I do. I’ve been shown and taught how to shoot since I was fourteen. I hated it. I never thought I’d be in a position where I’d need a gun, but it was another element of protection that I was wrapped in. My eyes close and for a moment, I’m torn. But Carter doesn’t have moments. He needs help now and nobody is coming.
My thumb presses down on the safety and my palm pulls back on the slide to chamber the bullet. I wrap my finger around the trigger and look up to see my father still standing. Still waiting. When I raise the gun this time, the tremor isn’t just in my hands, but my whole body shakes.
“You’ll never be able to shoot me. This is your last chance, Sofia. Get up and—”
The recoil is bigger than expected and it jolts my body. It all happens in a second. My eyes lift up to see if I missed, but I already know I didn’t. Men come running and surround my father, one of them with a gun trained on me. We stay locked in each other’s gaze, his hand putting pressure to his right ear. It was just a graze. A warning shot. At least, that’s what I repeat to myself because a few centimetres and he wouldn’t be standing.
"Try it," I grit, flicking my face to the other man aiming at me, and then back to my father.
They all start pulling on him to get him out of the door, but all I can see is the shock on his face turning to full on hatred, rage even. Still, I refuse to budge or even give an inch in this matter. He needs to leave, to go and never come back. If I have to, I'll shoot him again to prove my point and make it count more than I have.
Finally, he lets them move him away from us, and my sigh is audible as I sag in relief. I toss the gun away and return to Carter, desperate to get him some help.
I pat down his pockets, looking for the kit he carried with his insulin shot but it’s not on him. My eyes roam the floor in case it fell out in the fight, but I’m not so lucky. The only thing I find is his phone.
I fumble with it and dial 911 as fast as my fingers will allow.
“Ambulance. I need an ambulance. Please. He’s a diabetic, and he’s been in a fight…” I rush the words out as soon as I’m connected.
“Ma’am, can you give us your location?”
“At the docks somewhere. In Miami. Hurry, he’s not breathing.”
“Stay on the line. We’ll need to trace the location of your call. Can you perform CPR? The ambulance is on route.”
“Yes…” I throw the phone to the ground and look at Carter’s chest. I visualise the position and start to press down on his chest. Although, I know what he needs is sugar. Something. I stop and check for a pulse. It’s faint, but there’s something.
“Help’s on the way. Carter, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just hold on, okay? I won’t let you die because of me.” I squeeze his hand before I look around the warehouse again.
I look down at Carter and inch my hand out to hold his bloodied knuckle. A low gurgle comes from Carter’s throat as if he’s attempting to suck in air. He needs sugar. This isn’t just the beating; this is his diabetes.
“Help is coming. Please, just hold on. I’ll be right back. I promise.” I pick up the phone and check the line is still connected before rushing to the door. I pause and peer through to check if Dad really has fled or is waiting for me, but there’s no one around. We’re alone. Against my better judgement, I take a guarded step from the building and listen. No shadow, no hand reaching out to grab me. My cautious behaviour frustrates me because Carter doesn’t have time for it.
There’s a bunch of other, smaller warehouses in sight as I exit. My legs race off in the direction of the closest one, hoping that there might be someone else who could help. A medical box, a chocolate bar. “Help me! Somebody!” My screams carry ahead of me, hopefully alerting somebody to my situation, but there’s nobody—nothing to see. I turn the corner around one building and run straight into a vending machine. Rows and rows of snacks and drinks look out at me, taunting me. I barge into the thing hoping to dislodge something, but they all just wobble in their tidy homes.
Helplessness weighs me down as I think of a plan, but it’s taking too long. It’s been too long. Every second I’m away from Carter, he’s struggling to stay alive. I need to keep him that way. I take a step back from the machine, raise my knee and smash my foot into the glass. My foot splinters the protective housing, and I stumble through the remains of the glass and the metal edging. I grab the first bottle of soda I can and then sprint back to Carter, ignoring the pain in my calf.
