by Cat Johnson
The man who'd taken on a field of presidential candidates in heated prime time debate during the last primary and never once lost his cool, was losing it now. That knowledge nearly took her off her feet.
She made her way to the kitchen chair and lowered herself into the seat, swaying and bracing on the table as she did.
“Dad. Please tell me. How bad is it?”
Jesus. What if he didn't make it? What if he died while she was sitting around the apartment waiting for a ride?
She wouldn't survive. She didn't want to live in a world without Zane in it.
“I honestly don't know. I rode in the ambulance with him. There was so much blood . . .” He cleared his throat. “The ER doctors met us at the door and took him directly into surgery. I still need to call his parents. And your mother.”
None of this answered the questions she needed answered. She needed to be there and demand the doctors tell her what was happening.
“Dad. Hang up with me and call the Alexanders.”
“You’re right. I need to. I'll see you here.”
“Okay.” She hit to disconnect and stood, determined to get there on her own even if her father didn't approve.
Gleaning strength from her determination she headed toward the door when a whiff of that night's dinner in the oven assaulted her.
It felt like a lifetime ago she'd picked up the lasagna and garlic bread and put it in the oven, but in reality it was barely an hour.
Just an hour since she was happy and the world was right. Now her whole universe was upside down and it felt as if nothing would ever be all right again.
Tears in her eyes, she flipped the oven from warm to off and almost jogged through the living room.
At the front door, she remembered her purse and keys as she reached for the knob. She moved to the table and scooped up the keys. Then moved to the closet to grab her purse. There she saw her coat hanging on the hook. She needed that too.
Jesus, maybe her father was right. Her head wasn't on straight. She shouldn't be driving and her hands were shaking so badly she could barely unlock her cell phone to order a car.
The helplessness overtook her, as did the tears, just as there was a knock on the door.
She struggled with the lock, finally dumping her keys, phone, purse and coat on the floor so she could use two hands to open all the deadbolts and locks Zane insisted they have.
She’d never armed the alarm after getting home today. Good thing. She'd never have been able to punch in the correct code to disarm it in her current state.
Finally she got the door open and her father's intern Marcus stood there, looking concerned.
She knew him from seeing him around the office. Enough to say hello by name and ask how he was doing.
Missy did not know him nearly well enough to throw herself against him, sobbing, but that was exactly what she did now.
“Miss Greenwood. Oh, boy. Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “Can we go to the hospital?”
“Yes. Of course.” He glanced past her at the discarded pile of her things on the floor just inside the open doorway.
He must have been used to cleaning up other people's messes from his job. Without even blinking he squatted down and scooped up everything. He tossed the keys inside her purse but handed the cell directly to her.
She grabbed onto it like a lifeline. It was her only connection to news about Zane until they got to the hospital. She glanced at the screen and saw no notifications.
No news had to be good news. Right?
He pulled the door closed, checking the lock, and then turned to her. Holding her jacket and purse out toward her, he said, “Ready?”
“Yes.” She clutched the jacket and purse to her chest while holding her phone in a death grip in one hand.
With the other hand she wiped at her eyes, restraining herself from wiping her nose as well, and followed Marcus down the stairs.
CHAPTER 19
His mouth was dry. His eyes too as blinking made it feel like he had sand beneath his lids. And there were odd but familiar sounds around him.
Hospital.
The word flew unbidden into Zane's hazy brain. The brain he tried to focus now as deja vou hit him hard.
Which country was he in? Which op had he been on that landed him here?
Just as quickly as those questions entered his mind, so did the answers as he started to remember and put the pieces together. He wasn't still in the SEALs. Nor had he been on an assignment for GAPS.
“Jesus.” He breathed out the word as he remembered where he had been. He'd gotten shot at the damn gym.
The senator.
He'd taken the hit, but did he protect Missy's father?
More hazy memories came back to him. He remembered the man up and talking to him. He’d been covered in blood, but that must have been Zane’s, not the senator's.
Damn. Where had he been hit?
Zane took inventory, trying to determine what parts of him hurt.
It was tough. Coming out of anesthesia, he was groggy. Not to mention nauseated and cold. But he wasn't in pain.
Not yet, anyway. That would come later. About the time he refused to keep taking the pain pills they were no doubt going to try to force on him.
He glanced down but the sheet was covering him and he couldn't see which parts were bandaged.
His arms felt like lead, but he managed to run his right hand across his stomach and around to his side.
There it was. The bandage.
Was that the entry wound or an exit wound? Had the bullet passed through him or had they had to dig it out? The answer to that question might determine how quickly he'd recover.
He wanted to try and explore further, but the IV in the back of his left hand wouldn't allow it.
Zane was just trying to sit up—and failing—when the curtain opened. The recovery room male nurse saw him grabbing for the metal rail on the bed and strode forward. “Do you need something?”
“My chart?” Zane asked.
The guy's brows lifted and Zane figured he wasn't going to get his first request or any answers until the doctor arrived.
