot…”
He nods toward my window, and I follow his motion, replaying the picture I saw on the sidewalk out front. I’m grateful for the darkness and half moon lighting the scene. I don’t think I can handle the color right now.
“How did you get in?” I ask, my eyes still on my closed window.
I feel the pulse in Wes’s hands.
“Your back door was open…to the garage,” he says.
My eyes slide back to his as I try to understand how. There aren’t many places to hide in this house; the only place someone could be is…
“Grace!” My voice is definitely too loud this time. Wes winces, sweeping me into his arms quickly and pushing my window open fast, stepping onto the dirt outside.
“We can’t leave her,” I grit through my teeth, pulling against him as he tugs on my arm.
“I know,” he says, his grip on me less tight, but his hand still wrapped around my wrist. “Listen to me.”
Wes pushes me close to the wall of my house, his forehead on mine and his hands squeezing my shoulders.
“I’ll go in. But you have to be out,” he says through panting breath. I’ve never seen Wes tired or out of breath. His body is reacting to something different. He doesn’t know what to do. “The police are coming. They’ll be here in minutes. You wait in my truck. Here…here…the keys.”
He forces them in my palm, wrapping my fingers around them, as he backs away, moving along my front yard toward the gate at the side, to the door he came in through. I rush to catch up to him, but my prosthetic catches on a loose brick leftover from a garden that’s been dead for years. I fall toward Wes, and he catches my hand in his, my body almost flat on the ground. I lose my breath from the sudden rush of adrenaline, and just before I stand, I catch the shadow on my roof—a man, looking down on us as Wes drags the girl with one leg across the lawn.
It’s coming true.
My mouth trembles as I try to speak, my words nonsensical, but begging for Wes to see what I see in time to do something about it.
“Behind you!”
The shouting isn’t coming from me, and I realize too late that the voice is from the man on my roof. A second man rushes from the side of my house, a gun in his hand that he presses to my temple in a blink. He knew I would be the weak point. He could manipulate Wes by putting me in harm. He’ll manipulate my dad and Grace.
“Inside,” the man growls, his face shadowed by a hat pulled low, his body dressed in all black.
My eyes roll up, glancing at the man on the roof as I’m dragged inside by gunpoint, Wes walking backward in front of us. The roof watcher sits down low again, on lookout. He’ll see anything coming seconds before help arrives.
I’m dropped on the sofa, next to my father, his hands and feet tied with plastic zips and cellophane wrapped around his head like rope, gagging him.
“Nooooo,” he whimpers, his eyes red, and his cheeks wet. “Not herrrr,” he says, words barely legible through the choking of the plastic through his lips.
“You should have thought of that before you stole my money,” the man says, nodding to someone behind us. I can’t see the man’s body, but a fist flies at my dad’s jaw from the side, whipping his head to the left, blood spilling from his lip as he moans.
“I didn’t steal anything. I paid you back. All of it. The money’s with Mike…”
“Mike’s in fucking Mexico,” the man cuts my father off. “And that money…it wasn’t Mike’s to lend you. He stole it from me.”
“I didn’t know,” my dad cries. “I swear, I didn’t know…oh God, please…let her go. Please…she didn’t do anything…”
My dad’s cries and pleas make my eyes sting with hot tears, my selfish heart pounding, wanting to be set free, but my nerves numb knowing the cost. Wes sits on the other side of my father, his body teeming with strength, ready to strike at any opportunity. He won’t, though, until this gun is off my head.
“Where’s the woman?” our captor asks, glancing to whomever stands behind us.
“She’s secured in the room,” the man responds, tossing the empty roll of cellophane onto the table in front of us. I’m relieved Grace is in my dad’s bedroom, despite the shape she’s probably in.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” the man says, standing, but careful to keep the end of his gun pressed into my skin so hard I know there’s a bruise. “Someone in this room owes me eighty thousand dollars,” he says. “Plus the hundred more that fucker stole from me—plus the amount he took in cocaine.”
“I paid you what I owe…” my dad argues, his words frightened and desperate, hard to understand.
“No…you paid Mike. And remember? Mike’s in fucking Mexico! And if I recall…you bought a fucking car!”
I whimper when the man moves the gun as he speaks, his finger on the trigger. His head tips down and his eyes fall on me with my sound. His tongue makes a clicking sound, as if he’s calling out for a cat, and he curls his finger at me, urging my chin to lift so I have to look into his eyes. It’s dark in the room, and his face is shadowed still, but the white parts of his eyes glow like a demon.
“I warned your father that he needed to pay once already. How’s that burn healing, old man?” His lips curl with his words. “Can’t…hear…you!”
“I keep it wrapped,” my dad croaks, his mouth struggling to speak through the plastic.
