Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3)

by Jamie Garrett

  Amy!

  Had the attacker been Nick? Someone that Nick had hired to follow Amy? He struggled to his feet, arms stretched out beside him, helping him balance as he stood, legs spread, teetering. He stood still, but everything around him spun with dizzying speed.

  How badly was he hurt? The attacker had used his fists—and something harder. Solid. He lifted his hand to his forehead, wincing as he felt along the two-inch gash extending from his hairline to his eyebrow. It had bled profusely, but the blood had already congealed, closing his eye and sticking to his face. Dean was sure he had a concussion, but he tried to ignore the pain as he took one step forward. One shuffling step and then another. He had to get to Amy!

  How much time had passed? How long had he lain back here? How long did it take for blood to congeal? It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. He had no idea.

  It seemed to take him forever to make his way from behind the motel, around the side, and back to the front. Outdoor lights next to three doorways along the length of the L-shaped motel were on. A moth flitted around one. His vision was fuzzy, but the bright glow made him wince, causing him to lift a hand to shield his eyes.

  The office lights were on, but he couldn’t see any movement inside, his vision still spotty and fuzzy. He stumbled along the front of the motel, the pain making him sick to his stomach. He spat blood, tracing his hand along the wall as he shuffled to guide his way. Their room was the fourth one down.

  He prayed that Amy was alright and that she was still there, and that she hadn’t been kidnapped again. He had to get to their room and call the police. God, she had to be there. If she’d been kidnapped again . . . he tried to tamp down impending panic. Fine job he was doing of protecting her. He never should’ve left the room.

  If she wasn’t there, it would be all his fault.

  He got to their door, gave it a knock, and then another. He pressed his ear against it, listening for any sound, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He tried the door knob, but the door was locked. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? He didn’t hear any sounds coming from inside.

  Shit!

  “Amy,” he hissed, pressing his mouth close to the door jamb as he knocked again. He winced at the pain the movement caused in his battered knuckles. “Amy!”

  His heart pounded and fear gnawed in his belly, making him feel hollow inside. He took a step toward the office. He had to get help! Just then, he heard the sound of the chain sliding along its track on the other side of the door.

  “Dean?”

  Amy’s voice was soft, uncertain.

  “Amy, it’s me, Dean. Open the door . . .”

  She did, but the suddenness of it caught him off guard. He took one step into the room, heard her garbled cry of surprise, and then he collapsed.

  20

  Amy

  Amy half caught, half fell under Dean’s weight as he staggered across the threshold of the room and toppled forward. She gasped when she saw his face. His right eye was nearly swollen shut. She took in the gash on his forehead, his cut lip, and the blood smearing his face. His knuckles were reddened and scraped. Her eyes widened. Had he been in a fight or been hit by a damn car?

  “Dean!” No response. “Dean!” She gently shook his shoulders, but her efforts only provoked a groan.

  What the hell happened? He’d only been gone maybe twenty minutes. She jerked his legs inside the door and then quickly closed it, rising only long enough to slide the chain before turning back toward Dean, lying unmoving on the floor. Heart pounding, she ripped her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911.

  “Monroe County emergency services. What is your emergency?” the calm, female voice answered.

  “I need an ambulance! Hurry! My . . . my boyfriend is hurt!”

  “In what way is he hurt, ma’am?”

  “He’s bleeding! It looks like he’s been in a fight! Please, send an ambulance.” She swallowed, every muscle in her body trembling. “I think he has a head injury!”

  “Ma’am, where are you?”

  Where was she? Damn it, she couldn’t remember the name of the motel. Panic surged through her. “I don’t know, I don’t remember the name! It’s a motel along the river, north of town . . . north of downtown Monroe . . .” She choked back her emotion, forcing herself to slow down. “There’s an RV park nearby.”

