Every Waking Moment

by Brenda Novak

  Preston banged the butt of the gun on the counter with one whack. “You didn’t want to hurt him? You killed him, you son of a bitch!” Suddenly, Preston knew he’d have no trouble pulling the trigger. It was almost frightening how easily he could do it, despite Vince’s sobs. All he had to think of was Dallas. Vince’s total disregard for the lives he’d taken, the suffering he’d caused, enraged Preston. How could a man like Vince expect leniency?

  Vince sank onto his knees. “Please, Preston. We were friends once. You—you don’t know how much you mean to me. I—I only wanted—I only wanted you to…to l-like me and admire me half as much as I admired you. I only w-wanted—”

  Preston aimed the gun at his heart. “Write the confession.”

  Sweat rolled down Vince’s face. His eyes widened, but he didn’t move. “It w-won’t do you any good. D-don’t you understand that? It’ll be given under d-duress.”

  “It’ll work if you provide enough details, Vince. I want the information only you would know. How you did it. Why. I want you to lay it all out, step by step. It’ll probably take you a couple of hours, so I’ll just pull up a chair. But you’re going to get it all down. Explain what you did to Melanie Deets, what you did to Billy Duran and—” his voice cracked “—the boy I loved more than life. The boy you took from me.”

  At Preston’s words, Vince managed to climb to his feet. He started writing, but he didn’t get past the first paragraph before he stopped. “I’m begging you, Preston,” he said, and slipped off the chair and back onto his knees. “I’m not right…in my mind. I—I admit that. I have a problem. I need help. But I c-can’t go to prison. They’d kill me in p-prison.”

  Disgust made Preston clench his jaw. “Stand up and take responsibility for what you’ve done!”

  Instead, Vince shielded his head with his arms, and began crying again. “Help me, Preston. I’m your friend, remember?”

  Preston’s hand began to sweat on the butt of the gun. He wanted to shoot. The desire grew so strong he could imagine the jolt of the gun traveling up his arm.

  But before he could make a decision, he heard what sounded like a shot. The window shattered. Then something hit him from behind, knocking him flat on his face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PRESTON’S RIGHT ARM FELT like it was on fire. Rolling over, he pulled himself into a sitting position and used his opposite hand to check the arm. His fingers encountered something wet and sticky. He was bleeding pretty badly. It took him a moment to absorb that and to realize why. He’d been shot. But how? Vince didn’t even have a gun.

  Dimly, he remembered that the shot had come from outside. He turned to stare at the shattered window behind him. Who would be shooting at him?

  “You shot me!” Vince was screaming. “I can’t believe it. You shot me, and now I’m going to die!”

  Preston’s jaw dropped. Sure enough, Vince was lying on the ground several feet away, bleeding as badly as he was. Or worse.

  “I didn’t shoot you,” Preston said, trying to convince himself at the same time. He searched for his gun, then realized he’d dropped it when he fell forward. It had slid across the hardwood floor and was lying next to Vince, who was now covering a small hole in his chest and struggling to get up.

  “Yes, you did,” he said, gasping for breath.

  The peaceful strains of the classical music playing in the background seemed to mock the ugly violence. Preston edged closer, wanting to get hold of the gun before Vince could. “No. Someone shot me, too.”

  Vince seemed to register this information about as slowly as Preston’s mind had been working a few seconds earlier. They were both wounded. But Preston had a feeling Vince’s injury was worse. Preston’s arm hurt like hell, but a person didn’t usually die from a gunshot wound to the bicep. Vince had been hit in the chest. Blood streamed down his bare stomach and onto his pants.

  “Who?” Vince asked incredulously. “Who else wants me dead? Christy?”

  Preston winced at the pain throbbing through the entire right side of his body. “No. Christy doesn’t know you the way I do.” He was nearly at the gun. He reached for it, but Vince saw what he was doing and grabbed it first.

  “Looks like you’ve lost it, huh?” he said, and tried to chuckle.

