Beneath This Ink

by Meghan March

  My head jerked up at a thud against the glass. That crap about time slowing down when something traumatic was happening? It might be true for other people, but it certainly wasn’t for me.

  Everything happened so. Damn. Fast.

  The butt of a gun connected with my passenger window. The glass shattered. The barrel pointed at my head.

  “Get the fuck out of the car, bitch.”

  No, time didn’t freeze. But I did.

  “Are you fucking deaf? Get the fuck out of the car. Now!”

  Not taking my eyes off the gun, I fumbled around, unbuckling my seatbelt and feeling blindly along the door panel for the handle.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  My hand finally connected with the metal, and I yanked on it, flinging the door wide. Instinctively, I reached for my purse, grabbing the strap and dragging it out of the car as I stumbled backward onto the dark street. Wobbling on my heels, I stared as he rounded the hood, the gun still leveled on me. “Throw me the purse.”

  Reflexively, my fingers wrapped tighter around the strap of my bag, nails digging into the leather. I knew I should listen. Just throw him the damn purse. But I couldn’t make myself uncurl my hand.

  The gun didn’t waver. The traffic signal changed to from green to yellow, and the light glinted off the silver barrel. My entire world shrank to those two impressions: the feel of the leather beneath my fingers, and the changing colors of the traffic light reflecting off the gun.

  Yellow flashed to red.

  “You stupid, you fucking cunt? I told you to throw the fucking purse here.”

  I trembled, feeling just as stupid as he accused me of being. Silently I screamed at my muscles. Lift arm. Throw purse. Just throw the goddamn purse.

  He stepped closer. My heart, already hammering at a frenetic pace, kicked up to double time. I fought against the near-paralysis. Inch by inch, muscle twitch by muscle twitch, I forced myself to relax my death-grip.

  Okay. Halfway there. Now just throw it.

  And then I remembered my phone tucked into the side pocket.

  “Hurry the fuck up, I ain’t got all night.”

  I found my voice. “The keys are in the car. Just take it.”

  His arm bobbed as he replied, “Did I ask you where the fucking keys are, you stupid bitch? They better be in the fucking car, or your brains are going to be splattered all over the goddamn road.”

  Fuck the phone. I swung the purse as hard as I could, launching it at his face. He flinched, and I turned and ran.

  I vaguely recalled reading once that if someone was shooting at you, you should run and keep your movements erratic because handguns weren’t incredibly accurate. A moving target was always harder to hit. I had no idea why I read that or when, but right now, I was running like a drunk person, heading for the brick building to my left.

  Two gunshots ripped through the still night, and I dove toward the corner of the building. The movement was instinctive. Like I’d once dove at home plate while playing softball in Phys. Ed.

  Curling into the smallest target possible, I lay on the broken and jagged concrete. I waited for more shots, but they didn’t come. Yelling did.

  “What the fuck, man. You know whose woman that is? He’s gonna fucking hunt you down and kill you.”

  “Not if I fucking kill you first.”

  The sounds of a scuffle, and fists hitting flesh, came next. I uncurled from my tiny ball and peeked my head around the corner.

  A boy dressed in basketball shorts and a T-shirt landed punch after punch on the carjacker until he caught him with a fist to the jaw and sent him stumbling to the ground. I felt a strange glimmer of recognition as I watched the newcomer. How did I know him? My mind whirled, but couldn’t latch onto a single coherent thought. My eyes darted, following his every movement.

  I needed to run.

  The gun clattered against the pavement, catching my attention. Once again I could see the changing colors of the traffic signal reflecting off the metal.

  “You think you’re hot shit, Trey? You think just cuz you gettin’ outta here makes you better than us? You ain’t better than no one.”

  Trey.

  The glimmer of recognition solidified. One of Con’s boys. The one from the Boys and Girls Club dinner.

  Trey crossed his arms and stood over the carjacker. “Least I ain’t like you. I’m going somewhere with my life. You’re fucking headed to Angola on carjacking charges. Hope your asshole’s ready for the reaming that’s comin’.”

