by Elle Maxwell
“Hey, stay with me. I just called him. He’ll be here soon.”
With those words, my body gives up the fight and the blackness pulls me under.
* * *
Graham
My phone vibrates with an incoming call. I already have a ridiculous grin on my face as I pull it out of my pocket, expecting it to be Mackenzie. That photo she sent earlier was so damn cute. I immediately made it my phone’s wallpaper.
“Hey.”
“Mr. Wyatt?”
My grin disappears the second I hear the voice on the other end, which is male and not immediately recognizable. Definitely not Mackenzie. I’m driving so I don’t want to pull the phone from my face to check the caller ID.
“Yes?” I say in a tone far different from the warm way I answered.
“It’s Sam, from Gold Dome Securities.”
“What’s up, Sam?”
“How far are you from Brighton?”
“Five minutes. Talk to me. What’s up?” I can’t interpret the tone of his voice, and he’s never called me unscheduled before. It’s making me agitated and impatient.
“Eli was here when Mackenzie got back from the store. He grabbed her when she got out of her car—”
No, no. Shit!
“Is she okay? Where is she?” The intense pounding of my heart echoes in my temples.
“Probable concussion, possible other injuries but none immediately visible. I’m with her now. I was waiting to call an ambulance until I spoke to you.”
“How did he get to her? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?” Concussion? Fear makes my chest squeeze painfully.
“I had to circle the block to find parking. I only had eyes off her for a couple of minutes, four tops.” Four minutes. Apparently, that was more than enough time for Eli. “I came up on them as soon as I could, drew my gun on him, and disarmed him of his knife and gun before he ran off—”
Knife. Gun.
I look down at the dashboard and realize I’m speeding as my foot has instinctively pushed down on the gas pedal during this call. I want to press the thing to the floor and race to her, but getting pulled over won’t do her any good right now, so I reluctantly ease off to get back down to the speed limit.
“Should I call an ambulance?” he asks.
“Should you?” I growl, not trying to hide my frustration. He’s the one there with her, able to assess her condition. Goddammit. I thought these guys were professionals.
“I think she can wait a few minutes.”
“Then I’ll drive her. I’ll be right there. Don’t fucking move.”
I hang up on him because I need the next two minutes to get my shit together so I don’t strangle the guy.
I pull to a lopsided stop in front of the house and jump out almost before the car is fully in park. Sam is walking up to me as I get out, his usually stoic face revealing signs of stress as he tries to apologize. I push right past him without a word, running over to where I can make out Mackenzie’s form on the driveway. She’s so still, lying there prone beside her parked car with her mass of golden red hair spread out. It’s shining as the sun hits the silky strands directly from above, inappropriately beautiful in this situation.
I drop to my knees in a single motion, not even noticing the impact on the concrete beneath me although it’s hard enough to bruise. It’s nothing compared to the bruising sensation spreading through my chest. I reach for her as gently as I can, not sure where exactly she’s hurt. As I brush her hair away from her face, I see a large bruise, red and angry, spreading across her right cheekbone.
“How long has she been out?” I ask Sam. It can’t be good that she’s unconscious, right?
“She was conscious when I got here, just passed out a couple minutes ago, right after I hung up the phone.”
Fuck, what do I do? This can’t be happening. It doesn’t seem real.
“Z,” I say, conscious to keep my voice light even though I want to roar in anger at Eli for doing this—and at the idiot hovering a foot away for not stopping him. “Baby, wake up.”
Her eyes drift open slowly, slowly, and for the first second she seems to stare through me instead of at me, eyes blank and lacking recognition. Then the haze clears slightly and I see realization sink back in.
“Graham,” she whispers. “There was this guy …”
She shifts, trying to get up. I place my palm on her chest, silently urging her to stay where she is.
“Hold on, maybe you shouldn’t move yet. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”
She looks confused, which worries me even more.
