by Sara Hubbard
“Call 911,” she says, her voice firm.
“It’s not safe. He’ll find us. He said no hospital.”
“Who’ll find you?”
“I have so much to tell you, but not now. I need help. Just please, come and help me,” I say, my voice pleading.
“Where are you?”
“Um…,” I look around and focus on the sign I can still see a few yards ahead. “Just before the turn off to Seabright.”
“Hang tight, Beth. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Hang tight? I’m not going anywhere, but Mickey might very well be. I take his hand in mine and caress the back of it. I caress the top of his head, too, moving his wiry gray and black hairs out of the drying blood sticking to his scalp. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. Or so vulnerable. Growing up, Mickey was always the protector. No one touched me or messed with me because of the threat of Mickey—a hired gunman to one of the biggest crime families on the upper east coast. And if the threat of him wasn’t enough, if someone hurt me—emotionally or physically—he took action and they lived just long enough to regret it. I never agreed with his methods or how he’s lived his life, but I have to admit, growing up I felt safe. He gave that to me—him and Mona…and Declan.
Minutes feel like hours and Mickey is fading fast. I fear Carrie will never get here. I pick up my phone again, knowing I can’t wait any longer for help when Carrie’s old sedan finally comes barreling down the road, dust kicking up around her. I leave Mickey and run up to the road to flag her down. She drives so fast that when she stops, the wheels spin out and she fishtails into the opposite lane. She doesn’t bother to correct it. She’s out of the car and by my side and I breathe a sigh of relief. I have no idea what’s next, but I’m confident Carrie’s got a plan. If not, we’ll be at the hospital within thirty minutes, twenty the way she drives.
After she helps me carry my uncle to the backseat of her car, she races down the highway, taking turns so quickly I clutch at my seatbelt for fear we might tip over again. I glance over my shoulder every few seconds, each time breathing a sigh of relief to see Mickey’s chest still rising and falling.
“He’s lost so much blood,” I say. “I just don’t know if he’ll make it.”
Carrie chews at her lip as she swerves to avoid a cat darting across the road. She narrowly misses him and I let out a curse. “Jesus, Carrie. That’s if we even get there in one piece.” Wherever we’re going. I assume at this point it has to be the hospital, but then she zooms right by it. “I hope you have a plan, or some secret doctor boyfriend I don’t know about.”
“Don’t worry. I got it under control.”
“I hope so, because if the Dantes find us we’re as good as dead.”
“Dantes?” she says, her eyes wide. “What the hell happened?”
“I’ll tell you everything. Just not right now, okay?” And what’s to tell? Mickey never got to fill me in, either. I’m in the dark as much as Carrie is.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
She chuckles nervously and shrugs her shoulders. I know that look and I don’t like it.
“Carrie?”
She hesitates before glancing at me from the corner of her eye.
“Carrie!”
“Relax, I have it covered, okay?” When I groan at her, she follows up with, “Have I ever let you down?”
Has she? Probably. Though at this moment, I can’t think of a single instance and she is my best friend. Whatever she has cooking, she has to believe it’s for my own good. I don’t trust many people, but her? Yeah, I would follow her off the edge of a cliff if she promised me there was something soft to land on.
Mickey moans in the back. He’s conscious again—barely. He coughs and sputters and blood bubbles from his mouth. “Fuck.” I slam my head back against the head rest. And then again. It doesn’t take a genius to know blood coming from his mouth is bad—really bad. Internal bleeding, for sure.
We continue into the East End. Not good. That is exactly where the Dantes rule and I can’t be seen here. For a moment, I panic and wonder if my trust is misplaced. I can’t help it. Look who my family is. Mickey and Mona always told me trust no one but yourself and maybe they were right.
Just before we get to The Pipeline, and I’m about to pee in my pants, we make a left down a street I wouldn’t walk on in the day, let alone the night. “Carrie, you better start talking—fast.”
Carrie refuses to answer.
