Gillian stands up. “Let’s just go. Take whatever flights out are next.”
I look at my wife’s tortured face and the anger within simmers deep, curling and curving around my ribs, up my chest to awaken a monster I haven’t met yet. That motherfucker did this to get to my wife. He will pay for every inch of pain he has caused Gillian and her friends. I’ll see to it, or die trying.
We find out that the private jet we took here can be ready within the hour. Gillian and I go to our room. When we get there she gasps. Hanging directly over our bed is the trinity tapestry she purchased from the little old lady she met and incidentally attended our wedding unannounced. My wife walks over to the large tapestry and fingers the fabric. “It’s perfect.”
“It is, and we’ll come back and enjoy it very soon. I promise you. This is our home away from home. We can bring all your friends here to vacation together. Just as soon as this is over. And it will be over soon.” I place my hand on her shoulder as she stares at the intricate design. On a sob she twirls around and cowers into my chest, her shoulders heaving with her grief.
“I wasn’t there. If I was there, maybe he would have gone for me and not them.” She cries out as if she is in physical pain. Sometimes the emotional strain is far more painful than the physical. I know that all too well after spending years seeing my mother beat to a bloody pulp until my father took his hand to me.
I shake my head and pet her hair. “Baby, no. This man is sick. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to strike wherever he wants to strike. There is no possible way to know what he’s going to do next, but we’re working with the FBI and the San Francisco PD. I’m certain when they go through this fire investigation, they’ll come up with something. A lead. In the meantime we’re working on a plan. Okay? Let’s just focus on getting home and checking on the girls.”
Gillian nods sniffing loudly, her tears running so quickly down her cheeks it’s as if they were two identical waterfalls. I hand her the handkerchief in my pocket and she wipes her nose noisily against it. Then she sucks in a long, slow breath bringing her body back in control and pushing her emotions to the wayside. It’s amazing to watch how she slowly puts herself back together. With effort, she straightens her spine, breaths deep, clears her throat and tilts her head. “Okay, let’s go.”
We gather up a change of clothes, our phones, which had been off and left on the nightstand, and are now are flaring with a large numbers of notifications. It’s as if each ding is another spike into Gillian’s bleeding heart. It’s going to take mammoth effort to keep her together.
Soon we’ve said our goodbyes to Colin and Rebecca with our apologies and promise to return soon.
* * *
The plane touches down in SFO International after an eleven-hour flight. That did not include the drive to the airport, getting through the airport, and the taxiing time. Overall, the trip has been a good sixteen hours, and I for one am drained. Gillian finally fell asleep after taking a couple sleeping pills. I stayed up most of the flight working with Jack and the additional guards on a plan. We’ll need to talk to Agent Brennen and Thomas Redding, but we think it’s a good one. None of us can continue to live like this. Always on edge, waiting for the next person to get hurt. McBride is too intelligent. He seems to be a step ahead of the team. Our plan, however, is designed to draw him out of the shadows. The three of us agree that it’s foolproof. It has to work. No more waiting. This time next week McBride will be ours.
Jack drops us in front of San Francisco General Hospital, a building I now know all too well. It’s sickening that I’ve been to this hospital more in the past year than I’ve been to a grocery store or a library. I know too many of the hospital staff by first name, and it fills me with a sour seed that’s setting roots in my gut.
Gillian rushes to Intensive Care not even needing to look at the directory or the signs. She also knows this place well.
When the elevator doors open, we can see a crowd of people at the end of the hall, the easiest to recognize is the six-months, pregnant woman who’s pacing the floor, hand to her lower back. Carson, Phillip, and Thomas are sitting in a line of chairs opposite her pacing. It’s as if time stops when she looks up. Her pretty face with the big, blue eyes and soft features seems to disintegrate into a massive ball of devastation. Gillian runs to her, pulls her into her arms and holds her close.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she cries into Bree’s neck.
Bree’s long, blond waves cover them like a shroud. She speaks softly to my wife, their foreheads pressed together. Both of them cry, hug, and hold one another for long minutes.
“When can I see them?”
Bree shakes her head. “They haven’t let any of us see either of them but supposedly they’ll let us see Maria very soon.”
“Excuse me?” I ask my voice a heavy timber in the otherwise quiet space.
Bree sniffs and pushes her hair back. “They aren’t telling us anything about Kat, but I guilted one of the nurses, who’s a client of mine. They said we couldn’t see her because of something about her being too serious and the potential for contamination. All we know is that she’s stable, for now, but she’s undergoing serious burn treatment.” The tears rush down Bree’s face and she hiccups.
“They said…they said…she was going to need a lot of surgeries to repair the damage to her arm and that she may not…” she chokes and Phillip stands next to her holding her in his arms, running a soothing hand up and down her back. He calms her down enough that she can finish. Gillian locks her arms around me. “They said, she may not ever be able to use that arm again. She’s going to have severe nerve damage and the scarring…” She shakes her head. “Please God let her be okay,” Bree crumbles into a fit of sobs as Phillip holds her, leads her to a chair, and scoops her into his lap.
