by C. Luca
It’s all clear.
Just as planned, Bryce’s car is parked behind the building, hidden from sight by an old dumpster. At least one thing is going right, because everything else has gone to shit.
I hurry to the passenger door. After depositing Tessa into the seat, I slam the door closed and rush to the driver’s side.
I slide in, and the keys are right there in the ignition. After setting the gun aside, I quickly start the car’s engine. Gravel sprays as I make a tight turn around the dumpster and speed out of the lot. The tires beneath us squeal as I step on the gas while turning onto an abandoned street. It’ll lead us directly out of the industrial area.
I glance in the rearview mirror as I take a corner a little too sharply but keep the car under control. My fists tighten around the steering wheel, every muscle in my body still tense from the close call at the loft.
I’d prepared for everything, damn it. Just not for as many men as they’d brought. It pisses me off that they had one over us, something I should have considered.
No headlights are following us, but that doesn’t mean a damned thing. I won’t relax until I’m one hundred percent certain we’re not being followed. As I return my attention to the road before us, pain shoots through my back molars as I clench my jaw.
Beside me, Tessa is completely silent, probably still in shock from being ripped out of bed. She seems alert, and I hadn’t seen any blood on her, so I am thinking she made it out of the mess unscathed. If she hadn’t, I’m certain she would have let me know by now that she was hurt.
I glance in the rearview mirror once more. It’s early morning, but there are still some vehicles out in the city, but from what I can tell, they’re not following us. I think we’re good, but just in case, I’ll take plenty of detours to our next location.
I’m also aware that I have a bullet likely lodged between two of my ribs. There’s no exit wound that I can feel, and judging by the location of where the pain is radiating from, it’s definitely near a rib.
It’s a good thing I handle pain well. Physical pain has never compared to the sorrow buried deep within my chest. When you lose everything, physical pain becomes meaningless.
At least it has for me.
My shirt is wet and sticking to my side, but I’m not feeling any signs of blood loss. As long as I can get the bullet out and the wound stitched without losing too much, I think I’ll be fine.
Removing the bullet is going to be a fucking bitch considering the location.
Ten
Tessa
I’m still trembling, and I tuck my hands between my bare knees as Kane drives us through the dark, city streets. One minute I’m sleeping, and then the next, Kane’s carrying me and there’s gunfire surrounding us.
I draw in a deep breath before gradually exhaling—determined not to flip out over the close call. My heart is firmly doing its own thing though, and it’s thundering out of control within my chest. If it doesn’t slow soon, I’m worried I might have another hyperventilating attack or whatever it was that had happened back in the loft a few days earlier.
I’m certain the last thing Kane needs is me having a breakdown while he’s trying to drive. With that thought in mind, I try to focus on everything else other than my pulse pounding in my throat.
I’m currently wearing only a tank and the shorts I’d gone to bed in. I’d worn the shorts to prove to Kane that he was wrong about my aversion to them.
My feet are bare, and the rubber mat on the car floor has ridges that are digging into the bottom of my feet. Goosebumps have risen all along my flesh even though the inside of the car feels like a sweltering oven from the Phoenix heat.
Numbly, from the corner of my eye, I peer at Kane. In the passing streetlights, I can see his jaw is set and expression stony as he drives. He looks furious, and I don’t blame him. Obviously, things didn’t go according to plan, because I never expected to be in the middle of a shootout with my butt up in the air like a damned target.
If my own mind is going a mile a minute, I’m certain his is racing as he mentally goes over our next move. I don’t want to distract him by asking a bunch of questions—especially since he keeps checking the rearview mirror.
We’re not safe until he says we are.
Therefore, I remain silent, turning my attention out my window as he drives. I note that he seems to be taking random turns, likely losing any tails that could be following us. If I’ve learned anything about Kane, it’s that he’s very meticulous.
After what feels like hours but was likely mere minutes, we leave the city behind and begin entering urban areas. I’m not familiar with Phoenix, so I simply wait to see what our next destination will be. Kane had mentioned that we’d be staying in Phoenix, so I’m assuming we won’t have much further to go.
When we turn into a residential neighborhood filled with mobile homes, I’m taken aback. However, I’m careful not to say anything as Kane drives us throughout the narrow streets. There will be time later to ask the many questions that are building inside my mind.
I peer out my window, taking in the darkened mobile homes making up the huge neighborhood. Large trees are sporadically growing here and there, which must give the homes privacy and shelter from the relentless sun during the days. Of course, the trees just add to the darkness now that it’s dark, so it’s hard to truly make out anything, but I can at least see the outlines of the homes and trees.
The street winding its way throughout the neighborhood is paved, and the wheels of our vehicle are silent as we drive slowly, the headlights flashing along the other mobile homes.
Eventually, in the very back of the neighborhood, Kane pulls up into a short, gravel driveway located in front of one of the mobile homes.
Wait, is this our destination?
I look around, noting that there are homes located on either side of the one we’d just parked in front of, though not as close as the others in the neighborhood. The very back of the community seems to be less condensed and more rural.
Kane cuts the engine, and the headlights blink out.