“We’re a block from The Pipeline! Jimmy Dante’s goons already shot Mickey. Are you trying to give them a shot at me, too?”
“Jesus Christ, Beth. Calm the fuck down.” She turns down an alley and slams on the brakes to stop short of a large metal garbage container. My head is knocked forward but the seatbelt holds me tight and I flinch at a sharp pain. I didn’t even know I’d injured my chest and stomach but I can sure feel it now. Mickey has rolled off the seat and onto the floor. Shit!
Carrie and I get out of the car and try to get him comfortable.
“Stay here,” she says, running off to leave me in the middle of the alleyway in the dark.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I cry out. My hands are wrapped around Mickey, under his arms. There’s no way I can move him myself.
I hear the bang of metal and a slow creak. When I look up and to the right, I see Carrie facing an open door and the silhouette of a man inside, though I can’t see his face. Please be someone safe, I pray.
Carrie’s heels click on the pavement as she jogs back to us. A hand pushes me aside and though I don’t protest, I want to. Who is this guy? I glare at him, immediately distrusting him, but then I see his longish, brown hair, trimmed neatly along the bottom, his barely-there beard and his tattoos peeking out from the collar of his T-shirt and the hems of his sleeves.
Damien.
“Why are we here, Carrie?”
She holds up her hands. “He’s trained.”
“Trained? What do you mean he’s trained? What does that mean?” Mona said he was in the military, but she never said what he did for them.
Damien approaches Mickey with a bag in his hand. He takes a look at Mickey, shoves a shit load of bandages over his wound, and then tapes it in place. He seems to know what he’s doing and he’s confident about it. The tension in my shoulders relaxes momentarily until he wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist and tosses him over his shoulder like he’s made of feathers.
That can’t be good for his wound.
“We can help you carry him,” I say, with more sass to my voice than I intend.
“Nope. I got him.” He passes me and then tosses out a, “You’re welcome,” over his shoulder.
Carrie starts to follow him, but I grab her shoulder to stop her. “Carrie?”
“Now’s not the time. I promise he knows what he’s doing.”
I refuse to let go of her.
“Your aunt trusted him. That should be enough for you, too.”
I narrow my eyes. How the hell does she know that? I’m missing something and I don’t like the way it feels. “Is he a doctor?” I ask.
She frowns.
“A nurse?”
She shakes her head. “A corpsman…and a paramedic.”
She reaches out her hand and waits for me to take it. Though I hesitate, I reach out and grip hers. A paramedic. Okay, that’s not so bad. This could work. But can he be trusted? She certainly seems to think so or we wouldn’t be here, but she must see my continued apprehension because she says, “He’s saved a lot of lives. You can trust him, I promise.”
My body relaxes, if only a little, and the tension in my neck and shoulders dissolves into slight discomfort.
We follow the narrow staircase inside the building up to the second floor apartment. Through another unlocked and open door, I find Damien in the kitchen and Mickey lying unconscious on the table. Damien takes a pair of scissors and quickly cuts down the center of Mickey’s shirt, exposing his chest and the hole in his abdomen. I gasp as the b
lood pools in the broken skin by his belly button.
Damien takes a long swig of whiskey and then pours some of the liquor on the open wound, making Mickey flinch.
“You think that will help?” I say.
“For who?” he asks. “Me or him?”
“Either,” I say sourly. Him drinking right now does not help engender my confidence in him. Though he clearly doesn’t seem to care, spitting back his response to me as sourly as I delivered it. He turns and grabs a bag with a red cross on the side. With a quick unzip he’s dropping things onto the table. “Hold him down.”
Neither Carrie nor I move. He looks at Carrie first and then me before I come back to life, hurrying over to Mickey’s side. I stroke the side of his face. “It’ll be okay, Uncle Mickey. I promise.”
He jabs a needle in Mickey’s leg and Mickey doesn’t even flinch. “Help me roll him; I need to see if it went clear through.” Mickey groans in pain as we log roll him onto his side. Damien nods and says. “Okay, it went through. That’s good. We’ll just have to sew him up and hope to God it didn’t slice through anything important.”
