“Hailey?” Ethan’s face was shrouded with concern.
“Shooting range! Sounds fun.”
I wasn’t ready to tell Ethan my story. Not yet, and maybe not ever. Some things just shouldn’t be relived. I wanted to enjoy the way he looked at me a little bit longer.
* * *
Ethan’s armswere wrapped around me, his chest pressed against my back as he adjusted my grip on the pistol.
“Never point a gun at someone or something unless you are prepared to shoot them and kill them.”
My heart was thumping against my chest, partly because he was talking about shooting people and partly because his crotch was pressed against my ass … and I liked it.
Focus.
“Got it,” I squeaked.
He placed noise-canceling headphones over my ears. “Take a deep breath, aim, and when you’re ready, shoot.”
I could hear him, just muffled. I was a little sad when he stepped away from me, taking his body heat with him.
He’d already taught me about the safety, which was now off, so all that was left to do … was shoot.
Could I kill someone? Wasn’t that why we were here? To teach me to defend myself in the event I was attacked or…
Bryce.
I’m not done with you yet.
I pulled back the trigger and the gun bucked back with power as the bullet shot out with such force it kicked my hand a little.
Adrenaline rushed through me as I stared at the target to see the very upper right corner had been hit.
“Great job,” Ethan said from behind me, but his voice was deep and slurred. I thought it might be the earmuffs, so I took them off and turned around, setting the gun down on the counter like he’d taught me. When I looked up at him, I knew immediately that something was wrong. He was sitting in the chair against the wall, sweaty, pale, and staring off into the distance.
“You okay?”
He shook his head slowly, then went to stand and swayed a little on his feet. “I … feel sick. Out ... of it. Blood … sugar.” He started to fall forward and I caught him. It was like catching a fucking bag of cement. His head crashed into my chest and we both went down together. I fell backward, allowing my body to break his fall. He was completely passed out. Panic ripped through me. I was only a nursing student for all of two months, but immediately I knew this had to be an issue with his diabetes.
“Call 911!” I shouted to the man who’d checked us in and was about twenty feet away staring at his computer screen, oblivious. His head snapped to our direction and shock lit up his features. “He’s diabetic!” I shouted then, because I didn’t want the man to think I’d shot Ethan.
Rolling Ethan over took every ounce of strength I had. I made sure he was breathing in case it was a heart attack or something more sinister.
He was.
I remembered seeing him tuck a black zipper pouch into his backpack before we left. I thought it was his blood glucose meter, which I’d seen him use a few times after we ate meals together.
Pulling the pouch out, I opened it. There was the meter, the poker thingy, and the strips. I was a nurse, I told myself. I could poke him and do this. He was either too high and needed insulin, or too low and needed glucose. If I guessed and stabbed him with his insulin pen, I could bring him even lower.
With shaky hands, I held the poker over his finger and pushed the button. Pulling it back, a droplet of blood escaped his fingertip; my heart pinched when I saw all the prick marks along his fingertips from the constant poking. He hid his disease well. I’d only ever seen him use it once or twice. By the time I loaded the strip and squeezed a drop of blood onto it, the man was standing before us on his cell phone.
“Is he breathing?” the man asked.
I nodded. And when the meter reading came, I almost fainted.
Twenty-seven.
That was low. Too low.