He might as well take care of what else ailed him. Right now, that was his dry mouth and sore throat.
“Ice chips?”
This wasn't his first rodeo—or his first gun shot wound. He knew the deal. For now he’d be lucky to be able to suck on some ice chips.
They'd eventually let him drink some water. Maybe even juice. Then they'd wait for him to take a piss just to prove he could.
After, he'd be moved to ICU or a room, depending on how bad he was. He'd remain in the damn hospital until the doctor decreed he could leave.
Real fun stuff but there was no avoiding it. Rules were rules and hospitals were rigid about theirs.
“Sure. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” Zane lied.”
The nurse nodded. “I'll get you those ice chips and let the doctor know you're awake.”
“Thanks.” Zane eased his head back, tired already and he'd only just awoken.
He let his eyes close. The doc would be there soon enough. Then he'd get the report.
A rustling noise had his eyes flying open and lo and behold, there was the doctor, opening the curtain.
“Good morning.” The man smiled.
“It’s morning?” Jesus, had he been out all night? Zane frowned, or at least thought he did. At the moment, he was having trouble assessing parts of his own body.
“No. That was just a joke. A bad one, obviously.”
The doctor should stick to what he knew. Jokes, Zane didn't need. What he did want was a SitRep. “How bad, doc?”
“Well, you had a single gunshot wound to the left side of the abdomen. The good news is the bullet missed your vital organs. The bad news is you lost a lot of blood. We went in and repaired a lot of vascular damage.”
Zane nodded. He'd guessed as much. He'd passed out too fast at the scene and he didn't rem
ember it being from pain so it must have been from blood loss.
“Zane. Oh my God.”
He looked past the doctor to see the worried face of his mother. “Hey, Mom.”
“I'll let you two talk and be back later.” The doctor made his exit as Zane's mother came rushing forward, her panic clear in her expression. “How are you feeling? Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Gonna have a new scar, but I enjoy that. Pisses Dad off.”
“Don't joke. We were so worried. Missy is beside herself.”
“She's here?” he asked. Seeing her would do him more good than any painkiller.
“Of course she is. She's outside in the waiting room with Peter and Maryann and your father. They won't let her in. They said family only in the recovery room.”
A frown settled on his brow. “That's crazy. Get her. Tell them she's my fiancée.”
His mother's eyes widened. “Is she? Did you ask?”
“No. Was going to tonight. Shit.” He glanced around the small space as a horrible thought hit him. “I had the ring with me.”
Where was it now? What if it went missing? He was hauling himself up by the rail when his mother laid a hand on his arm.
“There's a bag with your things they gave us to hold. I'll look for the ring. Okay?”
He eased himself back again. “Yes, please. It's Grandma's. Yours too. If it's gone—”
“Don't worry. I'll find it. And that ring means nothing to me compared to you.”
“I know. But I'm good. Can you go look?” He was weak and talking wasn’t easy, but he got out all the words he needed to.
She pressed her lips together. “All right. I'll go. But only if you lay back and promise to rest. No more sitting up.”
“Promise.” There wasn't much else he could do given the situation.
His mother left and his ice chips arrived, but the only thing he wanted now was to see that his family's heirloom diamond engagement ring was safe.
Finally, his mother reappeared. “It's fine. I've put it in my wallet in my purse until you get out of here. All right?”
“Yes.” He breathed a sigh of relief.
“And Peter threw his senatorial weight around and convinced them to let Missy in since you two cohabitate. That was the word he used I think. She can come in as soon as I leave. Only one visitor at a time.”
“Fucking ridiculous.” Both the rules and the fact he'd waited this long to make it official with Missy.
He'd never considered all the possible ramifications—both legal and otherwise—of her being a girlfriend and not his wife.
“Zane. Language.”
Seriously? He'd been shot and they wouldn't let his girlfriend in to see him and his mother was worried about language?
He decided to choose his battles and mumbled, “Sorry.”
Meanwhile, this situation was his fault. He should have proposed long ago. Missy should never be barred from anywhere just because he'd been an ass and didn't want to marry her because his father wanted him to.
He'd started reevaluating his stance on marriage the day he saw her scrapbook. He had been on his way to their place tonight to make things right between them . . . and he'd almost died before he'd gotten the damn chance.
What if he had died before she knew he wanted to marry her? Wouldn't that have been one giant cosmic kick in the ass.
But he hadn’t died. He hadn’t missed his chance.
He raised his gaze to his mother. “Mom, could you—”
She smiled. “I'll go get her.”
Less than a minute later, a teary-eyed Missy appeared in the break between the curtains.
He watched her face when she saw him. She pressed a hand to her mouth and took one step forward before she stopped, looking afraid to come any closer.
Jesus, did he look that bad? If he'd lost that much blood, he probably did. Even though the doc would have pumped blood back into him, he still probably looked like a damn ghost.
“I'm okay. Promise.”
The tears filled her eyes as she shook her head. She took another step forward, then another. He was the one shot, but she was a damn wreck.
