We fly through Brax’s door the second we’re out of the truck. Erin scoops Roman up as he sobs into her pajama top, and I drop to my knees beside Brax, who’s on the floor propped up against his kitchen island.
The blood on his upper arm is dark and the hole is obvious.
Gunshot wound.
“It went through.” His tone is nonchalant as if we’re discussing weekend plans, even though I can tell he’s in pain from the sweat dotting his forehead. “I’ll be okay. Bleeding’s finally stopped.”
Roman sobs. “D-daddy!”
“I’m okay, buddy. You were so brave.”
“Who did this?” I ask, shielding Brax from Roman so he can’t see the paleness on his dad’s face.
Brax grumbles. “I was making tacos and heard the floorboard creak. Turned around and the fucker shot me. He had a mask on and ran out the back. Lousy shot—doubt he’s ever held a gun before.”
“What the fuck!” Brodie roars through the doorway with a suitcase in his hand, staring at the scene and freezing for a moment. He drops his suitcase to the ground with a clunk and rushes to the kitchen to help.
“You know the rules, baby brother,” Brax rasps. “F-bomb costs you a fifty.”
“You literally just called the guy who shot you a fucker,” I remind him.
“I was shot. I’m excused, and heisa fucker. Adead fucker when I find out who was dumb enough to fire a gun with my son in the house.”
“Okay, just breathe,” I say, helping him up off the floor.
“I thought you weren’t flying in until tomorrow?” Brax asks Brodie.
“Bella wanted to get an earlier flight.” Brodie answers with concern etched across his face as he helps me get his brother to a chair. “I wanted to come over and have a drink with you to celebrate your five-year detective anniversary,” he says, pulling out his phone as he dials 9-1-1. “I just didn’t expect to do so from a hospital,” Brodie adds.
Brax smacks the phone out of Brodie’s hand before he can put the phone to his ear.
“Brax, you have a hole in your shoulder, you need a doctor,” Brodie snaps, bending to pick up his phone from the ground.
“I can close the wound myself. I don’t need anyone’s hands on me,” he answers just as Roman rushes to us, wrapping his arms around his dad’s waist as he cries.
Brax offers him a weak smile. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Come on,” Erin says. “Let’s pick out some pajamas for your dad to wear and we can have a sleepover.”
Roman walks hand in hand with Erin to Brax’s bedroom.
Brax gestures his head to the cabinet under the sink and then to the fridge. I walk to the fridge first, grab him a beer, and then retrieve the first aid kit sitting off to the left-hand side of the pipes underneath the sink. Brax pops some pills, takes a swig of his beer, and begins to clean the wound.
“Does somebody want to explain what the hell is going on?” Brodie asks.
“Attempted robbery,” Brax lies.
“You expect me to believe that?” Brodie fires back.
“It’s what I’m saying, so yeah.”
Brodie curses. “You’re always keeping secrets,” he says, shaking his head as he turns and storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him. We let him go, knowing he needs a minute.
An hour later, Roman is curled beside his dad, fast asleep. Brax hasn’t stopped rubbing his son’s back. Erin watches the two of them, keeping it together as best as she can.
Brodie hasn’t come back yet, and he hasn’t answered any of our calls. We called Bella to let her know what had happened. She sounded shaky on the phone, but we assured her Brax was okay. She said she’d let us know when Brodie was home and would stop by later to check in on Brax.
Roman’s little snores fill the room. I untangle myself from Erin, lift Roman from his dad’s lap, and carry him to his bed. Thankfully, he doesn’t stir.