“Here. Here.” I skid to a halt next to him, drop the phone and open the bottle, lifting his head so I can pour some liquid down his throat. I have no idea if it will help, but it’s got to do something.
I repeat the action, forcing his mouth open, pouring some liquid and closing his lips to force the sugary medicine into his body.
Finally, I hear the siren of an ambulance. The sobs I tried to bury a few moments ago break free now that I can hear that help is coming. I don’t have the strength to stop them. Carter’s head rests in my lap, and I pray he can hold on long enough.
The whine of the sirens continues until they are right outside and two EMTs come running towards us.
I pocket the phone and step away from Carter’s body, giving them room to work. “He’s a diabetic,” I sputter to the first guy.
“Type?”
“Oh, God. I don't know. He's… he takes insulin. Injections. All his life. But I don't know where…”
My words trail off, as they start checking for vitals and talking to each other, and I drift. I drift away to a place where I’m looking down on what’s happening around me. My arms wrap around me, clutching the warmth I have to my chest. This is all because of me. I did this.
“Miss?”
“Sorry?” I answer the EMT who’s trying to get my attention.
“What happened? What’s his name?”
“Carter. Please, he needs a hospital.”
“We’ll be taking him to Miami UH as soon as we can.” He turns back to work on Carter.
With his words another blare of sirens sound, followed by two officers. Fear of what I’ve just done urges me into action. I turn around and search for the gun I discarded, and ease back slowly to pick it up quietly. With the tail of my shirt I wipe it down making sure not to leave any prints and then drop it again, kicking it to the side and into the shadows.
With shaking hands, I pull the phone out of my pocket and turn it over. It takes me two attempts, but I dial the number I need.
“Hello?”
“Mom!” The moment I hear her voice, I collapse where I’m standing and cry down the phone.
“Baby? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“It’s Carter. He’s going to die, and it’s all his fault, and I don’t know how to fix it. Please, help me, Mom. I don’t know what to do.” My words slur together in a stream as I realise how desperate I am to have her here with me, protecting me like she’s always done.
“Baby, start again, but slower. Are you with him now?”
I nod, but she can’t see. “Yes,” I whisper.
“What do you mean he’s going to die?”
“Dad. He came for him. He beat him up until he couldn’t stand, and he’s diabetic, and now he’s not breathing, and the ambulance is here, and I’m really scared.” I sniff the last part.
“Your father?”
Again with the nodding. “He came to get us from the hotel room. I've never seen him so mad, Mom. He made me watch so I could see it was because of me ... I shot him.” The last part is a whisper.
“Miss?” The EMT taps me on the shoulder. “We’re taking him now. Do you want to ride with us? We have to hurry.”
I see the police officer talking to the other EMT and hope he doesn’t stop me from going.
“Mom? The police are here,” I say, panic raging inside of me.
“Go with him. Stay on the line, and don’t speak to the police yet. Did I hear you right? What you said?”
I don’t answer but run back with the guy to the ambu
lance and jump in the back where they’ve loaded Carter.
“Excuse me, Miss. We’ll need to question you.” The officer tries to catch me.
“I have to stay with him. I’m going to the hospital.”
“We’ll follow.” His stern look tells me he won’t simply forget about this.
As we’re shut in, I try to take a deep breath. “Mom, I’m in the ambulance.”
“Your father did this? He went to Miami?”
“He grabbed us from the hotel.” I don’t want to speak too loudly in front of anyone, but the man is occupied with Carter.
Terror that he’s not going to be okay takes over, but I squeeze the words out. “Is he okay?” My question sounds hesitant, but it’s more the fear of the response I’ll receive.
“It’s hard to tell. Right now, his blood sugar is the worrying factor.”
“Baby?” I hear Mom and realise I’ve forgotten about her on the phone.
“I’m here, sorry. What do I do?”
