To Make the Magic Last

by Cheryl Pierson

  Steve's arm came around her, as if to drive away the memories that haunted her. His hand splayed familiarly against her waist at the top of her Levis. She reached for her cell, dialing 9-1-1. Finally, after three failed attempts, she snapped the lid closed and laid it back in the tub next to Steve. She was so damn afraid she couldn't think straight. The wind was picking up again. She lay still, enjoying the warmth of Steve's body under hers, letting it seep into her and relax her. Gradually, she stopped shaking.

  He was here…just sleeping. She'd moved to Oklahoma to make a clean start—to get away from a love she'd lost; a love she thought she would never recover from. But Steve was not going to let her drown in self-pity. He was offering something magical—if they survived. She'd never believed in magic before—never known anything like this wonderful feeling just being with him—even in these circumstances—gave her. Was it crazy? Was it childish to want her dream of happiness to come true? No, but it's too soon. They didn't really know each other, yet she felt as if they had been together for years. Was she ready to take a chance on him?

  Christy lifted her head to check the bleeding. It had stopped, and he seemed relatively comfortable—as much as he could be, jammed into the small tub with her on top of him, a bullet hole through his shoulder. There wasn't one square inch of space that wasn't occupied by very handsome, muscular, wounded cop, Steve Cooper. Her guy…she hoped.

  She flinched involuntarily as the roaring outside increased, followed closely by several loud crashes. She was tempted to go look out the window, just to see what was happening, but wasn't brave enough. She cowered closer to Steve as he slept, his hand tightening on her bare midriff as if to dispel any ideas of her leaving.

  In the next instant, the ceiling ripped away with a tearing scream of wood and metal. Christy threw the cover back. She was staring into boiling gray clouds and driving rain. Nickel-sized hail began to pelt down, and she hastily pulled the thick comforter back over them. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed 9-1-1 again. This time, the call went through.

  "Thank God," she whispered.

  "All emergency services operators are busy right now. Please hold the line—"

  A recording! A damned recording! She hung up, tears of frustration filling her eyes. Angrily, she punched the numbers in again—with the same results.

  As she started to dial once more, the entire building shifted. A hoarse shout tore from her throat, and she flattened herself over Steve. As if she could protect him. She looked into his face, forgetting everything else around her—the hail, the wind, the shifting of the very building they found themselves in. She was terrified, and suddenly, more afraid of losing him than anything else that might happen.

  This was crazy. She should be afraid of the storm, or of the gunmen, but she was worried about losing someone she wasn't even sure she had in the first place. What would happen tomorrow, when the danger had passed? Would there be a tomorrow? She pushed that thought away quickly.

  Her hand was sticky. She looked down, realizing she had placed it over the hole in his shoulder. She shouldn't be touching it—didn't want to hurt him. She moved it away carefully, and he opened his eyes, squelching back a cry of pain.

  His eyes were a shade darker than before, she thought. Dark with hurting. But there was something else there when he looked at her. He wanted to tell her something that he couldn't find the words for. Yet, she understood. Someday, the words would be there. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, when they were out of this mess.

  She tried to smile, but he shook his head. "You don't have to be brave for me, Christy." He pulled her next to him. "Cry if you want. I know you're scared."

  "Did you feel it? The building—it shifted."

  "I wondered...thought it was you...stealin' my heart, lady," he whispered roughly.

  Christy shook her head, her heart jumping at his words. "Other way around." She gasped at her own admission, feeling the color rise in her cheeks.

  Steve smiled against her hair. "I hope you mean that, sweetheart." She looked up at him, and saw that he was serious.

  "I—I do." She swallowed hard. "Sometimes people get close quickly when something traumatic happens. I know that. This could be one of those times…" She went on in a rush. "I'm not a 'badge bunny,' you know. I—I really like you, Steve—just for being you."

  "I know, Christy." He remained quiet a moment, then rubbed her shoulder. "I think…this could be something good for both of us, if we can get the real 9-1-1 over here to rescue us."