“Under here?” the man behind me asks, reaching forward and gripping my father’s forearm that’s been wrapped for weeks. My dad writhes in pain, trying to escape into the depths of the couch, knowing there’s nowhere else to go.
“Don’t,” Wes says, grabbing the man’s arm with just as much force as he’s using on my father.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” W
es’s grip loosens as the safety clicks and my torturer pulls my chin to the right, forcing my gaze on Wes. “My gun means you’re outnumbered.”
Wes lets go of the man’s hand, and he squeezes my dad one more time in retribution. My father growls loudly. I can see him forcing anger instead of pain on his face.
“I want my money. And I’ll get it,” the gunman says, his gaze shifting from my father to me.
“You will,” I answer, my heart pounding while my mind races through options, hope, escapes, words I could say. Agreeing to demands is all I can come up with.
“I will,” he says, his mouth curving slightly as he breathes out a short laugh. “I’ll make sure you don’t forget who you owe.”
“I won’t…we won’t,” I say.
The demon eyes sear into mine so long I start to think he’s going to leave, that this is it—this was his warning and now we have to pay, even though it’s again. I start to believe the cops will arrive, just as the bad guys are leaving, and they’ll catch them. I see myself cutting the ties from my father’s arms and legs, my grandmother’s, Wes holding me—life being okay.
“Choose,” the man says.
My eyes flinch, my brow lowering. He laughs through his nose.
“Last time I burned him, and it did me nothing, so you choose who dies,” he says, and my lips part as I suck in air. “Do I shoot you?”
He twists the gun, his mouth contorting at the same time. He enjoys being powerful.
“Or do I shoot one of them? I’m sure you’ll say shoot the boyfriend, because…dear…old…dad,” he chuckles. “But the boyfriend…oh…he’s so young. He has his full life ahead, and Dad…he’s already lived so much, hasn’t he?”
My jaw twitches and my body grows more rigid, fighting against the fear rushing through me. This is a dream. It’s going to end. This isn’t real.
“Or do you sacrifice yourself?” He looks back down on me, his smile wicked and dirty. “You’re already damaged.”
He kicks my prosthetic leg, and Wes moves to get up.
“Ah, ah, ahhhhhh,” the man says, smiling on the side closest to Wes.
I look to my left without turning my head much, wanting to keep the man in my line of sight, to know what’s coming. I swallow what feels like razors, and I look at the faces sitting next to me, the faces I love. Both mouth to pick them—my father nodding, despite the terror in his eyes. I flit between them, my eyes finally stopping on Wes’s. He doesn’t nod or move at all. He stares at me, his lids lifting just enough that I can read his eyes.
“Him,” I say, staring at Wes, ignoring my dad’s muffled protests, my breathing calm, my heart having faith.
I’m special too. I don’t have superhuman strength. I’m bullheaded and tenacious and arrogant—stubborn. But I believe in what I’ve seen. I’m special because I’m brave. I’m brave enough to believe this choice is right. I’m brave enough to believe Wes will be okay.
My eyes close slowly and I search for every bit of resolve in my body. The gunman’s quiet through my breath, but when I open my eyes again, his smile is back—a ruthless mask cast over his eyes as he chuckles louder than he has yet.
“That seemed like you’re hiding something. I’ll shoot him instead,” he says, pointing the gun at my dad and firing at his center, the bullet sinking deep, cutting into him.
“Noooooooo!” I shout, squirming to get to my dad, arms holding me down from behind, my ears drowning in evil laughter.
“Relax, sweetheart. It’s a belly wound. He’ll be just fine…maybe,” he says, stepping back a little, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. I continue to fight, my eyes on my dad’s face, his body shaking with shock as he presses his tethered hands against his stomach.
“Now if I wanted to kill someone dead, I’d aim…for right…here,” he says, holding the end of his gun about two feet from the center of Wes’s head. I gasp out loud now, my mind spinning without a place to stop.
Even being Wes, a bullet that close will kill him. He won’t survive. Any longer, and my dad will bleed out. My eyes dart everywhere, my ears muted by the whooshing of blood over my eardrums with every pump of my heart. I have a second, maybe two, to answer, to stop this from becoming something none of us can come back from.
Like an angel, a blue glow hits the front window of my house, followed by a red. My roof pounds with feet, and shouts echo from out front. I look back to Wes, his eyes still on me despite the gun held to his head. The cops are here, and everyone’s time is short—even the demons’.
“Doors are locked. They won’t get in,” the man behind me says. The gunman gestures with his head, urging his partner to check the front window, instructing him to tell the police they have hostages. I look from him back to Wes, his eyes moving for the first time in minutes, just a hair to the left. He does this twice.