Evidently, this is indeed our destination.
My eyes return to the mobile home as I study what I can of it in the darkness and shadows. It appears to be brown on the outside and situated a few feet off the ground. White, lattice fencing skirts along the bottom of the home, hiding the dark gap between the ground and the floor. Paved steps lead up to the front door, and from what I can see, there appears to be a kitchen window to the right of the door, and to the left, there’s a larger window, and then two smaller windows on the far end of the home.
I have nothing against mobile homes, but how is this supposed to be safe?
The entire point of the loft was to make it difficult for people to break in. Nevertheless, they did force their way inside, but wouldn’t a home like this be easy pickings for the professionals that came after us tonight?
“Let’s go,” Kane says, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans behind his back. He leans over and opens the glove compartment by my knees, plucking out a set of keys before turning and climbing out of the car.
I trust him, so I quickly scramble out after him.
Rocks dig into my bare feet, and I gingerly make my way across the short driveway as I follow him to the front steps. The crickets are extremely loud, and there doesn’t seem to be any lights on in the surrounding homes. I’m not even certain how late it is.
Kane leads the way up the stairs, and I feel gritty specks of dirt upon the cement beneath my feet as he opens the screen door. His entire body is tense as he pulls out his gun and uses his free hand to unlock the door.
He turns to me, and in the shadows, I can’t see his expression. “Stay put,” he orders.
I nod and remain on the steps as I watch him quietly open the door and slip inside the mobile home. The lights flicker on, and as I stand there on the top step, I patiently wait as he checks all the rooms inside.
My eyes flicker around the outside of
the home, taking in the many places that someone could be hiding. There’s a large pine tree close to the neighbor’s yard, and plenty of trees line the back of the neighborhood with the intention of separating it from another nearby community.
I highly doubt anyone followed us, but I still feel a chill trek down my spine. I’ll feel better once I’m inside with four walls protecting me.
Kane comes back a moment later, tucking the gun into his waistband. “Go on in, I’ll grab our things.”
For the first time, I note the dark wetness along the side of his black shirt. My eyes widen with sudden alarm. “Kane, are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” he says, brushing off my concern as he moves past me. “I’ll be right back.” He disappears down the steps, and I slowly enter the mobile home as I worry over him. Had Kane taken a bullet? Why hadn’t he said anything? I would think it would hurt terribly.
While I wait for him, I worry my bottom lip as I look around with a hint of uncertainty. This is an odd choice for a safe house.
The kitchen is to my right, and a neutral-colored linoleum covers the floor, and the walls are painted a light tan. A round, kitchen table is situated directly in the middle of the small dining room with two chairs. Along the back wall are oak cupboards, tan countertops, a white refrigerator and white stove. Everything looks immaculately clean.
To my left, is the living room. The floor is carpeted with brown Berber, and the walls are a creamy white. A long, multi-colored sofa of neutral colors rests against the back wall, directly across from the larger window—which happens to be covered with blinds. Actually, all the windows seem to have blinds.
A simple, coffee table rests a few feet in front of the sofa, and a dark brown armchair is situated in the corner of the room. Everything is simple with only the essentials for comfort.
I stand there awkwardly, waiting for Kane.
He eventually comes back inside carrying three duffel bags. I hurriedly walk over to take one of them, and we set them on the floor before he turns and locks the door.
“We need to see how bad your injury is,” I tell him immediately, my eyes drifting to his right side.
Now that I can study him better, the entire side of his shirt is wet, and I can see droplets of scarlet on his jeans. It looks like a lot of blood... My concern is really beginning to increase, but I do my best to hide it.
He looks at me dismissively. “I’ll be fine,” he says, his tone distracted.
I hate that he’s brushing me off, but I also know that it’s not personal. He’ll be this way until he’s absolutely certain that we’re safe—at least for the time being.
“I switched the license plate while I was out there.” He looks around, brows furrowing as they narrow on the blinds covering the windows—which happen to all be open. “Close all the blinds,” he orders.
I don’t want him moving around more than he needs to be, so I hurriedly close all the blinds in the kitchen and living room. Then, I head down the hall leading from the living room to the back of the home.
The first door I come to is the bathroom, and I flick on the light and move to the small window and close the blinds. The bathroom is pretty tiny, with just a toilet, a small counter, and a sink with a mirror attached to the wall above. Opposite the sink is the bathtub that has a cheerful yellow shower curtain pulled across it. The curtain is about the only burst of color in the room since the accent colors are all neutral.
I hurry out of the bathroom and enter the next room towards the end of the hall. After switching on the light, I see that it’s a bedroom. The full-size bed takes up most of the room, and I note the soft-looking comforter is a fern green. Next to the bed is a small, wooden nightstand with a round, white lamp. I move to the window along the left front wall and quickly close the blinds. As I leave the room, I note the closet doors along the opposite wall, only three feet from the bed. It’s weird moving about such a small place after the openness of the loft.
Not wanting to keep Kane waiting, I hurriedly enter the last bedroom opposite the hall. This one is bigger, with another full-size bed that has navy blue bedding. The room is quite similar to the last, and also has a nightstand but with a gray lamp. After closing the blinds, I quickly make my way back to the main room.
