What Doesn't Kill You

by Aimee Hix

  I tried to laugh without causing internal bleeding but that proved difficult so I sputtered out and lay back against the pillows, staring at him. “Uh huh, an angry man in a bulletproof vest storms into the ER. Sure. It must happen five times a night.”

  “I wasn’t angry. I was concerned. There is a big difference. And my gear does have ‘ATF’ all over it.”

  “I’ll bet you looked like a stud too. All sweaty and hero-like.” My split lip didn’t like all the talking I was doing and began to seep against the stitches. Those had been a bitch going in even with the drugs so I didn’t want to have them redone.

  He rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand, avoiding the IV line and grabbed a tissue to press against the leaking blood on my chin.

  “Shut up, already, would you? I want to tell you about how you solved the case. And yes, I looked like Colin Farrell in S.W.A.T. coming through those automatic doors.”

  I nodded, trying not to chuckle. Seth was way better looking than Colin Farrell. I definitely wanted to hear about the raid. Ingalls’s words came back to me. Mongrel bitch. I didn’t want it to hurt as much as it did. He’d been a loser full of ignorance and rage, but he wasn’t an outlier. There were more than a few people that thought anyone different was an affront. People who believed the word abomination was applicable to a biracial child. Those twisted ideologies never died. They just crouched down low and hid, waiting for the right audience. The right time. The right victim.

  “Farley Brothers Construction. Jesus, Sunshine. I’ve been working this case for months and in a week you found the link. Gordon led an ATF team into their warehouse out in Chantilly at six. They never saw the team coming. They busted in and half of them started blubbering like they’d been sent to the principal’s office. Those wannabe badasses running a gun ring in the suburbs cried. They had the guns hidden in boxes of toilets, for god’s sake. The team is matching up the weapons to the lists from the gun store robberies. We know some will be missing but we’re hoping most are recoverable.”

  “They? I don’t understand. You weren’t there?”

  He gave me a confused smile. “I was here waiting for you to wake up.”

  My eyes filled. “You missed your own raid? Are you stupid? That was your bust, Seth. You should have been there.”

  He reached up and brushed his fingers across my unbruised cheek. “I was exactly where I wanted to be. With you.”

  I choked down a sob. His fingers squeezed mine. He’d stayed with me. I let out my breath and just focused on how the rough, callused skin of his thumb felt rubbing across my palm.

  He rubbed my hand a little harder. “I know your dad wants you to get your license and work with him, but I was hoping maybe you’d see your way to joining the ATF. You’re a hell of a cop, Will. My boss was blown away by what you’d figured out with just those crappy PI databases. They’d fast-track you.”

  I hadn’t considered going back to the badge. And certainly not a different badge. The ATF. Working with Seth. My confusion must have shown on my face because he smiled.

  “Think about it later. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better. Just rest for now.”

  My face ached. My wrist throbbed. All the little cuts on my hands were beginning to sting. The drugs were wearing off again. I had a sudden rush of empathy for drug addicts. All I wanted was to push the button to get relief but the clarity was better.

  “You told your boss I was the one who’d tipped you off to Farley? You missed your own raid and you told your boss a civilian figured out where the guns were being stored?”

  I looked at him harder than I ever had ever since the first time we met. He wasn’t that shy fifteen year old I remembered when they first moved here. He’d moved past the guy who flirted with every girl to hide that he was the shy new kid. The football hero who had a smile that never quite reached his eyes. The winner who never let anyone get too close. The man who’d accepted medals and honors with the conviction he hadn’t really deserved them. Jesus, he’d given me credit for his case and acted like it was no big deal.

  And he looked like hell with dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, his uneven shave. Like he hadn’t slept for weeks. He probably hadn’t, worrying about the trouble I was getting myself into. The trouble he’d been trying to steer me away from. And when that failed, he’d risked his case to keep an eye on me.

  “Seth, I’m sorry.” I shifted in the bed, uncomfortable. Injuries I hadn’t known about were battling for my attention. I gritted my teeth and realized that even those hurt.

  “Don’t.”

  “I should have listened. I didn’t want to be left out. I wanted to prove to you that I was a good cop. And I didn’t think of the risks.”

  “It’s probably not a good time to say that I told you so, is it?”

  “It’s probably the only safe time to say it,” I joked.

  “You challenge me. I need that even if I don’t like it. You make me better, Sunshine.”

  “Me too, Ace.” I closed my eyes and let my body relax against the hospital bed, exhausted.

  He stood up and leaned over to kiss me gently on the side of my mouth free of sutures. “You need to sleep, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  The idea for this book, which was very different at the beginning, began a decade ago. It was a long time before I was brave enough to tell the idea to another person. He informed me it was a story that needed to be written and that I had to be the one to do it. He was with me every word, every page, every chapter; being my sounding board; being my cheerleader; being my mentor. Without Matthew V. Clemens this book would not exist. Thanks, Matt. You don’t suck.

  Jessie Lourey, Maggie Barbieri, and Wendy Watson were generous enough to read the first draft of this story, and I am profoundly appreciative of the time and energy that took and for the excellent comments and suggestions they made.

  Many thanks to Sherry Harris, who always makes time to lend an ear and share a cup of coffee and who did me the great honor of recommending me to her (now our) agent.

  Extra special thanks to Terri Bischoff, Amy Glaser, Nicole Nugent, and the entire Midnight Ink team.

  Dru Ann Love is the most aptly named human being. She is the personification of everything you could wish for in a friend and somehow manages to be even more than you could ever think to ask for. I am grateful every day she decided she wanted to be my friend and help be a part of the making of this book.

  So many people have contributed to this journey by providing support, advice, cheerleading, and butt-kicking. I am so grateful that I have the chance to thank all of them here: Joelle Charbonneau, Mollie Cox Bryan, Heather Webber, Jessie Chandler, Dana Fredsti, Eleanor Cawood Jones, Alan Orloff, Kristi Belcamino, Dorothy McFalls, Sally Goldenbaum, Ellery Adams, Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell, Nancy Parra, Shannon Baker, Catriona McPherson, LynDee Walker Stephens, Eileen Rendahl, John Talbot, and Tracy Kiely.

  My undying devotion and gratitude to my husband, who upon hearing me say that I wanted to quit my day job and write full-time after completing my first manuscript (that which you hold now) and not even having sold it yet, replied, “I’m in.” It was a gift I can never repay, that unconditional faith. Thank you every day, my love.

  Finally, I set out to do this because I wanted to show my daughter that if you work hard and are brave, you can accomplish what you set out to even if it takes longer than you thought it would. Thank you for being the inspiration for everything and the reason I challenge myself to do hard things.

  About the Author

  Aimee Hix is a former defense contractor turned mystery writer. She’s a member of Sisters in Crime. What Doesn’t Kill You is her first book.

  Visit her at www.AimeeHix.com.

 
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