With as much patience as I can, I take hold of my girl and maneuver Gillian into a seat, lock my arm around her shoulder then keep her pressed into my side where she belongs. She leans heavily against me and silently lets the tears fall.
Across from Gillian, I lock eyes with Carson. He looks shattered, half-dead, and from what I gather, hasn’t been able to see his woman. The turmoil pumping off him is thick and ripe with fury. I nod in his direction, and he shakes his head. His position, those blue eyes devoid of anything, speak for him. He might as well have a sign around his neck that says, “Back off.” I won’t approach, not right now. Now we wait.
After an hour of sitting Dr. Dutera enters the waiting room. Man this guy has had far too much time with our group of friends. His eyes widen when he sees Gillian and me.
“Thought this group was familiar.” The doctor grumbles.
“Need an update. How are Maria De La Torre and Kathleen Bennett?” I ask.
The doctor frowns. “Mr. Davis, you are not direct kin of either of these women.”
“No, but I’m listed as the direct medical contact for both of them as Kathleen’s parents are separated and live in other states, which obviously...” Gillian makes a point to look around the room with her hands out wide before continuing. “...they haven’t been contacted. Maria doesn’t have any family but me,” she continues.
The doctor’s eyes assess the validity of her statement, and he must believe it because he finally gives us the run down.
“Ms. De La Torre has been moved to a regular room. She was treated for slight carbon monoxide poisoning and several surface wounds on her abdomen and feet.”
“Her feet?” I ask.
“Apparently she kicked at some wooden beams and glass with bare feet to get your friend out,” the doctor confirms. Now that, I believe. That Italian-Spanish fireball would do anything to save her friends.
Then Dr. Dutera’s look turns somber, and I know he’s about to give us bad news. “Ms. Bennett didn’t fare as well. She’s being treated for severe smoke inhalation, a collapsed lung, and third degree burns over her left arm, side of her neck, and down her left side ribcage. All layers of the skin in those areas hav
e been destroyed. The damage extends into the subcutaneous tissues and she’ll need grafting in order to heal. Right now we’ve managed the lung, gotten her stable and are dealing with the poisoning. She is on one hundred percent oxygen, is heavily sedated and will undergo many rounds of hyperbaric oxygen therapy until her levels have come back to something resembling normal. She is not out of the woods. We will take her prognosis one day at a time.”
“Can we see her?” Gillian looks at Carson and waves him over. She clasps his hand. “This is her boyfriend and we’re her best friends,” she loops her arm around Bree’s waist. “We have to see her with our own eyes. Make sure she’s okay.”
Dr. Dutera lets out a pained noise and a loud breath. “We’ll take each of you one at a time.” As much as I can tell Gillian wants to go first, she allows Carson the honor.
I pull her into my side. “That took a lot for you to let Carson go first, baby. I’m sure he appreciates it.” She nods into my side and holds on. The tears are over, but they are close enough to the surface that anything, even the wind blowing the wrong way could bring them on again.
Daniel
Not dead. Of course those stupid little bitches would survive. Luck is a cold-hearted bitch and I’ve fucked her too many times to catch a break. Doesn’t matter though. The dancer and the hippie being unconscious up in the hospital brings the one thing I need back into my sights.
Gillian.
I watch with extreme pleasure as she enters the hospital. Felt like for-fucking-ever. She must have been really far away to take most of a full day to arrive. I wonder where the bastard took her. As far as I could tell from the security logs, they were only gone three days.
Using the same path I took the last time I was here, I weave through the hospital staff, my scrubs in place, a cap, a pair of fake glasses, and a stethoscope I got at a pawn shop around my neck. This getup works so well I could just as easily be invisible.
Making my way to the Intensive Care Unit, I take precautions to move at a smooth interval until I can see the group. One bright star of shiny, red hair is present amongst them. Fuck she’s beautiful. My body gravitates toward her. I need to be closer.
I’ve investigated every inch of this floor, and I know that near where they are is a supply closet. I head straight there, open the door and enter without anyone really noticing. Keeping the room dark, I prop open the door just a half-inch so that I can hear what they’re saying, but mostly so I can see her. If I could only take hold of her arm, feel her smooth skin along the palm of my hand, the rage within would simmer to a more bearable level. Right now, I can hardly control the intensity, the need to get to her, take her, claim her for my own.
As I watch, I bite down on my lip disgusted by how he’s holding my girl close, rubbing her shoulder. It should be me comforting her. Only me. Forever me.
That pregnant cunt sits near my girl and Gillian lays a hand on her belly. Her engagement ring to the fucker is still there, sparkling so bright I swear the thing is burning a fucking hole into my retina. Piece of shit. Had to buy her a showy ass, diamond ring, one that when she swelled up from the heat, I couldn’t rip it off her finger. I got his necklace though. I took that symbol, ran a chain around it and put it around my own neck. His failure, my gain. With my thumb and forefinger, I bring it out and rub it between the pads of my fingertips. It was on her, so I feel close to her when wearing it, but I know he gave it to her. Just the look in her eyes was enough when I touched it that first day she woke up in the storm cellar.
Gillian makes a surprised face and squeals in delight. “Baby, feel this,” she grabs Chase’s left hand and places it on the fat cunt’s stomach. He moves his hand into the right spot, and that’s when I notice it.