Kane has a small, black bag set out on the kitchen table, and he’s pulling out medical supplies. It dawns on me that he’s going to tend to his wound himself.
He glances at me. “I think we’ll be good, but just in case, I’ll keep watch. You can go back to sleep. The back room with the green is yours,” he informs.
I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Do you really think I’m going to be able to sleep after what happened?”
He sets aside the black bag. “You can try,” he suggests.
Instead, I nod at the medical items he’d set out. “Can I help?”
“I got it.”
“Suit yourself.” I pull out a chair at the table and sit down. I’m not leaving him until I know for certain that he’s going to be okay. What if he passes out or something?
One of his eyebrows quirks, but then he goes about using antiseptic wipes to clean all the tools. When he’s satisfied that they’re all clean, he sits down in a chair and strips off his shirt. He then tosses it to the nearby sink where it lands with a distinctly wet plop.
Oh my…
I’ve seen Kane with his shirt off, but not this close. The man is built. Guilt floods me when I realize I’m ogling his physique when he’s bleeding and likely in pain.
My attention shifts to the bullet hole high up on his right ribcage, just under his pectoral muscle. The wound is oozing blood, and I internally wince as my stomach turns over.
Wanting to avoid staring at the bullet wound, I jerk my eyes towards a four-inch scar crossing his left ribs, and then a smaller scar in the shape of a circle on his right shoulder. Is it from a bullet?
Damn it.
I’m ogling him again.
My eyes shift back to Kane’s face, and his expression is unreadable as he cleans the area around the wound. Then, he picks up a long, narrow forceps that looks a lot like tweezers. If he’s bothered that he has an audience, he doesn’t show it.
Honestly, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to watch this.
Kane’s jaw visibly clenches as he awkwardly tries to insert the tip of the tool into the wound. Because he can’t quite see what he’s doing, he’s finding it difficult.
“I can help,” I hear myself offer once more, even though I’m not sure I can handle it.
His attention remains on the wound that he can’t quite see but certainly feels. “It’s fine, I’m just going to need a mirror. Can you see if there’s one in the bathroom?”
“Kane, let me help.”
His hazel eyes lift to mine, and after a long moment, he curtly nods. “Clean your hands really well with a package of those wipes,” he says, nodding to a handful of sealed antiseptic wipes in small, square packages.
I rise from the chair and pick up a small package, tearing it open and cleaning my hands as thoroughly as I can. Then, I sit back down in my chair and scoot it closer to him, nerves fluttering in my belly. I want to help him, but there’s so much blood. Oh God, please don’t let me embarrass myself by puking or fainting.
He silently hands me the tweezers tool.
“You’re going to have to talk me through this,” I tell him, making certain to keep my voice steady. If he sees how uncertain I am, he’ll refuse my help. Kane doesn’t seem like the type who accepts help from others unless there’s no other option, so I really don’t want to ruin this moment.
“Just insert the pointy end and dig around until you feel the bullet,” he replies in a dry voice.
I give him a look letting him know exactly what I think of his instructions.
“Just do it,” he says brusquely.
Right.
He’s in pain, and my hesitating isn’t helping matters.
Carefully, I bring the tip of th
e tweezers to the oozing wound. It looks incredibly painful, and the last thing I want is to hurt him further.
“Christ, Tessa. Just dig around already,” he clips out with impatience.
I hold my breath and tentatively begin using the tips to gently poke around the wound.
Kane grunts but says nothing.
Thankfully, my stomach isn’t threatening to rebel, but I do feel a little queasy. I ignore it, noting the feel of bone from his ribs before I move around just a little more until I feel metal against metal. I’m anxious to get this over for him, but I don’t want to cause further pain.
I bite my lip and try to clasp the bullet between the tips of the tool as blood continues to leak from the wound.
Kane hisses under his breath.
“Almost there,” I murmur, feeling the bullet dislodge just a smidge. With another gentle twist of my hand, it comes loose, and I pull it out. “Got it!” I announce almost triumphantly.
Kane quickly leans across the table and grabs a handful of gauze, pressing it against the wound to catch the blood flow. “Good work.”
With his free hand, he pulls close a small, metal kit, opening it. It’s a kit for suturing. He begins pulling out a package of curved needles, another long tweezers but smaller than the one I’d just used, packaged sutures, and a pair of odd looking scissors.
I set the bullet and tweezers down, relieved that I hadn’t gotten sick. “If you can talk me through the stitching, I can do that for you as well,” I offer.
He glances at me and studies my face. “You sure? You’re looking a bit pale.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Considering what’s happened in the last thirty minutes, anyone would be looking rough around the edges.”
His lips curve into a rare almost-smile. “True.” He nods at the kit. “Have at it. Don’t touch the sutures, they come sterilized.” He glances at the weird looking scissors. “That there is the needle driver, it holds the needle while you insert it through the tissue,” he explains.
I listen intently as he directs me to use the driver to carefully pick up the needle, making certain the needle clamp locks into place.