“Stay with Carter. Go with him to the hospital. I’ll call Quinn and let him know. He’ll meet you at the hospital. Fia, don’t go anywhere until you’re with Quinn, understand? You stay at the hospital until he comes for you. And don’t talk to the police until Quinn is with you. He’ll take care of you.” Her voice holds the same serious note it had when we were saying goodbye, and I know she’ll do whatever she can to help me because that’s her job. “Did you shoot your father?” This question is soft, and I can hear the worry for both of us in it.
“I’m sorry. I love you.” I sob the words, not sure if they are for my mom, for what I did, or for Carter.
“I love you too, baby. We’ll get through this. I promise.”
Twenty-Three
I feel fingers on me.
My brow twitches, uncomfortable with the sensation. It’s painful, a deep slicing pain cutting through my ribs. And my head hurts. Why does my head hurt? I try to rub it, try to use the muscles in my arms to move, but it’s all aimless, like my body won’t cooperate. Black, then shadows and faint white flashes, all of them starting to increase in speed and ferocity. I can’t breathe, can’t take a breath. I’m shaking, something in my veins making me tremble and claw for breath. There’s something inside me, searching, reaching, pulling me and pushing me somewhere. An impact, rigid and weighty, knocks my head back.
Pain.
So much pain.
My shoulders push me back against it, my body trying to get away or attack.
Attack. Yes. Fight. Forward. Never run. My fists tighten, summoning the strength to protect something, someone. And then the blood flows, swimming and swarming through me to bring it all out. Teeth gritting, eyes focused and trying to see the threat through the haze of white and black eruptions. So fucking black. Got to get out, trapped. Held down.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, my hands trying to reach them. I’ll kill them, all of them. Whoever they are, wherever they are. “Stop.” But they don’t stop—the pain, the violence. It keeps coming until all I’ve got left is to kill. Feral. Savage.
Everything inside me explodes, fists and body driving into threat as if it will never stop. All of them dead. With my hands. No weapons. I snarl and focus some more, intent on seeing who is in the distortion. Eyes, that’s what I want. I need to look them down, show them who they’re playing with. I’m incensed, furious inside this fog. I shake my head, centring again, and lash out. At everything. Teeth bared and logic dismissed. Fucking hands—so many fucking hands on me.
I knock at them, spinning myself in their hold to get them the fuck off me, and connect my fist into something. The bellow that comes back makes me smile and try to find him in the dark, misty outlook again. More. My hands wave them in, all of them, until a sound disrupts my thoughts and makes me wonder where the hell I am. A voice. Familiar. No, no one’s a friend here. Here is pain and aggression and hate.
“Fuck’s sake.”
Who was that?
“Hold him down.”
Fuck that.
“Carter, calm down.”
Quinn?
Something happens in my brain, firing it into spin mode and sending the feeling of nausea reeling around me. A tunnel forms in my line of sight, still flashing whites and blacks and confusing me. And these damned hands won’t leave me the fuck alone. They’re smothering me. I swipe at them, unsure what the fuck is going down, and I fall. I’m falling, hands grabbing out at anything I can cling onto. Something, anything. Bile races through me, forcing its way up my guts until I’m heaving and retching. Gagging.
“Get it out.”
Quinn again.
I let the hands hold me this time, unable to fight them off, and heave again, hands braced on the floor. It all comes out, sending me delirious with the need to catch a damn breath, until I force myself back up under the hand and raise myself to my knees to breathe again.
“You’re okay. Calm down. Deep breaths.”
What the fuck just happened?
A body slides around me, warm hands solid on my face to wipe my hair back. “Carter?” I blink, trying to gain a line of sight. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay. Calm the fuck down. Focus.”
Hospital?
I finally do and find Quinn looking at me, half his suit covered in vomit and the rest of it in a container at his side. My vomit.
He rubs his jaw, eyes like he's just been hit and is ready to kill for it.
“What—”
“What the hell is wrong with your head?” he asks, a slight gravel to his tone. My head? I don’t understand. I blink again and push my hand to the floor, trying to get a goddamned grip on reality. “Up, come on. Ass on the bed. Rest.”