These things always were hardest on the family. He'd seen that plenty in the military when troops were wounded.
He reached out one hand to lure her the final few steps to him. “Come here.”
She did, still pressing one hand over her mouth even as she reached out with the other to take his.
“It's okay. I'm gonna be okay.”
She nodded but didn't talk.
That was fine because he had something he wanted to say. “Marry me. The sooner the better.”
He’d expected a scream of joy or tears of happiness.
As the seconds ticked by and he waited for far longer than he thought he'd have to, he would have been happy with a simple yes. Or hell, even a nod would do.
He didn't get any of that.
What he got was Missy shaking her head. “You don't want to get married.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don't.”
“Missy—”
“Shh. Let me finish. I know all the reasons why you don't want to and I understand. And I'm not going to marry you now just because you got shot and are suffering some sort of PTSD or remorse or I don't know. Whatever it is. You didn't want to get married yesterday. I'm not going to say yes to marrying you today.”
He had wanted to get married yesterday. He’d gotten the ring before getting shot. He’d asked her father for her hand before being shot.
But Missy wasn't in the mood to hear any of that. He could see that. And he was in no shape to convince her as his stomach did a flip and the little bit of water from the few ice chips he'd sucked on threatened to come back up.
Son of a bitch. He sure did have shit luck. He hadn't been shot in what? Five years now. Not since before he'd left the Navy.
Now, coming out of the damn gym, he took a bullet and Missy was using that as an excuse to not marry him.
It seemed he was still in for that cosmic kick in the ass after all.
CHAPTER 20
“Zane, please take it slow.”
“I'm fine.” His two words, gritted out between clenched teeth, told another story.
“You're not fine. You were shot in the stomach, for God's sake.” Frustration radiated from Missy's words as Zane's determination to do himself further harm tried her patience.
“No. I was shot in the side. Big difference. And besides, my duffle bag slowed the bullet. It was barely a graze.”
She didn't care how fast or slow the bullet had been moving. It had been inside him. Put there by a lunatic for some reason they might never know since the shooter was dead and the authorities hadn’t found anything enlightening on his cell phone or computer.
She let Zane’s ridiculous argument about his wound go and moved on. “Just let me help you.”
“You've helped enough, thank you.” Zane scowled.
Missy didn't take offense. Zane was a notoriously bad patient. So bad she'd began naming the incidents, few though they were, like weathermen named snowstorms or hurricanes.
She'd learned how much he hated being debilitated and worse, having to be taken care of, during the Influenza Outbreak of Winter 2015. And also during the Great Carpel Tunnel Scare of 2016.
But it seemed nothing was going to compare to the Gun Shot Wound of 2018. Nothing.
Perhaps the worst part was, he was healing fast and able to get around. But just because he could didn't mean he should.
The doctor had made that quite clear. Along with the fact that he needed to rest.
He shouldn't be exerting himself. He really shouldn't be climbing the flight of stairs to their apartment on the day he’d been released from the hospital.
Her parents had offered him the guest room on the first floor of their home. No stairs. Private bathroom. Housekeeping staff to attend to his every need. He'd said no, thank you. He'd rather be home.
His parents
had offered him a room on their first floor as well. That offer had gotten a big old no from him. No surprise there.
It seemed Missy was destined to play nursemaid to the cranky patient—if she managed to get him up the stairs without him tearing his stitches and bleeding out.
She didn’t dare call anyone to come over to help him up the stairs either. The reason for Zane’s you've done enough already comment—what he was most cranky about right now—was that Missy had called Jon to let him know what had happened.
That action had seemed innocuous enough. His business partner and best friend should know that he'd been shot. But that one call had caused a domino effect and resulted in an onslaught of calls, texts, visits, cards and flower arrangements from what seemed like every SEAL Zane knew and every man he'd ever worked with. And that number was large.
Missy sighed. Whatever she did right now would rub him the wrong way so she wasn't going to beat herself up about doing what she thought was right.
Still scowling, but too out of breath to bitch at her more, Zane finally reached the top of the stairs. She stood right behind him, ready to catch him if he fell backwards.
Not that she'd be able to support a six foot tall muscle bound man if he fell on her, but she'd do her best. She had to since he'd refused to even tell anyone else, including their mutual parents, that he'd been released.
She stood close enough she heard Zane's mumbled curse and his increased breathing as he stood leaning against the doorframe with one hand and pressing the other against his side.
Yes, she was concerned. Yes, she wanted him inside and horizontal, resting as he was supposed to be ASAP. But she also couldn't help feeling a little bit of satisfaction that the climb had winded him enough he had to realize he'd overexerted himself.
Missy restrained herself from commenting and sidled around him to unlock the door. A glance at his face told her he realized he'd pushed himself but would rather die than admit it.
She gave him his delusion that she didn't notice and let him maintain his pride.
After one quick glance to make sure there was no blood soaking through the bandages beneath his shirt, she pushed the door open wide and went in to disable the alarm.
