9 years ago…
So much blood. I can’t hear a feckin’ thing but the sound of my own breath ragged in my ears as I fall to the ground, ignoring the sharp stab of glass digging into my knees. Sliding my hands under her head, I lift it gently from the hard ground and shattered glass. Her long, dark hair is glittering with it. Her skin is deadly pale. But there’s a light pulse fluttering under the splattered blood on her neck. I latch onto that. “Amber, baby, open your eyes for me, love.”
It’s pure chaos all around me. The outdoor tables and chairs are mangled wrought iron. Moaning. Sobbing. A rusty white sedan where it shouldn’t be, white smoke pouring from beneath the hood, engine still running. The scream of an approaching siren.
But all I can focus on is that tiny flicker of life under her skin. “Stay with me, baby.” My palm moves to the hard swell beneath her sundress, our child, and a sudden rush of fear takes my breath away. My head falls, I press my forehead to Amber’s. “Please, please.” I don’t know who or what I’m begging. I just know this can’t be happening. It can’t happen. They can’t die.
Amber had just finished painting our daughter’s room. Calamine pink. I had laughed. “Like the lotion you put on bug bites?” She’d called me a dick with the biggest smile on her face. We were happy. Yesterday we were so happy.
Suddenly, there’s someone beside me, pulling me away. A woman. I catch pieces of her: short, blonde hair; pinched mouth; black polo with the medical symbol and Dr. Pierceson embroidered above her right breast. She presses her fingers to Amber’s pulse. Her eyes flick up to mine, determined.
“Move,” she instructs. I fall back. The woman scans Amber’s body, then peels the sundress, sticky with blood, off her thighs.
And there it is. The source of all the feckin’ blood. Her left leg is crushed, already discolored. Her right one pumping blood from a severed artery.
The doctor’s eyes meet mine and I see the apology. It’s a gut punch.
She glances around, picks up a broken piece of glass and uses it to cut wide strips of material from Amber’s sundress. She wraps it a few inches above the spurting artery on her thigh, then picking through the scattered debris, finds a butter knife. She twists it until the material is digging into Amber’s thigh and secures it with the second strip. She wads up the remaining strips and presses them against the deep wound. Then grabs myhands and forces them against the already blood-soaked wad of material. “I’m sorry.” Then she’s standing.
“No!” I grab her arm. “Don’t leave. You have to save her. It’s a girl. Our baby. Please.” I’ve never begged for anything in my life. I’m begging now. But I might as well be trying to bargain with a wall.
Her steady gaze drifts from my hand to Amber’s face. “There’s nothing else I can do. Keep pressure on that wound.” My grasp is slippery with Amber’s blood, so she slides from it easily.
“Wait!” I yell. But she’s already moved on to a man leaning against an overturned chair, holding his arm at a funny angle. Obviously, he’ll live. He’ll fuckin’ live but my girl and baby…
I swipe my eyes against my shoulder, clearing the blurriness so I can watch the tiny flutter of pulse on Amber’s neck. The sirens are getting closer. “Hang on, baby, help is almost here.”
And then her pulse stops. The world goes silent. I roar. “No!” I pull her against my chest, feeling the glass prick my skin in a dozen places, feeling the lifelessness of her flesh, feeling our baby kick beneath my palm, trapped with dwindling oxygen. Feeling my world, my heart burn to ashes.
***
Instead of driving to the dock, I drive through the industrial part of Tampa and squeal into Sully’s gym parking lot. His car is here, and there are lights on inside. Good. If I don’t hit something soon, my goddamn brain is going to explode. Grabbing my gym bag out of the trunk, I pound on the frosted glass doors.
It only takes a second for his large figure to appear. “Gotta get you a key,” he mumbles, holding a binder in his hand. He eyes me as I step inside. “How we gettin’ on?”
“Grand. Just need a quick workout,” I bite out as I shoulder past him.
The first thing I notice is the large Irish flag on the back wall. I glance around as he follows me through the gym. “It’s comin’ along nicely.”
Heavy bags and speed bags line the left wall, conditioning equipment, free weights, racks and kettlebells in the back. There’s a matted floor area in front of those and in the middle of the space, a boxing ring for sparring. It still smells like rubber and oil. Soon that will be replaced by the stench of BO, disinfectant and blood.
I stop and glance at a large black and white photo of Granda, framed and hung on the wall. He’s in a boxing ring, the ref holding up his arm in victory, a title belt slung over his shoulder. That signature crooked grin. I give Sully a nod of approval.
I don’t bother going to the locker room to change, instead heading for Sully’s office. On his desk are two cash counting machines, ledgers and a box of burner phones.
“We ready for openin’ night?” I ask, as I strip down to my boxers.
“Aye. After you’ve worked out whatever’s brought you here, I’ll show you the venue.”
I glance up and see the worried crease between his brows. Fucker knows me too well. I pull on my shorts and gym shoes then grab a towel, stick in my earbuds and head to the bags.
Forty minutes later, my muscles are shaking like leaves, my knuckles busted open again, I’m covered in a sheen of sweat, and I’ve managed to stuff the demons back into the dark hole they crawled out of.
I head into the locker room for a quick rinse off afterwards. It’s simple, but clean. The water’s ice cold. After I’m dressed again, I find Sully in his office.
“Sorted?” he asks, dark brown eyes, crinkled at the corners, assess me.
I press the towel to my swollen knuckles where blood continues to seep out. “Aye.”