  She could hear the weary humor in his tone. "I tried—" her voice cracked. "I tried to call them. They—had a damned recording on, Steve!"

  "Here, let me try." He dialed the number as she held the phone then took it from her. "They won't dare have a recording on when I call," he teased.

  "Oklahoma City 9-1-1," the operator answered after only one ring.

  Christy gave him a wide smile. A real person, just as he'd said. Maybe Steve Cooper was the keeper of the magic, she mused, listening as he told the woman where they were located, and about the gunmen in the stairwell.

  "They've been apprehended, officer," the operator assured him. "We'll have someone there for you soon. Meanwhile, this line of storms will be ongoing. You'd be safer if you could get closer to the ground floor. Are you able to move?"

  "Yeah, I think so," he muttered. "We'll try. Thanks." He snapped the phone shut and looked at Christy. A slow grin curved his lips. "Hey. Anybody ever tell you how pretty you are?"

  She rolled her eyes and tried to lift herself up without jarring him. "I kind of like hearing it from you, Officer. So let's get ourselves somewhere a bit safer, shall we?" She extended a hand, but he shook his head.

  "I can do it," he told her, pushing himself up, his back against the tub wall. He pocketed the phone. "C'mon."

  Christy started for the door, reaching to grab a towel. Steve hadn't made a move to follow her. They weren't going to get very far, she could see, as she turned back to look at him. His dark complexion looked ashen, the lines grooved deep in his rugged face. His forehead and neck were beaded with sweat.

  "Christy, I'm not gonna make it. You go on...without me." He stepped over the side of the tub, holding the wall to keep upright.

  She shook her head. "No. We'll go together."

  "Damn it, don't argue!" He took two unsteady steps toward her, but she blocked the entry.

  "I'm not leaving you, Steve."

  Chapter Five

  He gritted his teeth. She meant it...and he didn't have the strength to argue with her. How safe would she be without him, anyway, if there were more of the gangs out there? Alone, she wouldn't have a chance. "Okay," he growled. "Let's go."

  She turned and started through the apartment, hesitating before she opened the front door. Steve drew his gun and gave her a nod. They stepped out cautiously into the common corridor and crossed it, headed for the stairwell.

  When they reached the metal door, they stopped. Steve opened the door quickly and peered down the enclosed staircase. The grim gray light from the sky filled the space now that the top floor was missing. The door remained on the hinges, but there was no ceiling.

  Steve glanced at Christy then held the gun out to her. "You ever shot a gun before?" He would have to talk fast, before the pain and the threatening blackness overcame him. "There may be more of them, sweetheart. Take this—"

  "But the operator said—"

  He made an impatient gesture. "She's sitting at a damn console in front of a computer—not—not out here, in the real world."

  Christy took the weapon from him gingerly.

  "Just...point and pull the trigger."

  "You wouldn't give this to me if—" her voice broke, and he put his arm around her.

  "I'm seeing two of everything," he admitted. He nodded toward the foot of the stairs. "Let's try...get down there..."

  Christy shoved the pistol into the waistband of her jeans. Steve grasped the rail with his right hand, his left arm around her shoulders.
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  They had taken three of the steps when Steve stopped. This was it, he thought, sitting down slowly on the stairs. He felt Christy's silent comfort wash over him as she eased down beside him, her hand on his back.

  Suddenly, the door below them wrenched open, the sound of native Spanish drifting up to them, above the lull in the wind. Christy gave a soft gasp of dismay. They had been spotted, Steve knew, from the tone of the conversation below where they sat.

  There was no place to take cover. No place to run. And Christy had never shot a gun in her life.

  The two young toughs were full of macho swagger and rough bluster. They began to speak English as they started slowly up the steps, stalking their prey. Christy eased the gun from her waistband and held it down at her side, out of their sight.

  Were they armed? Steve peered through the dim gray interior, trying to see. "Shoot as soon as they show a weapon," he muttered, in answer to her silent question.

