Another Chance at Love (Another Series Book 1)

by Suzanne Sweeney

  “Hey there, Kitten.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty. Could I have some water, please?”

  He hurries over to fill a cup with some ice-cold water sitting in a nearby pitcher.

  “How long was I asleep?” I ask.

  “About eight hours,” my father tells me. “You’ve had quite an ordeal. The doctor thought it would be best to let you sleep for a while.”

  The magnitude of my situation slowly sinks in. I’m in a hospital with a broken arm and God knows what else. Every muscle hurts more or less. Even the hair on my head hurts. “I feel weird, like my skin is crawling. What’s wrong with me?”

  “It’s the pain medication, sweetie. The doctor told us you might experience some skin sensitivity. I’ll go get a nurse.” My mother rushes out of the room. She loves to be helpful, bless her heart.

  My father looks at me with a sadness I’ve never seen before. “Does it hurt much?” he asks.

  “My arm? No, I can’t feel it at all, actually.”

  “Not your arm, Kitten.” He sighs. “Your face.”

  I reach up to see if I can figure out what he’s talking about. The first thing I notice are my lips, or at least my bottom lip. It’s swollen and I when I run my tongue across, I find a cut. He busted my lip open. I run my finger across it and quickly discern that there’s no stitches. I guess this is what the doctor meant when he said it could have been worse.

  And I quickly discover that my cheek is tender. I look up at my father.

  “Black eye,” he confirms. “If you feel up to it, there’s someone who’s been waiting all day to see you. Would it be okay if I send him in?”

  “Oh, my God! Yes! Please!” Dad steps out and when the door opens, I call his name, the name of the only person I want to see right now. The only person who can make this pain go away. “Cole?”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Philip walks in. He looks haunted and exhausted. “Mind if I come in?”

  “You look like shit,” I tell him. His shirt is wrinkled and there are bags under his eyes. “I know why I look like this, but what’s your excuse?”

  “You don’t know?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’ve kinda been out of it for a while.”

  He nods. “I noticed.” He sits down on the edge of my bed and asks, “What do you remember?”

  “Honestly, Philly, not much. Paul was there, in my house. He had a gun and he shot it at me. The rest is mostly a blur. Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Where is he? Please tell me they got him and threw his ass back in jail.”

  He takes a deep breath before answering. “You don’t have to worry about him ever again, Kenny. Never again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Something is terribly wrong. “Where is he, Philip? And why isn’t Cole here? He must be worried sick.”

  Philip stares at me for the longest time. He won’t answer me. But it’s such a simple question I’ve asked him. That must mean that the answer is anything but simple.

  “It’s her concussion,” Mom tells him, placing her hands on his shoulders for support and comfort, I think. “She doesn’t remember.” This is so confusing. Why does he need to be comforted? And where the hell is Cole?

  He turns to Dad. “Where do I start?”

  “From the beginning, son. Start from the beginning.”

  Mom comes over and pushes a few buttons on a controller attached to the bed. Slowly, the bed rises so I can sit up a little. It feels better being eye level with everyone instead of them looking down on me. It made me feel small and insignificant.

  Once she fluffs my pillow and fills my water cup, she and Dad sit back down in the corner of the room, leaving my brother to explain.

  “I was so pissed at you when I left your house this morning. You are so stubborn. I never should have left you there. Alone. I knew better and I’ll never forgive myself. But since there didn’t seem like there was much I could do aside from kidnapping you, I made sure you locked the door and I drove straight to McGuire’s townhouse to check out the security system he was having installed. I was surprised to find him there when I arrived.”

  “Cole was there? I thought he had practice.”

  “Me, too. But apparently Adam called him over to look over some paperwork and that’s when I showed up.”

  I listen quietly, not saying much, just trying to take it all in and understand where this is going and what this has to do with Paul. My mind is still a little hazy, but I follow along as best I can.

  “Adam is showing us around, pointing out all the cameras and such when my phone rings. Do you remember calling me?”