  Preston frowned at the muzzle pointed toward him. “Whoever’s out there might still be—”

  A noise, movement, drew their attention back to the broken window. A man loomed outside. Preston was fairly sure he’d never seen him before, but he wasn’t positive until the stranger came around the house and entered the living room through the same door he’d used.

  “No friend of mine,” Preston said when he emerged into the light. “What about you?”

  The man was lanky, had tattoos down both arms and wore a bandanna around his long greasy hair. He quickly closed the distance between them. “Get up,” he snapped at Preston, but when he saw that Vince held a gun, he grew leery and turned the muzzle of his own gun in Vince’s direction. “Drop it.”

  “If you do, he’ll kill us,” Preston warned.

  “Who…are you?” Vince asked with a groan.

  “I have no argument with you. I’m here for him.” He waved his weapon toward Preston. “Drop the gun.”

  Vince shifted to lean against the breakfast bar, and Preston guessed he couldn’t sit up any longer without support. “What…what did Preston…do to you?” he wheezed.

  “For me, it’s just a job. Nothing personal. You can thank Manuel Rodriguez.”

  Manuel. Preston’s heart thumped erratically. “He knows where Emma is?”

  “Emma?” The man chuckled. “You mean Vanessa. Of course. He’s with her now, probably taking up where you left off, eh?” He winked and the image that went through Preston’s mind made him nauseous.

  Emma…“How’d he find her?”

  “Fate.” His black eyes narrowed as he eyed Vince. “I said drop the gun.”

  Preston itched to feel the cool metal of the trigger beneath his finger. He’d been shot in the right arm and probably couldn’t use his most coordinated hand. But at this range, he didn’t think it would matter. “Don’t do it, Vince,” he said. “You can identify him, so he has to kill you, too. Surely you know that.”

  “I’m dying anyway,” Vince said hopelessly, and slumped farther toward the floor. He face grew ashen, his jaw slack.

  “Then give me the gun.” Preston launched himself toward it and was immediately deafened by gunfire. But he didn’t feel any pain. He looked down in surprise, expecting more blood. Then he heard the man with the bandanna gasp, saw him fall.

  The smell of gunpowder filled Preston’s nostrils as he stared at Vince, whose head had fallen back. He was struggling to catch his breath.

  “You got him,” Preston said.

  Vince’s eyelids fluttered open. “Did I?” He smiled weakly. “Now maybe—” he fought for another breath “—someday you can…forgive me. But—” he swallowed “—I know how much you loved Dallas. I…I shouldn’t count on it, right?”

  Preston didn’t know how to respond. He missed Dallas terribly, would always lament the tragedy of his son’s death. But for the first time in two years, he was more worried about the present.

  Manuel’s man was still moving, but barely. Preston didn’t care whether he lived or died. He could only think of Emma.

  Fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, he rose to his feet, dialed 911, and told the operator to send the police to Vince’s house and the motel. The motel first, he said. Then he collected both guns, staggered out of the house and started running for his van.

  EMMA’S FINGERNAILS SCRAPED the walls as Manuel dragged her down to the floor. He was nursing his right hand, the hand she’d injured earlier. And his head was bleeding. When Max snapped on the light, she could see a large gash near Manuel’s temple, which he must have sustained when he came through the window.

  “You stupid bitch. You broke my hand,” he said, but it didn’t stop him f
rom punching her with the other.

  Emma supposed it was a good thing she’d injured his right hand, because his left one was powerful enough. Her teeth clacked together as he connected with her chin and, for a moment, she saw spots.

  “Daddy?” Max said uncertainly.

  Emma struggled to reach the bat she’d dropped. “Get into the bathroom, Max,” she said, tasting blood. “Lock the door. Hurry! Mommy will be okay.”

  Instead of obeying, Max started to cry. “Don’t hurt my mommy,” he said. “Please, Daddy. Don’t hurt her.”

  “I’m not gonna hurt her. I’m gonna kill her,” he said, and that was when Emma knew rage had carried him beyond all rational thought.

