“You absolute giant asshole,” she breathes, voice breaking. “Don’t youdaredie on me.”
I try to grin. It hurts.
“Yeah?” I rasp. “You gonna… stab me with your lime knife if I do?”
A sound punches out of her—half laugh, half sob—as she leans over me, hands firm, eyes blazing.
“Shut up,” she orders. “Stay with me.”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” I say.
“Ran out of ammo.”
“So that entire line about blowing his fucking head off?”
“A bluff. I couldn’t let him kill you.”
“So who’s the fucking…” I stop, rasping and shaking as pain overtakes me. “Who’s the suicidal hero now?”
“Shut up,” she says. “Shut up. I love you. Don’t die.”
And with the sirens screaming closer and the Devils roaring into the lot, the last thing I see before the world goes black is Molly’s face above mine — furious, fierce, and fearful.
Chapter Forty-Four
Evan
I come back in pieces.
Rough, jagged, cracked pieces.
First comes the pain, like a white-hot brand pulsing and piercing through my shoulder. Then my ears start to work, picking up low voices, the distant sound of boots on the floor, the faint clink of ice in a glass somewhere, a moan of pain — mine. Then my nose picks up the familiar clubhouse smell of oil, smoke, beer, and, stronger, the smell of antiseptic.
My eyes crack open.
I’m on a cot in one of the back rooms, the kind they use when someone’s too busted to go home but too stubborn to stay in a hospital. That, or the patient is a traitorous liar that they don’t want to take to a hospital and risk them running away from justice. My arm is in a sling. A thick bandage wraps my shoulder and chest, tight enough to keep me from bleeding out again. Whoever stitched me up knew what they were doing.
Bishop.
I try to sit and immediately regret it; my mouth opens and a groan of pain comes out.
“Easy,” a voice says from the corner. “You tear my stitches, I’ll switch to staples, and I’m not very good at those. Hell, I’ll probably end up stapling you to the mattress.”
“Why the hell am I here?”
I scan the room and it’s dark; the shades are drawn, and the lights are off, probably to help me sleep. There’s a click as Bishop flips on a light and pulls a seat next to my bed. He’s got a medical kit on a table beside him and the look of a man who’s done this too many times.
“You’re alive,” he adds, like that wasn’t a foregone conclusion. “That’s why you’re here.”
“June,” I say, throat dry as sand. “Where’s my sister?”
Bishop’s eyes flick to the door. “She’s here in the building.”
That’s not good enough. I swing my legs off the cot and try to stand. The room tilts, and Bishop’s hand shoots out, catching my good arm. He steadies me, then inexorably pushes me back onto the bed.
“Sit.”
“I’m not doing a damn thing until I see her.”
