“Brooke,” he said, in his fuddled way.
“They’re going to try to help her, okay? They’re trying to make her better,” I said, hoarsely.
A symphony of questions and chaos slammed through the door as a sea of blue uniforms rushed inside. My team was there, coming at Dean and me with more questions than we had answers to. We could hardly talk. Brooke had been shot. That’s pretty much all we knew. Anderson’s wife was on the brink of death. Brooke aimed her gun at center mass like she was trained to. It would be a miracle if the woman lived. And my apartment was toast. That sick bitch poured gasoline over everything and lit it up.
Liv was a godsend, heading everybody off while Dean and I made our way into the back rooms as a group of surgeons called us in.Okay, they really just called in Dean. But, I followed right behind him, terror flooding through me, ready to save her myself if I had to. Nobody tried to stop me.
“…prepping her for surgery, immediately…”
I held my breath, trying to listen to the words they were saying, but I couldn’t. Leaning against the wall and looking down the hallway, I could see her. Nurses and doctors moved around her urgently, attaching her to tubes and monitors and racing around the room, yelling out the things she needed.
“…so much space in the abdomen for blood to pool, it’s extremely difficult to identify how bad the bleeding is…”
My throat closed up with fear. I didn’t know where she was hit or how many times, and all the doctors we’re doing were speaking to us in tongues. Dean was next to me nodding.
They wouldn’t let us ask any questions. There was no time. Brooke had lost too much blood and was in critical condition. We were asked to follow another nurse into a small surgical waiting area. “Have a seat. It might be a while until we could give you some updates. There’s a coffee and snack machine in the corner.”
So we waited, sitting on those uncomfortable wooden chairs, not being able to do anything.
Eventually, I bounced back and forth between my brother getting checked out in the ER and waiting for Brooke to come out of surgery.
We gave blood.
We drank coffee.
Then, when she was rolled out of surgery and into a recovery room, I crawled up in the seat next to her and watched her breathing, steady and strong, until my eyes could stay open no more.
Later on when the sun was just breaking over the horizon, I heard a small gasp, and my eyes snapped open. Brooke coughed and let out a small pain-filled moan. Her mouth moved, her lips dry and chapped, but no sound comes out.
“You want to tell me you love me, right?” I said bolting out of the seat I’d fallen asleep in. Carefully, I leaned my weight on the edge of the hospital bed. “Can’t live without me? Processing time is over?” I smiled down at her and tucked a loose strand of hair off her forehead. It was still red with blood.
“Ass…hole.” That’s what I think she mouthed.
She lifted her hand, fingers slightly trembling, and reached out to me.
“But an asshole you might be falling in love with, right?” I said, smiling.
“I never had a choice, did I?” she struggled with the words, which turned right into yelps of pain.
I squeezed her hand softly, “Rest. Get better and heal. We have the rest of our lives to continue this conversation.”
“You’re right though,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “I am falling in love you.”
“I love you too, Brooke.” I’m not sure she heard the words though; it looked like she drifted back under the haze of pain medication and sleep.
I stretched and yawned, stiff from sitting on the chair beside her for so long. My feet were numb, my legs asleep. I dragged them out into the hallway, wondering who else was around and if anything new happened. After Brooke got out of surgery, I stayed by her side in recovery. I wasn’t supposed to, but I needed to watch over her and make sure nothing else—nobody else—hurt her. In the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms, Dean and Liv slept on a pair of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs. Across from them, sat Dean and Brooke’s parents. Their mother was dozing off, but their father’s eyes were focused straight ahead, red and swollen.
He stood up as soon as he saw me. “Detective Cage?” he asked, holding out his hand. “I’m Joseph Fury, Brooke and Dean’s father.”
I took it with a firm grip. “Hello, sir. Please, call me Ryan.”
“You saved my daughter’s life.”
“Not really, Sir. My brother was the one who carried her out of the house. I just helped him get her off the fire escape.” My brother was in his own hospital bed, sleeping off his smoke inhalation and all bandaged up with his tiny cuts and bruises.
“Humble.”
“That’s something I’ve never heard said to describe me,” I laughed.
