Reckless Touch

by Veronica Larsen

  "You don't want to go down like this," he says. It's clear he thinks he's got the advantage in this fight. He's armed. I'm not. But he's injured and I'm not. And I've got something else he doesn't.

  Speeding through my veins there's a poisonous impulse that casts my fears to the wayside. The only thing that's keeping me upright is the surging instinct to live at all costs.

  He lunges once again, but this time, I'm ready for him. A move I've practiced hundreds of times, I sidestep his lunge, hold his knife-yielding arm away from my body, and jab an elbow into his back. The knife falls to the ground before he does. He reacts immediately by kicking me hard in the shin, bringing me down with him. As soon as I hit the ground, he's on top of me, hands finding their way around my neck.

  He squeezes hard and I struggle to breathe. One of my hands grabs hold of a thumb and pulls as hard as I can away from my body. With my other hand, I try beating my fists against whatever part of his throat and face I can reach. My movements cause him to loosen his hold and the moment I can catch my breath, I'm able to jam the base of my fist into the base of his nose with a dull crack of cartilage. I kick and thrash wildly until he falls sideways. I turn on the floor and, spotting the knife, start to half-crawl to it as I attempt to get back on my feet.

  His foot swipes out, connecting with my ribs and bringing me flat on my stomach again. I spin onto my back and try, once again, to put as much distance between us by thrashing around, my limbs connecting with whatever parts of him I can reach. All the while, I inch closer to the knife.

  But the knife is suddenly in Dale's hand and a flash of hopelessness hits me. Until I realize he's pulled out a new one. My own hand feels along the floor and closes around the handle of the blade. I swing it upward, but my arm is blocked by Dale's as he positions himself over me again. I've lost the advantage. I'm now pinned to my back.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  "Amelia?" Mrs. Lowery's timid voice makes panic solidify in my veins, bringing time to a screeching halt.

  Dale's attention snaps up, his hold going lax for the briefest of moments. Just long enough for me to take a firm hold on his knife-wielding hand with both of mine. He strikes my face with his other hand and tries to break free from my grip, but I hold on for dear life, trying to keep the knife from going any closer to me. He hits my face again. And again. And in a moment of weakness, my grasp slips. And to the tune of another, more desperate knock on the door, Dale wraps a hand over my mouth and sinks the knife somewhere into my torso.

  Pain. Searing hot pain shoots through me, and my body tenses. I'm suddenly more aware of his body than of my own. He pulls back. My fingers find something hard to hold onto and wrap around it. In a flash of instinct, I hurl my arm upward and connect with the side of his neck, where the blade I didn't know I was holding sinks into his skin.

  Dale groans and I manage to push him off of me.

  "Amelia!" Mrs. Lowery cries out, panic stricken and banging louder against the door.

  Her terror grips my heart and drags me into my own. I breathe so fast my lungs burn. Beside me, Dale has both of his hands clutching the gushing wound on the side of his throat. His eyes are wide. Blood pools around his head as he struggles to breathe.

  My vision goes in and out of focus. I grasp around clumsily, gripping the sliced portion of my shirt just over my belly button. Blood oozes out, drowning my hands, my thoughts, my consciousness.

  My eyes spring open at the sound of a second voice blaring from the other side of the door.

  "Amelia!"

  Sebastian.

  The shout is followed by the deafening crash of wood being reduced to splinters, Mrs. Lowery's screams, footsteps rushing inside.

  But he's too late. And as I lie on my floor bleeding to death, all I can think is:

  Don't let Mrs. Lowery come in.

  Please don't let her come in. She doesn't need to see this.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Amelia

  LIGHTS. LIGHTS FLASH AGAINST the back of my eyelids. I can see them even before I open my eyes. That's the first sign of awareness that claims me. The second is the sound of voices somewhere over my head. The third…

  Pain. Pain shoots through me in aching stabs. Multiple hands grab around my body, pulling my clothes around. Lifting my head. Holding my arms in place.

