“He’s been shot,” Cillian said, his deep-green eyes settling on me.
I sat with a bump, my body crumbling onto the sofa. Legs unable to hold me up. “Shot!”
Becca nodded. “I’m so sorry, Amy.”
“Is he…?” My throat constricted. “What happened?” My heart squeezed, some kind of vicious thick rope lassoing around it. This couldn’t be true. Shot? How?
“At work?” I asked. “Some bastard? On the street.” My eyes prickled and filled with tears instantly.
Cillian glanced at Becca then shook his head. “No, not at work.”
“But…how…where? Where is he? Is he…?” Words were falling from my mouth, but I couldn’t utter that last one.
Dead.
He couldn’t be dead. I’d just found him. We’d just found each other. Please no…I’d do anything. Sell my soul to have him still breathing.
“He was mugged,” Cillian said.
“Mugged? But…?” My mind spun. Mitch wasn’t the vulnerable kind, he was stacked with muscles, tall, too, and gave off a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe when strangers glanced at him the wrong way. What kind of suicidal maniac would be brave enough to mug him?
“He’s in the hospital.” Becca took my hand between both of hers. “They’ve been operating, but Cillian just heard that he’s out of surgery now.”
Relief caught my breath—he wasn’t dead—but that feeling was instantly snatched away again. “Surgery? He’s had to have surgery?”
“Yeah.” Cillian glanced at his watch. “Six hours apparently.”
Nausea gripped me. While I’d been sleeping, dreaming of a beautiful beach house, Mitch sipping a cocktail at my side, thesun, the sea, the blissful state of just being together, he’d been cut open and stitched up.
Fuck. How could I not have known somewhere in me? How had my senses not told me the man I was falling for was at death’s door?
I jumped up. “I’ve got to get there. He’s at JR, right?”
“Yes.” Becca also stood.
“They might not let you—” Cillian started.
“If he’s out of surgery, I’ll see him.” I set my jaw determinedly. “Heaven help anyone who tries to stop me.”
He nodded, once, his jaw tight. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
I grabbed my purse and keys, and we hurried down the stairs and into Cillian’s vehicle. It was dark with blacked-out windows and smelled metallic, coppery, inside.
I shoved a piece of material with a Union Jack printed on it off the seat and belted up.
Cillian was soon maneuvering through the early morning traffic. Impatience gripped me at every traffic light and roundabout, and I swore at a rubbish collecting truck that slowed us down for a good thirty seconds.
Eventually, we arrived at the hospital.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” Becca asked.
“No, I think I’ll have more chance of seeing him if I’m on my own.”
“Are you sure? I can call work and—”
“No, honestly, I’ll be fine. I’ll drop you a message as soon as I know more.”
I jumped out and slammed the door then half walked and half jogged to the entrance.