  “Go!” Emma cried to Max, but she couldn’t get out anything else before she had to use all her energy to swing at Manuel with the bat. It make a sickening thud, but his arm had blocked it from doing any real damage. And he retaliated with a vicious kick to her abdomen. Pain exploded in her ribs, burning so badly she wondered if he’d managed to puncture a lung.

  “You think you can threaten me, take my son and fuck any man you want?” he hollered.

  Trying to raise the bat again, she stumbled and fell, and he kicked her a second time.

  “Mommy!” The terror in Max’s voice brought Emma to her feet despite the pain. She lurched toward her son, but she was so dizzy, she couldn’t even stand. She collapsed to her knees as Max flung himself at Manuel’s leg, hitting and kicking him. “Leave her alone! Don’t you hurt my mommy!”

  Manuel threw Max off as effortlessly as though he were a rag doll. He slid across the floor and banged against the wall.

  My God! Max! He’s out of his mind. He’s going to kill us both.

  “You want to fuck him again?” he cried. “You want to let Preston Holman cost you your life, your child?”

  Frantically, she grabbed Max’s arm and pulled him toward the bathroom. They were so close. If only she could get inside and shut the door—

  But Manuel was on her before she could. Whirling just in time, she hit him with the bat, but there wasn’t room for a full swing, and it didn’t seem to hurt him too badly. He tore it out of her grasp and slugged her again, and she hit the vanity before landing in the bathtub.

  “Stop it!” Max screamed. He must have bitten Manuel because Manuel suddenly bellowed in pain—and lashed out.

  Terror seized Emma as Max fell to the floor. “Max!” she cried, but he didn’t answer.

  Rage flooded through Emma, lending her strength she hadn’t known she possessed. She struggled to her feet and shoved Manuel, hard, knocking him back into the door.

  She tried to slip past him. She knew she had to get out right away, find help for Max or it would be too late. But he seized her arm and forced her up against the vanity.

  Feeling behind her, Emma searched for a weapon. But she didn’t wear hairspray, and she didn’t have much hope of finding anything else that might be useful among her cosmetics. When her hand closed around one of Max’s needles, however, her heart began to thump with hope. The needle was too fine and small to cause much damage. But in the right place…

  Manuel’s hands circled her neck and he started choking her. She could tell by the look on his face that the effort was costing him. She’d injured his hand, but his anger seemed to compensate. She clawed at him with her free hand as he squeezed tighter and tighter. Soon her lungs began to burn and darkness hovered like a thick, descending fog….

  “I…hate…you,” she managed to gasp.

  When he gritted his teeth and leaned close to respond, she knew her opportunity had come. Whipping her hand around, she stabbed at him with the needle.

  He cried out and staggered back, his hands covering his left eye, and she knew she’d gotten him where she needed to. “You bitch!” he shouted.

  She dashed out of the bathroom. She had to find a better weapon. Something she knew would stop Manuel for good. Max could be seriously hurt. He needed her.

  Manuel came stumbling after her, half-blind and cursing. Emma considered making a break for the door, but even if she could get out, her son might be gone by the time she could bring help.

  She swerved into the kitchen instead, and grabbed the only weapon she could that might provide a more effective defense than the bat—a kitchen knife.

  Manuel’s good eye glittered as he realized her intent. “It’s over,” he said. “You won’t live another five minutes.”

  She felt the same determination. She’d soon be lying dead on the floor. Or he would.

  “Then you’d better make it good,” she said, “because I’m not going down without a fight.”

  The challenge seemed to surprise him. He stopped covering his eye and lunged at her. When she stabbed and missed, he caught her hair and sent her sprawling. As she fell, she hit her head on a corner of the cupboard and blacked out. But she couldn’t have been out for more than a second because she woke before he could touch her again.

  There was no time to think. She could feel the knife flat against her body, beneath her, could hear him coming for her again. Forcing herself to lie still, she held her breath. He must have seen her lose consciousness. Hopefully, he’d believe she was still out.