“You think it did?” I say, gulping.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s pretty close to some major organs. If he lives, he’ll be lucky. You should have taken him to a doctor. His chances would be better.”
“I…” I can’t finish the sentence because I know he’s right. I know I should have, but Mickey always knows what’s best. I have to trust him, because dealing with this shit is so far out of my comfort zone but probably well within his.
While Damien rolls my uncle back onto his back, I hold my hands over Mickey’s ears to make sure he doesn’t smack his head. Damien jabs a needle into Mickey’s skin, a few inches from his gunshot wound. I wince as Mickey moans and I want to question Damien about what he’s doing and why, but then he pulls out a kit for stitching him up and lays out his equipment. The way he holds his tools and the thread… And the way he attacks Mickey’s wound… There’s no hesitation. Only confidence. He threads so quickly that I can’t follow his movements. His hands move like they’re dancing—lacing and threading. Before I know it, Mickey’s wound is closed tight and Damien is cleaning up the blood on Mickey’s stomach.
He leaves me speechless.
“Told you we could trust him.”
With my uncle, yeah, I’ll give her that. But with our lives? That remains to be seen.
“Thank you,” I finally say after letting go of a deep breath. Tears spring to my eyes. This is going to work. I did the right thing. He’s going to live...because of Damien. I want this to be true and yet part of me still worries. I may still lose him. The thought shakes me and a sob threatens to bulldoze through my body.
Bilskis don’t cry. Not ever. I’ll be strong for Mickey, because he needs me to be and because I don’t want to be weak. I want to be strong like my aunt, stronger than I’ve ever been. I’ll give him a firm hand to hold just like the one he always gave me. I’ll give him what he needs. No matter what.
“Hey,” Damien says, holding my gaze. “It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t think anything will ever be okay again.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Might never be the same. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be okay. And if you need a shoulder, lean on people who care about you.”
“People who care about me?” I mutter. “I’m not sure how many of those I got left.”
Chapter Five
Mickey’s still breathing, or at least, I think he is. I watch his chest for movement and am relieved to see the slow but certain rise and fall. His bandages are stained, but for the most part, it looks as though the bleeding has slowed. There hasn’t been any change in his condition since Damien stitched him up.
Damien.
I shake my head just thinking about my unlikely savior. Never in a million years did I expect Carrie to bring me to him and for him to know exactly what to do to help. I owe him so much. More than I can ever repay. I’m not accustomed to feeling this way and I don’t exactly like it—not when I barely who he is or how much I should trust him. Or if I should trust him at all.
Mickey groans and I reach out to dab the beads of sweat on his forehead. “I’m here,” I say, squeezing his hand with my free one. “Don’t you dare go anywhere. You hear me? You have to pull through.” I lower my voice to a whisper as I lean forward.
My hand clutches his until he settles and falls back asleep. Damien happened to have some painkillers on hand—I’m not going to judge him—and thankfully, he was able to get Mickey to swallow them. He seems to be comfortable now, aside from the occasional quiet moan, which I don’t even know for sure means he’s in pain. For all I know he could be dreaming or delirious.
I loosen his grip on my hand and sit back on my heels. Pain radiates down my back and I rise to my feet. Not the most comfortable night I’ve had, but I wouldn’t have slept anywhere else. I had to be here for Mickey in case he needed me. Reaching around, I try to rub the kinks out of my lower back. I don’t want to leave Mickey’s side, but I know if I get back in that chair right now I won’t be walking tomorrow.
It’s after four in the morning. The moon shines a ray of white light onto the carpet, reaching the tips of my toes. The apartment is quiet and I wonder if Carrie is still here. Damien must be and I will feel so much better if Carrie is, too.
Because Damien unnerves me. Not because he’s scary—he’s actually quite the opposite. The way he took charge and mended Mickey and comforted me… I’m not used to someone being soft around me like that—and meaning it. I can’t deny his sincerity. It draws me to him. But then, I’m only drawn to assholes, so that can’t be a good thing. My judgment is poor at best. That alone should be enough for me to keep my guard up and firmly in place. I can’t let myself be distracted or lose focus. My life is just too complicated.