“My head hurts,” she says after a moment, wincing as though the very mention of it increases the pain. I find myself wincing along with her in sympathy. The helplessness of not being able to take her pain away is killing me.
“...Is he still here?” she asks suddenly, her voice rising and eyes widening in fear. I turn my head to see she’s caught sight of Sam’s form behind me.
“No, he’s gone,” I reassure her. “That’s Sam. He’s the one who called me. What hurts besides your head?”
“I don’t know,” she says a little slowly, trying to lift her head like she’s going to do a visual inventory of herself but quickly putting it back down with a grimace.
Feeling totally clueless and wishing I had medical training of some kind, I start prodding different areas of her body lightly to check for any injuries she might not be aware of at the moment, anything that would make it a bad idea to pick her up. That’s what they do on TV, right? She sucks in a breath when I run a hand over her left shoulder. Looking closer, I see a tear in the fabric at the very top of her short sleeve that I didn’t notice before because the shirt is black. It’s the same clingy athletic material as her yoga clothes, so the blood seeped into the absorbent fabric as sweat would, keeping it from dripping down her arm—but there’s a lot of blood. The fabric is fully saturated—I see a small patch of red blooming on the driveway beneath her, and my hand comes away covered in it.
That cut worries me, but there doesn’t seem to be any reason I can’t move her to my car and drive her to the hospital, so I pick her up and start walking. Trying to keep my movements as smooth as possible, I place her in the passenger side of the Range Rover. She moans softly in pain as I slowly roll up her left sleeve to get a better look at the wound.
“Shit,” I whisper. It’s deep, and it looks like it was made with a blade.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wyatt,” Sam says from right behind me. He must have followed us down the driveway, but I didn’t notice because I’m only focused on her. “It was only a couple of minutes—”
“Look.” I turn around, putting my back to Mackenzie for a moment so I can stare Sam down. He’s around my same height and weight, but he looks smaller at the moment. He knows he fucked up. “You aren’t my priority right now. Stick around until her roommate gets home. Make sure she’s safe. We’ll talk later. Oh, and call your boss. He and I will be talking as well.”
Without another word to him, I turn back to Kenz. Without the sleeve to absorb it, a stream of red blood is now running down her arm. There’s more than I would have thought possible, since I only looked away for a minute. That motherfucker came at my girl with a knife. I tamp down the rage, reminding myself that she needs my entire focus.
I grab a shirt from my gym bag in the backseat and tear it in half. I use the first half to wipe up the blood on her arm and tie the other half around the wound. My stomach turns with nausea as I hear her gasp in pain when I pull the fabric tight. I hate hurting her, and I have no idea if I’m doing this right. I buckle her in carefully then start driving to the hospital as quickly as I can without making too many sudden turns that could jostle her. Her eyes are closed, and I try talking to keep her awake because she might have a concussion, and I remember something about it being dangerous to sleep too soon with a brain injury.
Fuck. A brain injury. My insides feel as gashed as her arm, my soul bleeding out because she’s hurt. And it’
s my fault.
At a red light I pull out my phone and stab my finger at Marisa’s name. It rings enough times before she answers that my voice comes out as a bark, tight with anxiety, the second I hear the call connect.
“Marisa. Are you safe?”
I hear her sigh. It’s definitely Marisa because no one else can pack so much sass into a single wordless sound. But my concern isn’t fully alleviated.
“McF. Is this going to be a contraception joke? Because you know I’m usually down, but I’m in the middle of s—”
I cut her off.
“It’s not a joke. Where are you right now?”
“About to head home.” I can tell from the uncertainty in her voice that she’s picked up on my unusually serious tone.
“Good. When you get there make sure all the doors are locked.”
“Okay …” She draws the word out into multiple syllables. “What’s going on?”
I shove a hand through my tangled hair and look over at Kenz, whose eyes are still closed. I can’t see how her face looks because the injured side is facing away from me, but she’s bled through the shirt I tied around her arm, making the previously white fabric completely red.