  Breathing heavily, he leaned over her. He kicked her in the side to see if she’d move, but she absorbed the pain and remained motionless. Then he reached down to turn her over, and she thought of Max lying on the bathroom floor. This would be her last chance to save her son, to save them both! Opening her eyes, she rolled to the right and plunged the blade deep into Manuel’s neck.

  THE FRONT WINDOW of the motel room was shattered. Preston swayed on his feet, barely able to hold on to the gun in his hand. Fear numbed the pain in his arm but added to his dizziness. He didn’t even remember driving over here. He just knew he’d arrived. Somehow.

  Was he too late?

  He could hear sirens wailing in the distance, knew the police were on their way.

  “Emma?” he called. The front door was still locked, but he could see there was a light on in the kitchen. “Emma!”

  No answer.

  “Max?”

  He climbed clumsily through the window, cutting himself on his neck and arms because he couldn’t use his right hand and his left held the gun. But he scarcely felt these new injuries. He knew he’d lost a lot of blood and was on the verge of passing out. He also knew he wouldn’t relinquish his hold on consciousness until he discovered what had happened to the woman and the boy he loved. The thought of finding them gone—or worse—tore him up. He’d already lost his wife and son. Emma and Max had filled that hole, made him complete again.

  “Emma, it’s me.”

  His words were slurred and difficult to understand, yet he was sure he heard a response. A soft “help us” came from somewhere inside. Where had it come from? Had he imagined it?

  “Max?” He trained the gun on the floor as he moved through the suite so he didn’t accidentally shoot the wrong person, but nearly fired it blindly when he tripped over something sticking out from behind the breakfast bar.

  It was a body. He knew instantly, before he even looked. Nothing else could feel that way. He just didn’t know whose body, and feared the worst. Had Manuel hurt or killed Emma? Had he taken Max? Had that “help us” been an echo of Preston’s own wishful thinking?

  Slowly, he lowered his gaze to see…. It was Manuel. Max’s father lay in a puddle of blood, a knife in his neck.

  Suddenly Preston’s senses became more alert. Someone had killed Manuel. Which meant Emma might have survived. Maybe he wasn’t too late.

  The sirens were growing louder. He staggered into Max’s room because the light was on in there, too. The bed was rumpled but empty, so he moved as quickly as he could to the master bedroom. He couldn’t see anyone in the semidarkness, but more light crept out from beneath the bathroom door. Using the wall to keep himself upright, he made his way over and tried the handle. Locked. “Emma?”

  “Preston?” she cried.


  “It’s me. Are you okay?”

  He held his breath as she fumbled with the lock. What would he see when she opened the door? Anxiety clawed at him while he waited.

  When the door swung open, he set the gun aside and sank to his knees. Emma was on the floor, holding Max. Her mouth was cut and bleeding. She had blood all over her clothes and hands, and Max had a big bruise on his temple. But they were alone, and they were both alive.

  “Preston!” Max reached for him.

  Emma looked up at him in horror. “You’ve been hurt!”

  Preston checked the blood soaking his shirt. “I’ll live. I think the bullet went straight through.”

  “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “We’ll all go. The police are almost here.” The sirens had stopped, which indicated that they’d already parked. He pulled Max to his chest, reveling in the feel of his small body secure in his arms. When he included Emma in his embrace, she winced slightly but buried her face in his neck.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her gently.

  He could feel the wetness of her tears, but she nodded.

  “What about you, Beast?”

  “My daddy hit us,” Max said, and clung to Preston as though he was afraid to let go. “Mommy says he’s gone. That he’ll never come back.”

  “That’s true,” Preston told him. “But if you want, I’ll be your daddy now.”

  Emma pulled back and gaped at him. “What’d you say?”

  Unconsciousness edged closer. Preston shut his eyes, fought it off and leaned against the wall for support. “Marry me, Emma.”