  “Keep the line open,” the operator instructed. “I’ll get help—”

  “Wait! I remember, it’s the Riverside Motel, Room Five . . .” She hated the shakiness in her voice. She needed to be stronger! She couldn’t help it. She was scared. Who had beaten Dean? Was it Nick? Had Nick done this? Or had Dean simply gotten into a fistfight with one of the other motel residents? She didn’t think so. Dean was not the type to get into fights. Then again, what did she know? Her hands trembled, panic running through her.

  “Stay on the line, ma’am—”

  “I can’t! I have to make another call. Please hurry!”

  She disconnected, accessed the contact list, and had to hit the speed dial twice before she managed to press it down far enough to initiate the call to Agent Hemmings. She waited, her heart in her throat as it rang once, twice, and then three times before a sleepy voice answered.

  “Hemmings.”

  “Agent Hemmings, this is Amy Valenso. Dean’s been hurt!”

  “How bad?” His voice was sharp now, fully alert.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, casting her gaze over Dean’s battered features. “It looks like he took several blows to his skull. He’s unconscious—”

  “Where are you?”

  “In our room!” she said. “He only left for a little while. He knocked and I opened the door . . .” She gulped in a shaky breath. She had to hold it together. “He . . . he fell inside.”

  “Amy, stay there. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I called an ambulance,” she interrupted. “They should be here any minute. I’m going to go to the hospital with him.”

  “Amy, please don’t. I’ll call the front desk, have the GBI agent go to your room . . .”

  She heard the sound of the ambulance wailing in the distance, growing ever closer by the second. She shut the phone, disconnecting the call, and shoved it into her pocket. Amy placed her hands on Dean’s shoulders, tears swimming in her eyes. “Dean, it’s going to be alright. The ambulance is on its way.”

  She blinked back the tears. She wanted to scream and rail against the injustice of it all. Fucking Nick Summers. But why go after Dean? If he had been watching and had seen Dean leave the room, why not come for her? A shiver ran through her. He’d wanted Dean out of the way so she’d be an easy mark.

  The drone of the ambulance siren drew closer, lights flashing off the walls as the ambulance pulled into the parking lot. The siren shut off and Amy heard doors slam. She leaped up and opened the motel room door, gesturing for the EMTs as they scrambled across the parking lot. One of them hurried toward her while the other paused long enough to open the back and grab a duffle bag.

  She glanced past his shoulder as she stepped back to let the EMTs into the room. She looked toward the office but didn’t see any signs of movement. A few doors opened and curious onlookers peered at the middle-of-the-night activity. A few doors down, a woman with her hair in curlers peeked out her door and then swiftly closed it.

  Heart racing, her stomach in a tight knot, Amy shoved her hands into her pants pockets as the EMTs expertly took Dean’s vitals. One of the men carefully probed his skull with his gloved fingers and then looked toward his partner.

  “Deep scalp lacerations.” He turned to Amy. “I can’t tell if he’s got any skull fractures. The hospital will have to make that determination.”

  The other EMT dashed from the room and back to the ambulance, where he pulled out the stretcher and zoomed to the doorway. Amy stood frozen, watching with wide-eyed apprehension as they fastened a neck brace around Dean’s neck and then carefully rolled him onto a backboard and lifted him onto th
e stretcher. One of them glanced over at her. “Ma’am, are you coming with us? We can’t wait.”

  Amy hurried out the door after them, leaving her backpack on the bed. Her wallet was in her pocket. She didn’t really need anything else. She followed them from the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

  The EMTs loaded Dean inside the ambulance. One of them scrambled out, hurrying around to the front of the vehicle. She grabbed onto a metal handle beside the door and climbed in.

  “Sit down over there,” the EMT said, gesturing toward a small bench against the side of the ambulance nestled up against the divider between the bay and the driver’s seat.

  She complied, her gaze riveted to Dean as the EMT placed an oxygen mask over his face and took his vitals again. The ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, lights flashing and siren once again wailing. They sped down the highway, the vehicle slightly rocking as they took a long curve in the highway. The EMT took pity on her.