  “Fuck you, Trey.”

  There was a moment of stillness.

  And then both of them lunged for the gun.

  They struggled, Trey on top and the other guy on the ground. I couldn’t tell where the gun was. At least not until the next shot rang out.

  Neither of them moved for a beat, not until the carjacker shoved up and flipped Trey off him. Trey landed on his back, and from this distance, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  The carjacker stood for a moment, head jerking from side to side, as though scanning his surroundings, before he turned and ran, leaving my Mercedes quietly idling in the middle of the road.

  I scrambled up from my crouch behind the building and stumbled toward the street. My purse lay a few feet from the pool of blood that was growing on the pavement.

  I dropped to my knees beside the motionless boy and checked for a pulse. It was there, but faint. His chest barely moved, but he was still breathing. I needed to stop the bleeding. Ripping the cleanest section of the torn skirt of my dress free, I balled it up and pressed it against the wound in his chest. I dragged my purse closer and grabbed my phone.

  With one hand, I punched in 9-1-1. The operator’s voice was the best sound I’d heard all night.

  I was just finishing up a tat when my phone started buzzing on the counter. I ignored it, but it kept buzzing. And buzzing.

  Glancing over, I saw Hennessey’s name on the screen.

  The fuck?

  I rolled away, flipping off the machine, and apologized to my client. Pulling the latex glove off one hand, I swiped across the screen.

  “Leahy.”

  “Need to get your ass down to Tulane Medical Center.”

  I stilled, the blood rushing through my veins morphing into ice water.

  “What the hell happened? Who is it?”

  “Just get here. But don’t kill yourself on the way. Don’t need them bringing you in a bus, too.”

  “Who the fuck is it?”

  “One of your boys. Trey Vincent.”

  The ice water froze solid.

  “How bad?”

  “Died once already tonight. They brought him back. Get your ass here.”

  I looked down at the customer in my chair and the nearly finished red-tailed hawk I’d spent the past four hours working on.

  “On my way.”

  I was lowering my phone, about to hang up, when Hennessey added, “And a blonde came in with him. A hot, rich blonde. So damn rich that I’m standing in a wing of the hospital named after her mama. Says your boy saved her from a carjacking.”

  What the hell?

  “On my fucking way.”

  I hung up and snapped off my other latex glove.

  I turned to say something to my client, but he held up a hand. “Go, man. Do what you gotta do. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled and strode out of the room.

  “Gotta go, Delilah. Lock up for me? And don’t charge the client I’m leaving with an unfinished tat.”

  “Sure. But what can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you next shift.”

  I revved my bike and flew out of the alley thirty seconds later. In minutes, I was parking in the ‘Reserved for Clergy’ spot in front of the ER and hauling ass up to the automatic doors.

  “I’m not even going to ask how many traffic laws you broke to get here so fucking fast.” Hennessy pushed off the wall he’
d been leaning against, and I followed him inside.

  “How is he? Where’s his ma?”

  “Your boy’s still in surgery. His ma’s up in a private waiting room that Ms. Frost arranged.”

  I wanted to demand he tell me everything he knew about what had happened to Vanessa, but he was already suspicious. I didn’t need to heap fuel on the fire. “Is she okay? You said it was a carjacking?”

  Hennessy studied me as he replied, “She’s a little scraped and a lot shaken up. Pretty much what you’d expect from someone who was carjacked and witnessed a shooting. Although, I have to say, she’s holding it together well. Don’t even think she needed stitches.”

  The thought of someone threatening her… Fuck. My hands balled into white-knuckled fists. When he didn’t elaborate further, I tried to make my question sound casually concerned. “Why would she have needed stitches?”

  “Cut her knee on some broken glass when she ran from the shooter. Said she dove when he popped off a couple rounds at her. They just butterflied it and called it good.”

