Page 102 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

Rhys is already on his feet too, papers sliding off his knees, forgotten, and for one second I can't make myself say it, like not saying it might keep it from being true.

"Yes.” I almost throw up. “Alexia."

TWENTY-SIX

Marcus

The drive should normally take twenty minutes. Tonight, we're there in just over twelve. But it feels like hours. Rhys's knuckles are white on the wheel, none of us saying a word the whole way, like speaking might make whatever's waiting for us more real than it already is.

Then we round the corner onto the main strip and there's no hiding anymore. Two ambulances out front, lights going without sirens, two police cars angled across the entrance. A knot of people standing outside, in various states of shock.

Zachary's out of the car before it's properly stopped and we're not far behind him.

"You go talk to the staff, find out what happened," I tell him. "Rhys and I will find her."

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "If you think I'm not coming to check on her, you're out of your mind. You're just as much a part owner of this place as I am."

"Zach." Rhys's voice cuts through, firm, final. "You have to go. You're the one they see as the owner. Nobody's going to listen to me or Marcus tonight. They'll listen to you. Go. I promise we'll look out for her. We'll tell her you're worried. But you have to go take care of business. Now."

Something wars behind Zachary's eyes — he wants to tell us to go to hell, throw his whole stake in the business away to get to her. I can see it. And I both respect him and hurt for him over it. Then his jaw sets. "If there's even the slightest chance⁠—"

"I will come get you. I promise. Go. The sooner you sort this out, the faster you can be there for her."

Finally he nods and heads for the crowd, turning instantly into the bar owner we trust him to be.

Rhys and I go the other way, weaving between paramedics and stunned patrons and one bloke sitting on the kerb holding an ice pack to his head. I nearly collide with Hunter as he and Elliot rush over only just arriving themselves.

We hug, hard and fast, relieved to see familiar faces. "What happened?" I practically shout.

Elliot answers, his voice unnervingly level even now. "Some bloke came looking for Betty and lost it. Threw furniture, rushed at the band. Police have got him now."

"Is she okay?" I know I should ask about everyone, but right now I can't think of anyone but her.

"We just got here." Elliot's jaw tightens. "Jaxon called us the second it happened. He was here, with Aria. They were together with Alexia when it happened. If it was bad, I'm sure he'd have said."

I don't get to ask anything else, because suddenly Elliot's already moving, cutting through the crowd to a singular person. Aria, sitting on the tailgate of an ambulance, a paramedic crouched in front of her. Elliot crosses the last ten metres at a sprint and pulls her straight into his arms. Hunter not far behind.

Elliot checks her over, hands on her face, her shoulders, her arms, like he needs to verify every inch of her himself before he'll believe the paramedic trying to reassure him.

"I'm okay. Jaxon took good care of me," she says, laughing despite everything, batting his hands away. "Elliot. I'm fine." Then she looks past him and sees us, and whatever she was about to say next gets swallowed by something more urgent. "I need to tell them, Elliot. Guys, let me go—" Now Hunter's got an arm around her, taking his own turn to check she's okay, but she pushes gently past him. "For god's sake, I'm fine, let me talk to them."

She reaches her arms up and I give her a gentle hug just in case she's not as fine as she's saying. "Alexia's inside. The paramedics are with her. She got hit with a glass. She's okay, a little shaken, but⁠—"

Rhys and I are already gone before she finishes.

We push through the front doors and I nearly stumble at the sight of what used to be our bar and now looks like something out of a disaster film — chairs on their sides, glass swept into careless piles, and near the back wall, a stretcher.

She's lying on it. Awake. Talking to the medic. Alive and awake and talking, and relief hits me so hard I nearly stumble again. We're only metres from her when a paramedic plants himself directly in our path, arms out, immovable.

"Guys. Wait. Let us check her out," he says, entirely unfazed by what I'm going to assume is pure panic written across both our faces. "Then you can talk to her. If you care about her as much as your faces tell me you do, you can give us three minutes to make sure she's okay."

I want to move him bodily out of the way. I can see Rhys thinking the same thing, every muscle coiled tight enough to snap, and for a second it seems like neither of us will back down. But the paramedic doesn't either, just stands there, patient, unshaken, like he's dealt with exactly this scene a hundred times before.

"Three minutes," I say, mostly to myself, and put a hand flat against Rhys's chest, holding him back.

Rhys is wound so tight beside me I can feel it radiating off him, and for a second I forget my own panic long enough to take care of my friend.

"Shit, man." I keep my voice low, just for him. "Are you ever going to admit your feelings? If not to us. If not to her. At least to yourself?"