No one tried to separate us. Maybe those tabloid photos of us kissing weren’t so bad after all. Everyone assumed we were a package deal.
I kissed him.
I promised him bloody retribution if he died on me now.
I promised him I would dote on him forever if he lived.
I panicked that he would suddenly become ghostlike again. I panicked that he would die.
And then I panicked that he would live, fully corporeal.
Because . . . I clearly didn’t know how to do a healthy long-term relationship, and I was going to screw this up big time and hurt Jack and ruin everything.
Obviously, as I had already managed to shoot him.
Psycho girlfriend.
That was me.
And just to makesurethat image was clear, I lost it, my head bowed over his. Sobbing. Blubbering. Laughing one minute over the absurdity of the situation, crying the next in terror.
I may have even promised him that I would go to therapy, anything, if he would just hang on.
Basically . . . every hysterical cliche.
I screamed and had to be restrained (again) when they loaded Jack into the helicopter.
“Ma’am, I’m going need you to calm down. The paramedics and police are doing all they can for your boyfriend.” The officer’s words in my ear fumbled through my consciousness. “The best thing you can do to help him is to get control of yourself.”
And then he said the worst—
“Think your little self can manage that?”
Ah. My nemesis.
My spine instantly straightened. I sucked in a long, shuddering breath.
Why, yes. My little selfcouldmanage that.
But I still wiped away tears as the helicopter lifted into the sky, carrying Jack away from me.
The police didn’t immediately let me follow Jack. Turns out, when you shoot someone—accidental or not—there is a lot to be discussed. They asked me questions about the attack, my involvement, the play-by-play of my accidental shooting of Jack. I responded.
The police had taken the shooter into custody. The man apparently had a long criminal history and connections with the Tempeste family. He had been trying to fill the hit contract out on me before Jack threw himself into the crossfire.
A more senior police officer eventually showed up and informed me that I would not be charged or arrested at the moment. Though he did say that might change if Jack didn’t make it. The police would wait to see how Jack fared and then make a decision.
I took that hard. Not the threat of jail time. No. It was the insinuation that Jack might not live.
The ride in the police car to the hospital was unbearable. I nearly bit a hole in my cheek and sobbed my way through two packages of tissue, but at least I managed to stifle the screams and crazy-eyed rants.
It didn’t help that midway through the drive, the officer riding shotgun turned around and handed me a business card.
“Call this number tomorrow.” Concern laced her tone. “You will definitely want to get some counseling after the events of tonight.”
I stared at the card, my brain trying to assimilate her words.
“You shouldn’t let this fester,” she continued. “Talking about things with a professional will help.”
