I barely hear his question over Pearl yelling on the phone about an ambulance. “The counter.”
The stack of white towels I firmly press against Mad Dog’s chest turn a bright shade of red and become soggy as they soak up more and more of his blood. I press harder. My hands get wet and my knee slips over the tile as I reposition myself.
“He’s bleeding,” I yell to Bennett. But when I look up, he isn’t on the other side of Mad Dog’s body like he should be.
My heart rate picks up as my fingers change color from the liquid pooling around them. When Bennett was here, I thought I had the situation under control. But now I can’t see him, and I’m not sure what I should do.
There’s so much blood.
It flows down Mad Dog’s chest and pools on the floor before my jeans soak it up.
Finally, my savior — I feel exactly like the damsel in distress he called me earlier — leaps from over the counter. He falls back in his knees next to Mad Dog and pulls a large sheet of plastic wrap away from the roll.
“Grab the towels,” he says moving my hands out of the way.
With the loss of pressure, Mad Dog’s chest turns a brighter shade of red and I turn away, unable to handle the sight. This can’t be good. Bennett leans over the body blocking my view further. My heart continues to thump against my chest at a frenzied rate. Restless and not sure what to do, I stand and wipe my wet hands against my pink apron.
“Where is the ambulance?” I yell to Pearl when her jagged movements and flailing hand motions grab my attention.
“On their way.”
“It’s like half a mile down the road. What is taking so long?” I ask, but she’s already returned her attention to the phone.
The door behind me slams open, the bell giving one sharp clang. Two people, a man and woman, race onto the scene. Bennett steps away from the body giving directions and pointing back and forth. The scene blurs as the three of them yell nonsense words to one another. Terminology maybe I’d understand if I was a Grey’s Anatomy addict, but I’ve never had the stomach for anything dealing with the hospital. Bile rises in my throat and I look away.
Someone wheels in a stretcher and the yelling continues to grow in volume. Or maybe my ears start working again. One paramedic lists off a bunch of numbers, which must make sense to the others in the room. Mad Dog is lifted on the stretcher, a slew of cords dangling from various points on his body.
“Who will ride to the hospital with him?” a tall paramedic with blond hair asks the room at large.
I step in their direction not putting any thought into my answer. “I will.”
“Not unless I’m going too.” Bennett steps closer, blocking my way out the door.
“Only room for one,” the blond replies, using a hand to hold open the door. They walk out with me following behind.
“Anessa!” Bennett yells.
I turn back for a moment. “They shot him in my bakery, Bennett,” I answer like it’s simple, but really my insides are tight and full of anxiety. Selfish in a sense, but riding in the ambulance will help take my mind off what’s gone on here. I’m not ready to work through it yet.
I’d rather leave the bakery behind.
CHAPTER SIX
The small ring I wear on my right hand catches on the fabric of my apron. I need to take it off. The once bright pink fabric is now covered with large patches of red. They’re slowly becoming crusty as they dry. It’s enough to make my stomach roll if I think about it. So I try not to. Instead I stare at the light blue walls of the hospital waiting room.
I need to get up and throw the apron away. Find a bathroom and wash the matching color from my hands. But what I should do, what I need to do, and what I want to do are all things my body can’t do in this moment. The paramedics directed me to the small waiting room off the side of the ER less than ten minutes ago. I plopped my ass in one of the uncomfortable plastic grey chairs and haven’t moved since.
My legs seem to have forgotten how to carry me places. Not that I know where to go if they could.
“Where the hell is she?” a voice booms from right outside the waiting room door.
Before he receives an answer, Bennett sticks his head in. He lets loose a stream of air and his body visibly relaxes when our eyes make contact. A small bit of my anxiety leaves at the same time. Something about having him here to watch over me is soothing.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his tone much softer than a few moments ago. He approaches like I’m a wounded animal, with slow and consistent steps.
I look down at my blood-painted body. “I think so.”
“You need to let someone look you over to be safe. There were a lot of bullets flying.” He takes a seat next to me, but doesn’t invade my space.