  She nodded, her jaw clenched determinedly.

  "What a pretty little puta!" The taller one turned to his partner, his grin showing several gold-rimmed teeth. They had gained the small concrete square that separated the two flights of stairs.

  "But, she comes with baggage," his shorter, stocky cohort said, making a tsking noise. "A pig." He spat on the floor of the landing.

  Steve watched them, seeing four of them, not two. He could feel the fresh blood at his shoulder and back, and the encompassing blackness beginning to crowd the sides of his vision. Not now, he told himself, wondering in the next instant if Christy would have the strength of will to come through for them and pull the trigger. He was tempted to take back the gun, but didn't trust himself to stay conscious. He could barely hold his head up.

  "He looks hurt, Manny," the tall, gold-toothed one mocked. "Maybe we should put him out of his misery."

  "Yeah," Manny agreed with a leer. "Then we will take some time with her, eh, Rico?" The smile left his face as he watched Christy. "We will kill you too, when we are finished. But first, we gonna slit this pig's throat. Let him bleed—" He took another step toward where they sat, and Christy pulled the gun up into view.

  Manny stopped moving, eyeing her warily. "Oh, you gonna shoot me now?" he sneered. "I don't think so."

  Chapter Six

  Christy couldn't wait any longer. They were too close. She felt Steve's fingers tighten at her waist just as she pulled the trigger. In horrified fascination, she watched as Manny flew backward, fumbling with his clothing, reaching inside his denim jacket.

  He screamed obscenities, howling in pain. His partner was going for his boot.

  Razor, Christy thought disjointedly, seeing the glint of metal as the click sounded. She pulled the trigger again, hitting Rico this time. He gave a sharp cry then lay still.

  But not Manny. He came up with his gun, pulling it out of the jean jacket, his lips twisted in a snarling mixture of pain and rage.

  "Shoot him!" Steve's voice echoed in Christy's ears as she squeezed off another shot—and missed. The bullet struck the wall just behind Manny's head and he ducked, pulling the trigger of his own snub nose .38 in the same motion.

  The bullet sang past her ear.

  Was this it? Were they going to die here in this dirty stairwell?

  Christy's disjointed thoughts roared through her mind as she pulled the trigger again, and again, until there were no more bullets. Until nothing was left alive in the stairwell but Steve...and her; until the gun did no more than click each time an empty chamber rolled around.

  "Christy!" Steve's voice was low and quiet. Finally he put his hand over hers forcing her to lower the revolver. He took it from her, holstering it. "It's over, baby…it's over."

  * * * * *

  She looked up at him, tears streaking her face, her expression glazed and distant. "It's over," he whispered once more, and the unexpected hoarse tone of tenderness in his tone undid her. She leaned against him, sobbing.

  He wrapped his left arm about her, oblivious to the pain in his shoulder. After a few moments, he moved away, holding her face between his hands. He just wanted to look at her, he told himself. But as she opened her eyes under his scrutiny, he pulled her to him and kissed her. "Are you all right?" he asked, kissing her again before she could answer.

  She nodded, clutching at his open shirt.

  "Damn cops," he muttered, teasing. "Where are they when—when you need 'em?"

  As if in answer, the faint sound of sirens grew closer and closer, ending abruptly as the squad car and ambulance pulled up outside the door.

  "Steve! Steve Cooper!" a deep voice called.

  He didn't have the strength left to answer.

  "In here!" Christy called breathlessly, wiping her eyes. "Inside the stairwell!"

  "Over here, Mike!" the voice shouted to someone else. "Help me get this freakin' door open—"

  "Old friends," Steve assured her. "Randy Banks, and…Mike Rutledge."

  As the door pulled free, the two policemen entered, guns drawn.

  "It's okay, Randy," Steve murmured, slumping against the wall at his side. "Everything's okay…now."