  I search the recesses of my mind. I shake my head. “I called you?”

  “You did. And it scared the hell out of me. You and that piece of shit were going at it pretty hard. You have some mouth on you.”

  Bits and pieces of it come back to me. And I smile. I remember fighting back and giving him everything I had. I wish I could have done more. “Thank you.”

  “I should have stopped him, Kenny. It’s all my fault. I knew he was only going to get in the way, but I didn’t do anything. He just . . . when he got the gun and followed me out the door . . . I should have stopped him.”

  “Who followed you, Phil? Who had a gun?”

  “Cole. I took one look at him and I knew he wasn’t going to stay put. I figured it would be better if I took him with me and maybe I could keep an eye on him. The last thing I needed was for him to show up in his God damn pickup truck and rush the place like a frigging cowboy.”

  “Wait. You were there?”

  He nods.

  “And Cole?”

  Again, he nods.

  “What happened, Phil? Tell me right now what happened!” An avalanche of pain overwhelms me. More memories come flooding back. Gunshots. And blood. So much blood.

  “I told him to stay outside and wait for me, but he just wouldn’t listen. I entered through the back and he ran around the front. He got to you first. But that son of a bitch got Cole to lower his weapon. It all happened so fast. If I hadn’t slipped, I could have stopped him. But that one small thing, that’s all it took for everything to change. I spooked him and he shot. Then I shot, three times I think. Maybe more. They are still processing the scene. He’s dead, Kenny. I killed him. His eyes well up. “I killed him.”

  I begin to feel dizzy. There’s a terrible ringing in my ears and my vision begins to narrow. Philip is still talking, but I can’t her what he’s saying.

  My mother rushes to my side and forces me to drink some cold water. It helps, but not by much.

  “Who did you shoot, Philip? You tell me right now, God damn it. Who did you shoot?”

  He looks pale. Whatever happened there has him shaken to his core.

  “Two shots hit Paul. They were kill shots – he died instantly. I don’t know . . . I can’t be sure . . .”

  “Paul is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to Cole, Philip? Where is he?”

  “He got shot. At close range. Right to the chest. It’s all my fault. He didn’t belong there. I knew it, but I did nothing to stop him. I could have done more. I could have done more.”

  He bends down and lowers his face into his hands. He’s crying. My big brother is crying. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I let his words roll around inside my head a few times.

  He got shot. Close range. Right to the chest.

  He got shot. Close range. Right to the chest.

  He got shot. Close range. Right to the chest.

  It was his blood. Cole’s blood. I remember now. It was all over me. He was there!

  “Where is he, Philip? Where is Cole?” The pain is too much. How will I live without him? I don’t want to spend one single day without him.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He turns and asks, “Mom?”

  Slowly she stands and walks over to the
bed. She grabs a hold of my hands and looks at me. She’s been crying. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Her eyes are all red and swollen. She gently touches my face and wipes away a tear.

  “Can I see him, Mom? I have to see for myself.”

  “He’s in bad shape, dear. The surgery took almost four hours.”

  “Surgery?!” I scream out. “You mean he’s . . . alive?”

  “Last time I checked, yes. It was touch and go for a little bit there, but once they found the bullet and stopped the bleeding, the doctors became much more optimistic.”

  Philip takes a deep breath. “They removed one bullet. Forensics is in possession. They are still trying to determine whose firearm discharged the shot.”

  That’s when it all comes crashing down on me. I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. It’s too damn much. I surrender to the overwhelming emotions that I cannot contain, weeping huge gut-wrenching sobs, finally letting my tears flow unrestrained. I bawl into my hands as the sound of my wails echo off the tile floors. Booming through the darkness of my own private hell, I hear a voice.

  Philip is holding me, rocking me back and forth. “It’s not your fault.”

  I bury my face into his neck. I echo his words, “It’s not your fault,” right back to him.

  What a pair we make!

  Slowly, the tears subside. And when they do, my mother is there with a big box of tissues. For all three of us.