The room I’m in seems to get darker, my vision zeroing in on a small point on Chase’s hand. Sweat trickles around the hair at my nape and slides down the center of my back. As I look, it becomes clearer.
No! Fucking no! I want to scream. I want to take out a gun and shoot every last one of them. I grit my teeth together and pull my fists into my sides.
Feel it, Daniel. Let this feeling consume you, because when you have her back, she is going to pay dearly. She made the ultimate betrayal.
I can’t stop staring. As Chase moves his hand, the tiny diamonds sparkle against the light like little icepicks being driven into my eyes.
Gillian’s hand comes up to Chase’s face and she leans in, pressing her nose against his and kisses him. Holds her mouth to his, her hand splayed along his cheek proving my worst nightmare in living color. A wedding band has been added to her engagement ring. Sitting on Chase’s finger is his own wedding band. The need to vomit is extreme but I push it down, way down to where that rage is being contained…barely.
She married him.
Left me here in San Francisco to rot, went away and married that rich fucker. How could she do that? I wanted to give her everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.
He had to have made her do it. Had to. Drugged her, used her, promised her money and fame. With every ounce of control, I stand and watch them. Even during this horrible time, they still find ways to touch one another, smile, kiss. Disgusting pig.
It’s not possible that she’s happy with him. He’s got her brainwashed. Made her believe that he was the one she was supposed to be with when all along it was me. Me, that perfect girl was supposed to marry. Me, that she was supposed to be with until the end of time, not some Matt Bomer look alike, suit-wearing, snob, who uses money and power to emasculate people, and manipulate them into believing they are important. That’s what he’s doing to my princess. He’s manipulated her into believing he’s the one.
Fuck! She’s so far gone she’s now willingly drinking the Kool-Aid. It’s going to take years to get her through this bastard’s twisted influence. But I’ll do it. No matter how long it takes to bring her mind back to who she truly loves. The one who will always be there for her.
I love her. She loves me. End of story.
Now I just have to find a way to make her mine.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gillian
Something ruffles the hair alongside my temple. A scratchy material presses into the sensitive skin of my cheek as I blink open my eyes, staring into the sky, a clouded, grey blue expanse that I know well.
“Cara Bonita, what will Chase think when he finds out we’ve slept together?” she asks, her voice a hoarse, gravelly sound, one that reminds me of the times we’ve woken after a night screaming and cheering for a band we saw the night before.
I blink carefully and look at her. Just look at her. Even having undergone a traumatic experience, two full nights in a hospital, and carbon monoxide poisoning, she’s still incredibly beautiful; her face the picture of serenity.
Her fingers smooth through the hair at my scalp, the same way she’s done a million times before, soothing me even though she’s the one lying in the hospital bed. I smile remembering her quip, and as the tears fall, I lift up from where I was hunched over her bed asleep and curve my head toward the man sleeping curled up in a chair, one far too small for his large frame and respond, “He’ll say it was an exceptional experience sleeping with two women.”
Maria laughs but the jovial full sounds are not there, instead replaced with a wheezing, painful cough. She sits up and then groans clutching at her abdomen. I try to help settle her in a seated position, fluffing her pillows, tucking the blanket into her sides.
Once she seems comfortable, she holds my hand and tugs me to sit on the side of the bed next to her hip. “I tried, Gigi. I tried to get to her faster.” Tears fill her icy gaze making her eyes a darker blue. “Tell me, did she make it?”
I swallow and bring her hand to my face, nodding expeditiously. “She did, but she’s hurt bad. We won’t know her true condition for another few days the doctor said.”
Maria’s jaw tightens and her features turn hard. She’s turning on the façade. I’ve seen it before and I hate it. Hate that she feels she has to gua
rd her emotions, her heart.
“Not with me.” I cup her cheek and slide my thumb over her brow. “No hiding from me.” The mask drops, her lips tremble, and the tears finally fall.
“I should have tried harder. Should have thought to go to her room sooner. Then there were these boards nailed into the window pane and I kicked and kicked,” her raspy voice gets worse, so I place my fingers over her lips.
Shaking my head, I stop her from hurting herself. “No, you saved her, Maria. You. She would have died had it not been for you!” I say the words with as much sincerity and force as I can muster in this small room, trying to be quiet, trying to keep our conversation private.
Maria brings her hand up to mine, the one cupping her cheek, and rubs into it like a cat would. “We’re going to take care of her. Whatever happens…we take care of nuestra familia.” Our family. Her eyes close and soon she’s fallen back asleep, the drugs pumping steadily through her.
I stand at the side of her bed, lean both arms on the edge and that’s when it happens. My shoulders shake, my spine curving down, and I fall to my knees. It’s too much. Every pore in me seems to feel pain, bone crushing, gut-wrenching, soul-aching pain. And it doesn’t stop. I clutch at my knees and let the tears overwhelm me. The room goes black and I go back to that place.
I’m curled into a fetal position as he stands over me. He kicks at my ribs again. The pain ricochets from my ribs, through my chest and out each nerve ending. I scream in pain, clutching at my abdomen trying to protect our child.
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