  “His vitals are stable, ma’am,” he said. “He’s breathing okay. We’re taking good care of him and we’ll be at the hospital in about ten minutes.”

  She nodded, unable to speak. More afraid than unable. If she opened her mouth to say anything, nothing would come out except a garbled scream of fury.

  At Nick.

  And at herself, mainly for allowing herself to even think that she could get close to someone. Mad at herself for putting Dean in danger. It had been his choice to leave their room, true, but he wouldn’t have been there at all if it hadn’t been for her. She stared down at Dean’s pale, bloody face. It was time to put a stop to this. She wasn’t going to hide for the rest of her life, but she wasn’t going to tolerate putting anyone else in danger, either.

  Amy had no idea where to start, but she’d think of something. This wasn’t his problem and she wasn’t going to make it his.

  At least any more than she already had.

  Amy paced the emergency department waiting room in a small regional hospital, waiting for news about Dean’s condition. They had arrived just over an hour ago. Dean had been whisked into a trauma room, the door firmly closed behind him. A nurse had told her she could wait out here for news. After asking if she wanted a bottle of water and receiving Amy’s negative reply, she had nodded and told her that someone would come out and speak to her as soon as Dean’s condition had been assessed.

  It hadn’t taken long before Agent Hemmings had arrived. She’d only half-listened as he explained that he would be staying in the area, at a hotel on the other side of town. He asked her exactly what happened, but she couldn’t tell him much. When she suggested the idea to draw Nick out into the open, he shut her down as quickly as Dean had.

  “That’s not the way I do things. Amy, you have other options.”

  She stared at him, her nerves shattered. “Really? You mean like disappearing for the rest of my life?” She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s any kind of answer, Agent Hemmings.” She cut off his protest. “He found me here, twice . . . no, three times, didn’t he? I don’t know how, because heaven knows I hardly ever leave Promise House. Whoever beat up Dean . . . if not Nick, then someone he has working with him . . . has found me three times already.” Her anger grew. “Despite all your precautions, all the sneaking around.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she challenged him. “Exactly how do you explain that?”

  She continued, not giving Hemmings a chance to make excuses. “I think I know. Someone in law enforcement is passing along information. They have to be. I have no idea who, and at this point, I couldn’t give a flying fuck. All I know is that nowhere you put me is going to be safe. Not here, and not in WITSEC, either.”

  “Amy, listen to me—”

  “I’ve listened to you enough,” she said. She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead to try to stave off the thump building there. God, she couldn’t take anymore. She gazed around the room, not really focusing on it. “I don’t know what you expect me to do, but—”

  “Excuse me, are you with Dean Gibson? You’re the woman who brought him in?”

  Amy spun around, her anger instantly forgotten. She nodded. “Yes, is he alright?”

  “He’s getting stitched up as we speak. He’s got a concussion, but we checked him out with full x-rays and an MRI. No signs of a skull fracture or subdural hematomas, but he needs to take it easy for a few days at minimum.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said. Her knees shook beneath her and she braced herself on the wall so she wouldn’t fall. To think that—

  “We’re going to keep him overnight for observation, just to be on the safe side.”

  Amy nodded. “Can I see him?”

  “In a little bit. We’re going to take him up to a private room. We’ll let you know when he’s settled and then you can see him. But only for a couple of minutes. He needs rest.”

  “Alright.” Relief coursed through her. She moved stiffly toward a row of chairs and sank into one, afraid that she would faint from the overwhelming reprieve she’d been given. Dean was going to be alright. Agent Hemmings sat down beside her.

  “Amy,” he said, his voice quiet, “I know you’re upset and afraid, but let us do our job. We can protect you.”

  She turned to him. “It’s obvious that you can’t! Dean could have been killed! Because of me!”

  “But he wasn’t, Amy, and that’s the important thing. I’ll have—”

  She pushed to her feet, unable to sit a moment longer. “Excuse me, Agent Hemmings, but I have to find a bathroom.”