  “Take me to him,” I demand. “I have to see him. I just have to. Please.” I turn to my father. “Daddy, please. I won’t stay long. I’ll get right back in bed. I just want to see him.”

  He nods.

  My mother gets up, ready to put a stop to this, but he holds up his hand stopping her. And possibly, for the first time ever, my mother doesn’t argue.

  Swift as an arrow, my father is at my side with a wheelchair and a blanket. I try to move, but every muscle hurts. My brother slips one hand under my legs and the other around my back and gently lifts me up and into the wheelchair. I grab the I.V. pole, Dad covers me with the thin hospital blanket, and off we go.

  My father hits the buttons on the elevator. He’s only two floors up from me, but it feels like the longest elevator ride of my life. The doors slide open and the first thing I see is the giant sign that reads, “Intensive Care.”

  I look up at my father. He pushes a large silver button on the wall, opening up the doors so we can enter. Dad talks to one of the nurses at the station. She nods and points to one of the rooms. I look around. There are only five or six rooms, and they are arranged in a semi-circle with the nurses’ desk in the middle. Every room has a glass wall and a glass door so that the staff can keep a close eye on their patients.

  “He’s not awake right now and you can’t go in.” He wheels me over. “This is the closest we’re going to get for now.” I touch the glass pane that separates us.

  He’s alone. I want to be with him. I want to hold his hand and tell him it’s going to be okay. He just lies there, listless. If it wasn’t for the beeping machine showing the slow and steady beat of his heart, I’d think he wasn’t breathing. There are countless tubes and machines connected to him. And he’s so pale. His normally sun-kissed golden skin in gaunt and ashen.

  His strong and steady body is broken and vulnerable.

  A nurse comes over and asks, “Are you Kensington?”

  She surprises me. “Yes, I am,” I answer.

  “I thought so.” She smiles. “He was asking for you. When he woke up, you were the first thing he asked for. He’s under some pretty strong narcotics right now, so he’ll probably sleep through the night. If all goes well, he’ll be transferred to a room first thing in the morning. You’ll be able to sit with him then.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “He has a broken rib, and he’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s very lucky. Half an inch in either direction and the bullet would have penetrated his lungs, his heart, or a major artery.”

  The nurse excuses herself and slips into his room to check on him.

  I look up at my father and tell him, “I love him so much, Daddy.”

  He looks down at me and smiles, “I know you do, Kitten.”

  CHAPTER 40

  EVERY TIME I TRY TO SURFACE, THE NOTHING PULLS ME BACK UNDER. It’s black and heavy and settled deep within my bones. I try to swim to the top a few times, to break the surrounding darkness enveloping me, but whenever my fingertips breach the edge, the nothing swallows me back down.

  My first thoughts are murky, as though I’ve just woken up from my worst night of drinking, making even the simplest thoughts difficult to wade through.

  Something is beeping. It won’t stop. And the lights are so bright.

  Is this hell?

  No, if this were hell I’d be wearing a Red Sox uniform.

  Red Sox. Red blood. My blood. Her blood. Fuck. Where is she?

  Someone is here with me. It takes so much effort, but I manage to push out her name. “Kensington?”

  “Hey there, sleepy head. You just got out of surgery. You did great. Are you looking for someone?”

  I nod my head.

  “Is her name Kensington?” she repeats slowly.

  I nod my head again.

  “She’s not here right now, sweetie. She’ll be here soon. Try to relax. Close your eyes and rest. I’ll make sure she’s here when you wake up.”

  I try to fight, but it’s no use. The darkness beckons. It draws me in and delivers me back into oblivion.

  There’s more voices this time. Don’t they know that I’m trying to sleep? I listen carefully, trying to identify them. One of the voices is petting my head. Something is wrong. Slowly I open my eyes. She’s crying. I open my eyes.

  “Mom?” I whisper.

  Great. I’ve upset her. She’s crying harder now.

  It’s hard to focus. I’m so tired. “I just want to . . .” Where am I? What’s going on?

