“Bulletproof vest.”
“You saved me.”
“I let you down.”
“How is saving me letting me down?”
“I’m the villain, Ever. I should’ve burned the world down for you.”
“Don’t you know?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Know what, baby?” Bobby’s brow furrows.
I cough. “Burning the world down is a lot of work, Bobby. I’m fine with only the saving part.”
He laughs. “You okay?”
“I think I broke a rib and have a concussion.”
“I figured as much. What I meant is, are you good here?” He dips his head to the top of mine.
He’s asking if I’m mentally okay? Why wouldn’t I be? I’m alive, and so is Bobby’s half-brother. No one died.
I bite down on my bottom lip.
“Did I leave you speechless? You know what happens when I do.”
He’s teasing. My mind is wrapping around that part. My body is doing something weird. Everything happens at once. I shiver uncontrollably. My teeth are chattering. My body goes cold.
“Bobby.” A strangled cry escapes my lips. I wrap my arms around his neck, tight. I’ve never felt this way before, even when I went in and out of consciousness, waiting for the firefighters to get me out of the stolen car.
“Baby.” There’s worry and panic in his voice. We’re walking one minute, and the next, he’s running toward the ambulance that’s parked next to a bunch of police cars. “Your body’s going into shock. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ve seen soldiers look fine on the outside but have internal injuries. The truck took the brunt of the damage on your side, Ever. He rammed your side for a reason. Took you to the hotel to throw us off his trail. But the shed, why he didn’t shoot you right away . . .” He sets me down urgently but gently on the rolling gurney that the medics brought over. “I’m going to lift your shirt and look at your lower back. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you decent.”
He lifts my shirt.
“Fuck. Fuck!”
“What is it?” I try looking over my shoulder. My head hurts, and I grab it.
Bobby doesn’t answer my question. He’s yelling at the medics. “Call in for a medevac. She needs a trauma center. Retroperitoneal hematoma.”
“What? A what?” He’s panicking. Bobby’s panic is contagious.
“You’re bleeding behind your stomach. You have a large bruise along your side,” Bobby says near my ear.
Oh God, oh God. Bobby’s brother took me to the shed to die a slow death. That’s why he didn’t shoot me.
“You sure?” one of the medics ask.
“You betting your life on it?”
I hear the safety click. A memory surfaces. The man with the scar transecting his face made me hold one of his large guns once. He took off the safety and fired a shot into an old tree in the backyard. There was no sound. When I went over his visit later, when I was twenty rather than eleven, I realized the gun had a silencer.
“No, man. I’ll call it in.”