  A haze of red filled my vision. All pretense of casual died a bloody and violent death. “He fucking shot at her?” My roar filled the waiting room, and all heads swiveled in our direction.

  The nurse managing triage stood, but Hennessy waved her off.

  “What the fuck are you doing standing here? You’re the cop. Why the hell aren’t you out there,” I flung my arm out in the direction of the exit, “tracking the motherfucker down?”

  Hennessy crossed both arms over his chest. “Was waiting for you, asshole. Besides, I was keeping an eye on Ms. Frost. Figured I’d offer her a ride home when she was ready to leave.”

  Fucking white knight complex. Did every cop have one? Doesn’t matter.

  “Where’s this private waiting room?”

  Hennessy nodded toward the elevator bay about fifteen feet away. “Eighth floor.”

  Before I registered moving, I was jabbing a finger at the call button and the doors opened. Hennessy followed me inside and pressed ‘8.’

  “If you’d told me Vanessa Frost was the blonde you’d carried out of your club last night, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

  My head jerked up, and I stared at him. “I didn’t say jack shit, man. So don’t go making things up.”

  “Whatever you say, Con. But we both know the truth. I’m a fucking detective. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  The elevator came to a halt. As the doors slid open, I stomped out, swinging my head from side to side, seeing nothing but long, white-walled hallways.

  “Which way?”

  “Left.”

  Hennessy shoved past me and led the way to a door about fifteen yards from the elevator. Pushing it open, I found Vanessa and Ms. Vincent inside. They were seated side by side, hands joined, heads bowed. I caught “pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  The Hail Mary was never a good sign. Nor were the blue scrubs Vanessa was wearing. What the fuck happened to her clothes?

  They opened their mouths to start reciting it again, and I realized they must be saying the rosary that Ms. Vincent had dangling from her right hand. The prayer trailed off as they caught sight of Hennessy and me.

  Ms. Vincent stood first, releasing Vanessa’s hand and hurrying toward me. I caught her wiry body, wrapping my arms around her.

  She instantly burst into sobs. “My boy. My baby boy.”

  “Shhh,” I tried to soothe her, but my attempt had no effect. Her sobs grew louder until her whole body was shaking and spasming. “Shhh. You’ve got to be strong for Trey. He’s a tough kid. He’s going to pull through.”

  I knew nothing about his condition, but I had to believe it or I might break down into sobs just as pitiful as hers.

  Vanessa stood and crossed the room. She laid a comforting hand on Ms. Vincent’s shoulder.

  I met her eyes. The normally vivid blue was dull and lifeless. Haunted. She looked hollowed out.

  Neither Vanessa’s nor my comfort could temper Ms. Vincent’s hysterics. A nurse bustled down the hallway and drew her out of my arms. “Let’s get you something to help you calm down, ma’am.”

  She led Ms. Vincent away, leaving me, Vanessa, and Hennessy alone in the small, plush waiting room.

  The pale yellow walls were set off by white trim, and it boasted two cream leather sofas, a cream leather recliner, and a cherry coffee table. A flat screen TV was mounted in the corner, and coffee service was set up on a matching cherry sideboard.

  Something about the fancy waiting room made Vanessa seem even more vulnerable dressed in those thin, blue hospital scrubs.

  “Get the fuck out, Hennessy,” I barked.

  Vanessa’s eyes flashed, as though coming back from the wasteland she’d temporarily retreated to. Her expression said, Shut up, Con. But I was beyond caring what Hennessy knew or didn’t know. Besides, the smart fuck was already convinced that he knew everything. So what did it matter? He didn’t have any reason to share what he knew with anyone, and I’d make certain he didn’t develop a reason any time soon.

  “I’m not going far,” he replied.

  “I don’t fucking care where you go, so long as it ain’t here.”

  I didn’t bother to glance in his direction as he slipped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

  Vanessa stood only a few feet away from me. It was a few feet too far, but I stood rooted, needing the temporary distance to see with my own two eyes that she was okay.