  She brushes the hair off my face. “You just want to what sweetheart?”

  “Sleep.” I don’t want to be here, in this place. Everything hurts. And my head is so heavy.

  I hear his voice somewhere – my father. I turn to find him standing there, pulling on my blanket. He’s unshaven. He’s never forgotten to shave. And the hair around his face is . . . what’s that color? Oh, yeah – gray. “You got old.”

  His eyes look sad. “That would be all your fault, young man.”

  I try to move. I should sit up. I’m being rude but it hurts too much. “What happened?”

  And why aren’t they home in Maine? Wait, am I in Maine? How did I get here?

  Dad explains. I listen to his words, but the more I listen, the more I think he can’t be talking about me. He must be talking about someone else. But who?

  “You’ve been shot in the chest. The bullet broke your rib and caused a lot of bleeding. But the doctors were able to repair the damage and you should be good as new in no time.”

  I’ve been shot? He’s serious! I hate feeling this stoned. I try to take a deep breath and it burns deep inside my chest. I remember now.

  I have been shot.

  Memories come crashing into me now, one after another. Kensington. She was so still, so lifeless.

  I need to see her. I need to find her. Now!

  Suddenly, there’s a flurry of activity all around me. Something. Is. Happening. The beeping is too loud. The lights are too bright. It’s hard to take a deep breath.

  A voice I don’t recognize floats in the air above me. “I’m going to need you to calm down, Mr. McGuire. Can you do that for me, Cole? Can you try to relax?”

  “Where is she? I need to see her.”

  “If I go get her, will you promise to calm down?”

  Liar. If she could be here, she would be here already. I try to pull at the wires that tie me to this God-forsaken place, but they are all tangled. And why is my ass so fucking cold?

  “Okay, that’s enough,” she grunts.

  I look up at this wo
man. She and her oddly strong man-hands are pushing me back down, forcing me to lie back on the bed.

  This useless nurse who is now hovering over me and fussing over me has got to get away from me. I try to read her nametag, but there’s too many letters. R-O-O-S-S-S-E-E-E-M-A-A-R-R-R-I-I-E-E. What kind of fucking name is that? Why is she giving me a shot? She has no right to do that.

  I open my mouth to argue, but no words come out. I reach up to grab her, but my arms won’t obey. I kick off the sheets, trying desperately to get someone’s attention, but something heavy is weighing me down. There are shadows that grow larger and larger until everything is cloaked in darkness. Finally, the voices quiet.

  Nothing matters. Nothing matt . . .

  I feel pressure on my arm as a blood pressure cuff squeezes tightly. There are words and voices in the room with me. I try to listen and sort it all out. There’s a rhythmic beeping sound of medical equipment. God, it’s annoying. None of the voices sound familiar. And none of them are talking to me. Maybe I’m not really here.

  There’s a strong man’s voice that breaks through. It’s my father, I think. He’s talking to a doctor and they’re talking about me. I listen more carefully this time, hoping some of the pieces will begin to fit together so I can sort out this puzzle. Why isn’t anyone talking to me?

  I open my eyes and see that Evan is here, too. Maybe I’m watching T.V. Yes, that makes sense. At least it does until he sees me watching and comes rushing over, asking me questions. I think I’m supposed to answer him. He keeps yapping at me and making strange motions with his hands in front of my eyes.

  I’m not blind, I can see you. Asshole.

  More voices join in, urging me to answer them. My mother is here. And she’s crying again. I’m not ready for this. It’s too much. This time, when oblivion returns, I welcome it.

  Soft, reassuring voices return yet again, waking me, urging me to talk. What is it with these people? Why do they all want to talk to me all of a sudden?

  “Cole, Kensington is here. She came to see you today. Do you think you’re ready to talk to her?”

  I open my eyes and look at her face. She’s been crying. A lot. She’s sad. She knows I can see her. I watch as she takes my hand and kisses it. But I cannot feel her lips, her soft beautiful lips. I feel nothing.