  I open my eyes fast and wide. The sight before me registers like an earsplitting scream at my ears. Blood. I see blood everywhere. My hands. On the hands of whoever is reaching for me. One, two, three people. I can't see their faces, they move in and out of view.

  I struggle against hands that try pushing me down.

  I scream. Someone screams back.

  No, they don't scream. The voice is firm but not threatening, urging me to lie back down.

  Strangers. There are so many strangers, their faces coming in and out of focus as my surroundings are a blur of motion around me. I'm floating. No, I'm lying on something. A gurney. They're wheeling me toward the lights.

  My heart screams in my ears, punching away at my chest, filling me with an insane need to thrash around. Am I dying?

  "Stay still," one of the voices urges. "You're going to be okay."

  "Dale," I groan out. "It's Dale."

  "It's okay," someone else says. "Help is here."

  Reality settles into place with each breath I take.

  Dale. Is he dead? Where's Mrs. Lowery?

  And Sebastian? Where's Sebastian?

  These questions don't help calm my heart. I can't stop from trying to look around me in an attempt to gauge my surroundings. I'm out in the street, in front of my apartment. There are multiple police cars and ambulances.

  A hand nudges me down again, gently. But I still try to look around. My neighbors are gathering, a police officer trying to push them back as he pulls out a line of yellow tape.

  "Is she awake? Let me through," someone yells.

  "We're taking her to the hospital, sir. No—sir, you can't—"

  A hand wraps around mine. I recognize the touch, somehow, even though I didn't even recognize his voice.

  Sebastian's face comes into view overhead, the world behind him blurring as he jogs at my side.

  "Fuck," he says. "I'm so sorry."

  Seeing him is like taking a breath and I'm dizzy from the rush of oxygen. But the pain in his expression hurts more than anything I've ever felt. And those eyes, so warm and familiar, are swimming in an ocean of what if and I should've. I forget momentarily that I'm in pain. That I'm bleeding. I want to soothe him.

  "Don't be sorry. It definitely isn't you," I say, my voice a croak.

  He laughs and relief floods his face. And I somehow know he thought, right until this very moment, that I was going to die. We come to a stop and a hand grips his shoulder from behind, pulling on him, but Sebastian resists.

  "I'm here," he says. "I'm right here."

  His relief is so beautiful to watch that I want to say something else, but I'm distracted by a second gurney being wheeled past me. Multiple paramedics surround it, working on Dale even as they move toward the second ambulance. I catch the tiniest glimpse of his pale face, eyes shut. Clothes drenched in blood.

  He looks like he's within an inch of his life.

  "Is he going to die?" I ask the people around me.

  No one answers. Maybe they don't hear me. They are counting to three. At three, the gurney I'm on falls for a fraction of a second before it lifts again and I'm pushed into the ambulance.

  Sebastian refuses to leave my side and I refuse to let go of his hand. No one looks happy about it, but getting me to a hospital seems to be the priority over arguing with him, because the paramedics give up.

  My head spins and spins, tumbling in a downward spiral that darkens the edges of my vision. The pain grows fainter and fainter. My fingertips tingle, as though they are cold.

  I shut my eyes.

  "I think…maybe I'm dying," I say.

  Are those going to be my last words?

&nbs
p; Stating the obvious?

  I almost laugh.

  "No you're not. You're a goddamn fighter."

  Sebastian's voice hooks around me like an anchor, keeping me in place.

  In a safe place.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Reed

  THE HEART IS NOT an organ I've ever had to keep tabs on. But tonight? I know exactly where it is. It's in my throat. It's balled up there and won't let up.

  She's in bad shape. I saw it the second my eyes fell on her. Her clothes were soaked with blood. The paramedic's gloves were soaked in blood.

  It was a blood bath.

  I don't let go of her hand until we arrive at the hospital. My badge is a useless piece of metal in my pocket as I watch Amelia being wheeled up to surgery. I stupidly blurt out I'm her husband in hopes of being let through. But I'm not let through.