I sit as still as I can while the man leaves his post behind me. He rounds the couch, passing by our center console where the bat my dad used when he played still lays. We keep it where most people keep speakers or DVRs. I wait for the perfect moment, for my guard to be several steps away at the window, timing our gunman’s eyes like a girl playing double-dutch as he switches from staring at me to Wes. I wait for the perfect in, the only one that’s going to happen, a fault in the story—an edit that wasn’t made.
Everyone looks up when there’s a sound on the roof, officers taking down the man who was up there, and I have my moment.
I grab the bat with my right hand and stand in one motion, swinging as hard as I can at the gunman’s head, my bat at full speed just as he turns to see it coming. It connects with skull as his arm flails higher, his hand pulling the trigger and firing fast. Red colors the carpet and walls as he stumbles back on his feet, smoke spilling from the gun, and I swing again, this time knocking him to the ground and hearing a crack in the wood in my hands.
His body falls flat as SWAT officers break down my door, dropping the only man left on his knees before forcing his shoulders to the ground, too. My hand uncurls, letting the handle of the bat fall to the floor as I turn to my dad, only to see him holding Wes in his arms, his body limp and his head wet with his own blood.
My mouth fails to make sound, words fail to exist, my dad screams for help as more uniforms and sirens rush in. My legs weaken and my body hits the floor, and someone lifts me just as I begin rocking. I’m carried outside, to a stretcher, where I fight to see what’s happening to everyone else. My grandmother is walked out in a blanket, a firefighter’s arm around her, leading her to me, and I try to get up.
“My family!” I shriek, kicking at the medic who touches my knee. He holds my shoulders down and calls someone from behind me, and my mind tangles, expecting more bad guys, more guns, someone to strike me in the face just like that man did to my father.
The needle is fast, and the scene grows blurry as I strain my neck, fighting to see as I recognize Wes’s shirt, his shoes…his body. My dad’s next to his. The rushing as they work. The hurt.
The peace.
Twenty-Three
I wake up in a white room, monitors beeping, but no voices. My hands move tentatively as I expect them to be strapped to the bed. When they’re not, I hold my arms above my head and squeeze my fists, feeling the pinch from the needle taped to the top of my right hand.
“You’re okay.”
I twist fast to see Kyle sitting forward in a chair, his hands gripping themselves, elbows on his knees. His head leans to one side.
“They sedated you, just to make sure. But you don’t have any injuries. Your heart rate was…” He smiles slightly and holds his palm up above his head, drawing a line. “But you’re okay.”
“Wes…my dad,” I say, my throat hurting to speak. I push to sit up, and Kyle walks to the space next to me, handing me a cup of water and pushing a button on the side of the hospital bed. He glances out the door before looking back at me and smiling. It’s forced.
“Your dad’s in surgery,” he says. My dad. Not Wes.
&
nbsp; I try to swing my body around the bed, but his hand stops my knee, and he shakes his head.
“Do this the right way. Let them check you out and tell you when and where to go. For once…play by the rules,” he says, mouth curling.
I glare at him, but nod as the nurse walks in. I let her push her table close and run me through the tests, checking my blood pressure, listening to my heart, checking my fluids I know I don’t need because I have to pee so bad.
“Looks like you can get dressed. Your grandmother is here, so your friend here can take you to her, if you want to change in there,” she says.
I hold up my hand, showing her the IV.
“Right,” she smiles, rounding the bed to my right arm, sliding the needle out and covering the only proof I have on the outside of what happened with a Band-Aid covered in monkeys.
“I’ll wait for you,” Kyle says.
I meet his eyes and nod. They left my leg intact, so I scoot from the bed, my gown gripped in one hand in the back, and I take the bag of clothes from him with my other. I slip into the bathroom and set everything in the sink, holding the sides and looking at the circles under my eyes and rats in my hair. My stomach aches, and my head pounds, but I know it’s only from everything that’s unknown, the things I can’t control. I’m afraid to ask, and that’s the only reason I haven’t. I flush and wash my hands, then leave the safe feeling of four tiny walls without a window, stepping back out to the place where lives dangle in the hands built just like mine, but somehow better.
Wes’s hands are like that. Like mine…only better.
“They flew him to Texas,” Kyle says the moment our eyes meet again.
“Texas,” I echo, my voice still barely audible.
“We weren’t sure they were going to clear his transport at first…because of the case. I feel like a hostage taking shrapnel in the head sorta wins over detectives needing to have witnesses handy.” Kyle whispers an apology when he sees my face contort hearing the graphic details.
“A piece of one of the bullets pierced him. Even though it was small, because of the force and depth there’s some damage and swelling…I don’t know the details beyond that,” Kyle says, his voice quieter. “I didn’t understand a lot of what TK said. But he and Levi told his parents…about Shawn…being Wes’s father.”