  “He shot at you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah.” Her beautiful blue eyes glistened, and a tear spilled onto her cheek.

  Screw the distance. I reached out and wrapped both arms around her, hauling her against me. “Scared the fuck out of me, baby.”

  Her tears fell harder and faster, until a patch of my T-shirt was soaked through. When she didn’t cling to me, only stood there crying, I whispered, “Hold on to me, princess. I need to know you’re with me.”

  A moment passed before her arms snaked around my waist, squeezing me. This time, it was her body that shook with the force of the sobs.

  “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay.”

  Against my T-shirt, her words were garbled.

  “Slow down, honey. Just slow down.” I rubbed a hand up and down her back, trying to soothe her more successfully than I had Ms. Vincent. Finally, her words came out more clearly.

  “He shot him. He shot Trey. Trey…he…he was trying to help me. And that guy shot him.” Any other words she might have spoken were lost to the sobs once more.

  Jesus Christ. I should’ve gotten the details.

  “My fault. It’s my fault.”

  Fuck.

  “It ain’t your fault, princess. You didn’t pull the trigger. So no way in hell is this your fault.”

  Her lungs heaved, and for the first time, I didn’t particularly care that her breasts were crushed against my chest. Not beyond the fact that both of our hearts, which were breaking, were pressed together.

  “It’s my fault.”

  I pulled back, looking down into her red-rimmed eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have been there.”

  “And neither should he.”

  “But—”

  “No.” I cupped her cheeks in both hands, tilted her face up to mine. “There’s nothing you can do or say now that’s going to change what happened. All you can do is what you were doing with Trey’s mama—pray.”

  We spent hours in that yellow room. The nurse brought Ms. Vincent back after calming her down, and I sat in the middle of a sofa, one arm wrapped around Vanessa and the other wrapped around Ms. Vincent.

  Hennessey had stopped back, surveyed the scene, and left. He’d be showing up on my doorstep soon enough to get the scoop—of that I was certain.

  When he’d returned to the waiting room, Vanessa had tried to scoot away from me, but I’d pulled her closer to my side. I’d probably catch hell for that later, but for right now
, I wasn’t letting her out of reach.

  A solid knock preceded the door swinging open again, and a man in green scrubs stepped inside. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was the surgeon.

  Ms. Vincent was on her feet before he opened his mouth to say, “I’m Dr. Byron.”

  She clutched the beads of her rosary until I was certain she’d snap the thing. “How…how is my boy? Is he…please, doctor…”

  “He’s still critical. I repaired the artery, but he lost a lot of blood. We’re going to be monitoring him closely over the next several hours.”

  His words were guarded, and as much as I tried to find hope and optimism in them, I couldn’t.

  “Can I see him?” Ms. Vincent asked.

  “Just for a little bit, ma’am. He’s in the ICU.” The doctor looked at us. “Only immediate family, though.”

  Holding Vanessa against my side, I met Ms. Vincent’s eyes. “You go. We’ll wait here.”

  She looked from me to Vanessa. “You take that girl home and stay with her. She’s been through hell tonight. I’ve got Jesus to keep me company.”

  Vanessa protested. “I’m fine—”

  Ms. Vincent stepped closer, and laid a hand on Vanessa’s arm. “I see the guilt you’re carrying. Don’t. No matter what happens, my boy is a hero tonight.”

  Vanessa stiffened. I squeezed her against me again and answered for her. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back first thing.” I glanced up at the doctor and back to Ms. Vincent. “Anything changes, you call me. I don’t care what time.”

  Ms. Vincent smiled weakly. “You’re a good man, Constantine. Now get outta here. I need to see my boy.”

  Single file, we left the room, Dr. Byron taking Ms. Vincent to one bay of elevators, and Vanessa and I heading toward the ones I came up in with Hennessy.

  With both arms wrapped around herself, she seemed to be drawing in and shutting me out. I didn’t like it. I didn’t question why that was. We stepped into the elevator, the silver doors shutting quietly before she spoke.