  He nodded, and gestured down the hall. “Down the hall and to the left. You’ll pass the front reception desk. Beyond that, you’ll find another short hallway next to a set of stairs going to the second floor. Bathrooms are down there.”

  She nodded. Walking stiffly, her movements jerky—most likely caused by the release of adrenaline—she moved away from the agent, blinking back tears and swallowing the growing lump in her throat.

  As soon as she rounded the corner and was out of the agent’s line of sight, she headed toward the sliding reception doors, a short distance from the reception desk. An older woman, a volunteer wearing one of those pale pink blouses, was on the phone, turned away from her.

  Making the decision, Amy darted out the front doors. They swished quietly behind her. The moment she was outside the hospital, she began to run.

  21

  Dean

  Dean champed at the bit, anxious for the nurse to finish stitching up his forehead. At first, he refused painkillers, but had eventually compromised at a weaker and smaller dose. He felt like shit. Like he’d been run over by a truck. He must’ve asked about Amy a hundred times since he’d woken up in the emergency room of the regional hospital.

  Thirty minutes later, more cognizant and growing increasingly angry, he finally found a doctor who informed him that he had several bruised ribs, a concussion and two gashes in his head, and finished by telling him that he was lucky to even be alive. The doctor wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but Dean refused.

  After asking again, a nurse told him that he’d been transported in an ambulance and that the woman who’d arrived with him was in the waiting room. He had demanded to see Amy, but the doctor insisted that Amy couldn’t come in until she finished stitching up the two gashes in his head. The sooner he cooperated and allowed her do her job, the sooner he would be able to see his girlfriend.

  He lay back down on the makeshift bed, huffing out a breath. Every second that passed was another second that Amy was alone. A myriad of emotions swept through him. Worry for Amy. Fury that his attacker had gotten the better of him, and then self-disgust. He was doing a fine job protecting Amy, wasn’t he? He was no better than the asshole who had leaked her location.

  The doctor leaned close, applying the last butterfly strip to his forehead. She snapped off her gloves. “Alright, I’m done.”

  “Thank you,” Dean said. “Can you let the woman in the waiting room in here so I can speak to her, please?”r />
  She nodded and quickly left. Dean glanced down at his T-shirt, now stained with blood, triggering another surge of anger and frustration. The door opened and he looked up, anxious to speak to Amy.

  “Where is she?”

  Agent Hemmings merely lifted an eyebrow, giving him the once-over. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

  “She went to the bathroom. How you doing? What’s the prognosis? You look like shit.”

  “Doc says I have a concussion and some bruised ribs. My head hurts, but other than that I should be fine.” He stepped off the examination table, surprised at the woozy sensation that nearly buckled his knees. Hemmings reached out a hand to steady him.

  “Take it easy,” Hemmings cautioned.

  “I have to see Amy.”

  “She’ll be here in just a minute. Mind telling me what happened?”

  “I went for a walk, just around the perimeter of the motel. I was at the back when I was attacked.”

  “Get a look at him?”

  Dean started to shake his head, then winced and changed his mind. “No. It happened too fast and it was dark.” He straightened, waiting for a second wave of dizziness to pass. “Did the agent at the front desk see anything?”

  Hemmings hesitated and Dean noticed. “What?

  “We found him unconscious in the bathroom behind the front desk.”

  Dean swore. “You guys are doing a fine job of protecting her, aren’t you?”

  Agent Hemmings looked at him, dropped his gaze to Dean’s bloodstained shirt and then back again. Fuck. He wasn’t doing such a great job of it, either.

  “Let’s go talk to Amy. Maybe now we can convince her to go into WITSEC.”

  “Doesn’t the doctor—”

  “She’ll find me,” Dean snapped. He stepped toward the door and yanked it open, wincing again at the slight movement that sent a jolt of pain through his body. That fucking bastard. If he got his hands on him again, he’d—