A hand touches my back and I immediately swing around to it, a snarl levelled at whoever the fuck is daring to touch me in this state and my fist ready to do damage. A man in white holds up his hand and backs away. Fuck him. The second he does, though, it clears my line of sight to someone smaller in the far corner—Fia.
Humiliation, confusion, shame—it all rides over me like a fucking tsunami crashing down. The hell is she doing here? Then everything about her comes reeling into my brain because of the visual. Her. The temptation. The desire. The want. The sex and her passion. Her father.
The reason I’m in this fucking state in the first place.
I look back at Quinn, finally seeing him and everything else in the room around me clearly and disgraced by my weakness in front of her I say the first thing that comes to mind with any clarity.
“Get her the hell out of here. Now. I don’t want her here.”
I don’t miss the sharp intake of breath she takes, nor do I give a fuck at the moment, even if she did manage to get both Quinn and me here somehow. I’m a mess, and I’m damned if she’s seeing me until I get my shit back together. I look down at my naked knee barely covered with a hospital gown and lean on it to push myself upright. No one sees me like this. Only Quinn.
And he’s only seen it twice before.
“Carter?” she says quietly, her voice trembling.
“I said get the fuck out!”
Quinn walks around me, patting me on the back, and heads over in her direction as I labour towards the bed. Good. Get her gone. I’m not ready for that yet. Not ready or stable enough to deal with whatever the fuck I’m going to have to deal with. What the fuck have I been doing? Getting my ass handed to me just so I can get my dick off?
Stupid. Fucking idiotic.
“Goddamn, you’re a heartless cunt, Carter,” Quinn says from somewhere, shutting the door.
I fold back onto the bed and try evening my breath out, nodding. I am. Always have been. But the fact that I’m in here, having taken the worst beating of my life, should prove to everyone, me fucking included, that for her I’m apparently not.
“She shouldn’t see me like this,” I mumble, looking at him and then reaching shakily for some water. He snorts and passes me some, holding the back of my head like a child while I drink it.
�
�Why? Because she might see a weakness?”
I finish drinking and push the offered cup away, annoyed with the fact I’m still shaking. “I’m not weak.”
“You are at the moment. And for whatever screwed up reason, you’re like this because of her.” He strips himself of the vomit covered jacket he’s wearing and pulls up a chair, bringing it to the side of me to sit. “The hell got into you, fronting him like that?”
I half smile at him and then look at the bed. She did. She got into me. Got into my head, into my thoughts. And then I got into her knowing exactly what the risks would be—what would happen afterwards.
“You know why I took it,” I reply, leaning my head back on the pillows to look at him comfortably. “If you want your turn beating on me as well, you’ll have to wait.” I shift a little, uneasy with the pain surrounding my ribs, jaw and face. Fuck, everything hurts. I blow out a breath and squint in the bright lights, searching the room for painkillers. “I’m done taking hits for a while, Quinn. Respect or not. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to stay away. Couldn't.”
Didn't want to.
The bitter anger I expected to come from him once he knew the full extent of what I’ve been up to doesn’t materialise. He chuckles lightly instead and picks up a plastic cup of coffee, eyeing me over it. “You in love with her?”
How the fuck would I know?
I scowl at him, unsure how to react to the question.
He nods, legs crossing as if he’s got something to say. Fine, he can say it. It’s not like I can avoid it. At least talking is better than getting my ass handed to me. It is what it is. She’s out there, having seen everything, probably not knowing what the hell to think now that I’ve told her to go.
“I'm pretty convinced you letting yourself get beat up is a damn fine indication of love, Carter,” he says.
Is it? I don’t know. I wanted her, couldn’t think of anything else but having her. Getting beat on was just part of the repercussions of that happening as far as I was concerned. I keep staring at him, internally asking him for help in a situation where I don’t know what to do.
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