The last time I lost focus, Evie paid the price and the aftermath resulted in my aunt’s death. The truth is, if I hadn’t let Evie leave that night at The Pipeline she wouldn’t have been attacked, Sam wouldn’t have threatened her, and Mona wouldn’t have intervened. My life would be normal right now. Declan and Evie wouldn’t be in custody, Mona would be alive, and Mickey wouldn’t be fighting for his life.
All because I have some deep-seated need to be wanted, to be cherished. How fucking pathetic is that?
And here I sit thinking about Damien? What is wrong with me? Even if I could trust myself, I have to admit I know nothing about him. I still don’t know how he and Carrie know each other, and this bothers me because it’s as if she’s been hiding things from me. And then there is Mona’s supposed familiarity with him. I mean, who is this guy?
The list of conversations I need to have with the people who surround me seems never ending, and makes me want to scream in frustration. I can’t just sit here and let my mind spin. Besides, I need to pee and I have an enormous headache that is growing by the minute. I venture to the bedroom door and listen for life on the other side. Still quiet. I hear a clock ticking and the steady hum of an old fridge, but otherwise there is silence. I pull on the door and cringe when it creaks, but as I try to go slowly, I swear the sound climaxes. Fuck. I walk through the half-open door sideways, and try to get my bearings. Last night is a blur and all I remember is that the kitchen is to the right. There’s a door across from me and it’s shut and so are the other three doors. Fantastic. All I need is to walk into Damien’s room and find him sleeping—or not. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.
I creep to the kitchen and cover my mouth to stifle a scream when I see him sitting in the living room in the dark by the open window, the moon casting him in shadows. He’s smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out through the crack. I feel the breeze and a chill walks through my body, so I hug myself for warmth. And yet he sits there, shirtless.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say.
He reaches over and flicks on the small lamp on the end table by the chair. “Did you need something?”
&nbs
p; “A new life? Could you manage that?”
“Hmm. If I could, I don’t know that I’d be sitting here right now.”
“Fair enough. I’ll settle for a bathroom. Maybe a change of clothes?” I point to the clothes I’ve worn since yesterday. My once white high-collared sweater is now splattered with blood and so are my jeans.
“Right across from the bedroom you came out of.” He stands and flicks his cigarette out the window before cranking the window closed. “If you want to go do your business I can bring you some clothes.”
I nod and turn away from him, but before I disappear down the hallway, I look over my shoulder, pausing as I try to find the strength to say the words I should have said hours before. “Thank you. For the clothes, for the place to stay, but mostly for helping my uncle.”
His solemn face is immobile, and I don’t suspect I’m going to get much more than that from him, so I tiptoe to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me, take a deep breath, and lower the toilet seat cover. I don’t pee right away. The closed space and the privacy gives me something I didn’t know I needed—the ability to let myself go and just feel. Behind the locked door, I rock back and forth as I cry quiet tears for the aunt I lost; for Declan, the protector I might never see again; and for Mickey, the uncle I still might lose. I don’t know how many minutes pass but the sound of the knocking on the door pulls me from my private moment.
I breathe through the tears and wipe my cheeks and eyes with the backs of my hands. In the mirror I see how positively wretched I look. My hair is in knots, matted with spots of dried blood and stray weeds. My eyes are red and puffy and my cheeks are cut up and so is my head. I don’t feel any physical pain, just emotional. I can’t let Damien see me vulnerable so I open the door just a bit, push my hand through, and allow him to put the clothes in my hand. I pull them back in and lock the door again. I never asked for a shower, but I don’t figure he’ll mind, so I take a quick one, noting all the bruises on my body. They’re nothing compared to Mickey’s. They don’t even rate. I feel completely foolish for noticing them. Like they have any sort of importance in my life right now.