  Instead, I'm crowded by people asking me questions I can't begin to answer. If she has allergies. If she has any medical conditions. I don't know. Panic seeps in.

  Was my lie about being her husband going to get her killed? But right now, that lie is my only lifeline to her. The truth? It would leave me out in the cold, without any information on how she's doing.

  "I already told you I don't know," I say, running a hand through my hair.

  The nurse that spewed out the latest question gives me an exasperated look and heads off to her station. But another nurse gives a reassuring headshake and pats my back. I'm sure I look pathetic, crumbling at the thought of losing this woman. A woman who, a few weeks ago, I had no idea existed. And now? Now her existence takes up every corner of my mind. Thoughts of her fill me up. A fuel unlike any other I've experienced. I need to know she's going to be all right.

  The anger that grabs hold of me is unlike anything I've felt before in my life. I was in her parking lot, watching her apartment, thinking I was keeping her safe by sitting out there, when all along the danger was already inside. God. Even when I knocked on her door and begged her to hear me out—she was trapped in there with him. I can't imagine what she's gone through. I don't know what I would've done with myself if she had died in that apartment, right under my nose.

  But she didn't. She's still fighting. I have to believe she'll pull through, because the alternative sends me into a tailspin. It was him. The security guard from her work. Who would've thought he'd be capable of all this? He was always cooperative and the very definition of harmless. A wolf in sheep's clothing. But there was one thing he didn't count on. Amelia's a fighter. So much more than I ever dreamed.

  I must fall asleep in the waiting room, because I wake up to someone nudging me gently in the shoulder. It's a doctor.

  "Sir, your wife is out of surgery."

  I am on my feet before he gets the second word out. I'm still half-asleep and my response comes slow, eyes squinting, mouth opening seconds before I can gather words. But I don't need to speak. The doctor tells me she's in stable condition. The knife nicked a major organ, but the damage was contained. I won't be allowed to see her until after she's taken to recovery.

  I sit back down, sure there are questions I should ask that don't occur to me. I've only been her fake husband for a few hours and already I'm dropping the ball. Stupidly, I picture her face, a hesitant smile breaking into a small laugh. And that soothing thought carries me through the next few hours, until I'm allowed to go back to see her. She looks so small in that hospital bed. Her petite frame drowning in the large, shapeless hospital gown. She looks the way she did when I first met her. Except, worse, so much worse. Because she was just a stranger then, and now? She's everything.

  I take a few steps toward her bed and realize she's awake. She's staring out the window on the other side of the room.

  "We've got to stop meeting like this."

  She startles then relaxes when she sees it's me.

  My relief at seeing her, awake, with her chest rising and falling in slow steady breaths, slips slightly at the sight of her sadness. I sit beside her and take her hand in mine in one move.

  "They won't tell me if he's dead," she says by way of greeting.

  I can't lie, my stomach does a strange sinking move. I don't want to talk about him. But it's clear by the urgency on her face, it's important for her to know.

  "Don't worry about that right now."

  "Sebastian, there was so much blood."

  "I know. But you're okay. You're okay."

  I say it twice. First time for her. The second time is for me. I examine her with my eyes, taking in the sight of her beautiful face. One of her eyebrows has been stitched from a cut, a bruise clear around it. There is more bruising on the side of her face, going into her hairline.

  She sees me looking at it and raises a hand to her eyebrow, fingers tracing over the stitches. "Is it bad?"

  "It's bad ass. You're going to have one of these scars," I say, touching my own brow. "It's going to say, don't fuck with me, to everyone who sees it."

  Her lips twitch, though her face remains tired. "Sure it will."

  "Some couples get matching tattoos. We have matching scars."

  "Couples?" she asks.

  I take her hand, still wrapped in mine, and bring it up to my lips.

  "We're married for as long as you're in the hospital," I say.

  "All right, that's doable."

  "And after…"

  "Yeah?"