  "Not quite, buddy," Banks muttered. He gave a low curse as he rushed up the steps, skirting the bodies, and knelt in front of Steve and Christy. He made a quick assessment of Steve's shoulder wound. "You're bleeding pretty hard, Steve. Let's get you down these stairs." He turned to Christy. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

  She gave a shaky nod. "Yes, I'm fine. Please, just take care of him."

  Banks smiled at her. "We will. I think we better get both of you to Southwest Medical though."

  "Yeah," Steve nodded. "I need her in the ambulance—"

  "Don't you trust us to patch you up, Steve?" one of the paramedics teased from below as he came through the door, bag in hand.

  "Not like she can." Steve grinned as his fellow officer extended a hand to him. They slowly made their way down the stairs and around the bodies, where Officer Rutledge had begun to secure the scene. As the paramedics took over, Banks turned back to give Christy a guiding hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Christy's knees were shaking so badly she wasn't sure she could walk. Banks asked her a few questions about what had happened as they neared the bodies. She would not look at them, she thought. But as they drew near, she couldn't help herself. She had killed them, after all. She stared for a long moment before looking away. She wasn't sorry. She'd done what she had to do.

  She looked up at Officer Banks. "She said they caught them already. The operator, I mean."

  It took a moment for him to understand. "We thought we had them all. Someone reported shots earlier, but we apprehended two men a few blocks from here. One of them confessed to firing his gun here at the apartments. He has a relative who lives in this complex—hangs out over here a lot. Anyhow, he neglected to mention he shot a police officer," he added ruefully. "We had so many calls coming in, we had to leave the investigation until later."

  "Steve…is he—" she began anxiously, her gaze going to where the paramedics worked to load the gurney into the ambulance.

  Banks smiled. "Steve's gonna be okay, I think. He's tough…been through a lot." They had reached the doorway, but before they started outside, Banks said, "I think he may have found some help in you today—his luck held up…maybe took a turn for the better. I don't think he's capable of firing a gun right now, but I have a feeling that's the story he'll be telling."

  Christy smiled, not answering immediately. "Not luck, Officer. Maybe a little bit of magic. Anyhow, I wouldn't want to contradict a police officer." She glanced toward the ambulance. "I have to go. I'll miss my ride."

  She ran through the doorway toward the waiting ambulance. The wind was strong, the rain and hail pelting her. It didn't matter. Something good was going to happen. Something unexpected, full of kismet, luck, and love.

  She ran toward Steve, toward the unspoken promises between them, and the magic of a thousand tomorrows ahead.

  The End

 
About the Author

  Cheryl Pierson is a native of Oklahoma. She lives in the Oklahoma City metro area with her husband. The mother of two grown children, and pet-sitter on occasion, she is always busy. A romance author who loves to read, Cheryl also teaches novel writing classes. She writes short stories that have been published by Adams Media, Western Fictioneers, Western Trail Blazer, Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery, and Victory Tales Press, as well as Chicken Soup. She has four published novels to her credit and is always working on "the next one".

  Her novel, Fire Eyes, (available through Western Trail Blazer) was an Epic Award Finalist. Cheryl's Western/Time-Travel/Romance novel, Time Plains Drifter, is now available from Western Trail Blazer. She received the PNR PEARL Awards Honorable Mention as Best New Paranormal Author of 2009 for Time Plains Drifter, and she placed third in the San Antonio Romance Authors (SARA) Merritt Contest with her newest novel manuscript, Gabriel's Law.

  The first two novellas of her new western series, Kane's Redemption and Kane's Promise, are available through Western Trail Blazer. Kane's Redemption won First Place in the 'All Other Short Stories' in the 2012 Preditors & Editors Poll. The third and final book of the series, Kane's Destiny, will be released early in 2013. A Hero for Christmas, a collection of Western romances in a Christmas setting, is also available in both print and ebook versions.

  To learn more about Cheryl and her exciting books, visit her at

  http://www.cherylpiersonbooks.blogspot.com/

  Join us at Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery for more stories of

  action, adventure, and romance.

  http://rebeccajvickery.com

  Other works by Cheryl Pierson...

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