  "You're going to have a hard time getting me to take my eyes off of you for a while. So, if you don't mind, I'm calling dibs on you, until you're ready to talk about us."

  She shakes her head. "You're so romantic."

  "Fucking dibs." I grin and kiss her hand again. "I wanted to call dibs the moment I saw you, but that would've been highly inappropriate."

  Her smile brings a warmth to my chest. But then I have to watch that smile fade.

  "I need to know."

  "Huh?"

  "I need to know if he's dead. I need to know if I killed him."

  Something about the way her eyebrows furrow tells me that she herself isn't sure if she wants him to be dead. I get it. She's fighting between the fear that he's still alive and possibly still a threat, and the terror that she's responsible for taking another life. It's heavy shit. Not a load I ever wanted for her to carry.

  All I know is, he better fucking be dead.

  "Rest for now," I tell her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Amelia

  THE NEXT TIME MY eyes open, the pain is gone and the sudden absence of it scares the crap out of me. My heart races then slows when the hospital room comes into focus. The pain comes, creeping up on me like it was just on a different frequency.

  I groan and Sebastian jolts awake from the chair beside me. He relaxes when he sees everything is fine, and then says, "Hey."

  His eyes are heavy with fatigue as he rubs them. I feel guilty for waking him.

  "You should go home. I'm fine now. I can't go anywhere."

  "No way in hell you're getting rid of me."

  I lower a hand over my abdomen, where I can make out the bandages under my hospital gown.

  "Do you think it would've hurt less if I'd gotten shot instead of stabbed?"

  He glares at me. "We are not having this conversation."

  The nurse comes in and checks on me. She has a carefree aura as she chats with both Sebastian and me about inconsequential things, like she's a server about to take my order at a restaurant. So nonchalant, she makes me feel like there's nothing unusual or unpleasant about me being here. Her presence brings distraction and comfort.

  Before she leaves she says, "Someone will be in shortly to finish your paperwork." She gives Sebastian a sideways glance, and adds with a small smile, "Your husband couldn't answer many of the questions. Or any, actually."

  "He's always forgetting things," I say, as I lay my head back and turn it to Sebastian. "Ask him how often he forgets to take the garbage bins out for trash day."

  The nurse smiles and busies herself writing in my chart. Sebast
ian doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and watches me with a fierceness pouring from his eyes, as though all he wants is to kiss me right now.

  When the nurse leaves, I say, "Do you think they wonder where our wedding rings are?"

  "I'm sure they do, but maybe we're one of those progressive couples. Maybe we've got matching tattoos."

  "Or matching scars. Maybe we marked each other on purpose."

  "Yeah. You've left your mark on me, for sure."

  His words settle slowly and a flutter rises from my abdomen to my chest.

  "By the way," he says, grabbing a remote on the bed beside me, "you haven't seen the news yet, but…"

  He turns on the small television overhead and flips to the news. The anchor is interviewing someone at City Hall, but at the bottom of the screen, the news ticker scrolls with the text: Mayor Connolly announces he will not be seeking reelection amidst allegations of corruption and sexual misconduct. Five other city officials are under investigation, including the former chief of police, Ronald Sterling.

  "Connolly dropped out of the race. You tackled some big fish. Congratulations."

  I stare at the screen. It's all so surreal and before I can think of what to say, a sudden knock makes us both look up. Emily stands at the door, the distress on her face frays at the edges when she sees me.

  "Jesus freaking Christ, Amelia."

  She storms toward me.

  "I know," I say, lifting a hand to keep her from going off on me. I've been avoiding her for the past few days, trying to keep her out of this whole mess before the shit hit the fan. "I know. I'm sorry."

  Emily cuts in, "Imagine, a best friend who had to hear from her cop boyfriend that her best friend was attacked. Then her best friend alluded to a government conspiracy, and breaks into the mayor's home office to steal naughty photos. Then started avoiding phone calls. Again. I was this close to showing up at your place and barging through your front door."