The light turns green, and I step on the pedal.
“I’ll tell you when you get here. I’m taking Kenz to St. Elizabeth’s ER. We’re pulling in now. A guy named Sam is going to meet you at the house. I hired him. You need to go in and pack an overnight bag for yourself, and one for Mackenzie, then come to the hospital.”
“The ER? What is going on? Tell me right now. I mean it!” Her voice is both demanding and frightened.
I switch on the turn signal and wait for a car to get out of my way so I can enter the hospital parking lot.
“Can’t now. About to park. I’ll explain when I see you. Be safe, okay? Keep your eyes open and don’t make any extra stops.”
“You’re freaking me out …”
I hang up on her. I’m sure I’ll face her fury later. But since there’s a very real chance Mackenzie will never forgive me for this, I might even welcome the chance to go out via Latina firing squad.
30. “START TALKING. NOW.”
Graham
Kenz is a little more alert once I park the car at the hospital, even trying to argue that she can walk on her own. Of course, I ignore her and sweep her back up into my arms. I carry her in through the emergency room doors, radiating so much agitation that we’re processed in record time. She’s assigned a bed in one of the ER’s closet-sized rooms. There’s a flurry of activity as people come in and out of the room, examining her and asking questions. I get quite a few suspicious side-eyes, though Mackenzie repeatedly tells them I’m not the one who hurt her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call your mom?” I ask for the hundredth time when we have a moment alone.
“I’m sure.”
I’m tempted to call her parents anyway but decide to respect her decision.
After a while another nurse comes with a wheelchair to take Mackenzie away for CT and MRI scans, saying they’re checking for bleeding in her brain and making sure the knife didn’t cut any nerves or cause damage that might require surgery. Both possibilities make my pulse race with panic. Despite my efforts to follow, the nurse firmly tells me to stay behind. Before they’re fully out the door, I hear Mackenzie calling for me, and I’m at her side in an instant with my pulse pounding in renewed anxiety.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, scanning her body as though expecting to see some new injury.
“The groceries,” she says, making me frown in confusion. Her eyes are a little glassy, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the concussion, the painkillers they gave her, or both.
“What, baby?”
“The groceries … they’re in my car. It’s hot. They’ll spoil.”
I would have sworn nothing could make me smile right now, but my lips tip up at her genuine worry over this in the midst of such an intense situation. She’s so fucking cute.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they’re okay,” I assure her, which apparently calms her enough that she allows the nurse to wheel her away. I’ll probably just end up buying more food to replace whatever goes bad because there’s no way I’m leaving her to go check on them. But she doesn’t need to know that particular information now—or ever.
Once Mackenzie is gone, the room becomes too small, the walls too close, reminding me of a prison cell. After pacing restlessly for a couple of minutes, I can’t stand it a second longer, so I walk out the door and lean against the wall to wait for her. As soon as I’m in the hallway, I can breathe a little easier, even though I’m also breathing in that uniquely dismal hospital scent of chemical sanitization that never fully masks the underlying aroma of bodily affliction.
A quickly moving figure in my peripheral vision draws my attention to the ER entrance. Marisa is barreling toward me with Sam close on her heels.
“What the fuck, Graham?” She’s seething as expected. “Where is Mackenzie?” She tries to move around me to force her way inside the room.
“She’s not in there. They took her somewhere to get a CT scan and an MRI.”
Marisa stops short, and I know her well enough now to detect the fear beneath her front of fury. She pokes me hard in the chest with a finger.
“Start talking. Now.”
I gesture to Sam to wait for me and lead Marisa back into the room where we can have a little privacy. Not wanting to make her wait any longer, I start right in explaining Mackenzie’s injuries and what happened. Marisa’s caramel skin pales as I talk. I can relate. I have the image branded in my mind of what that fucker did to the woman I love. One side of her face is fully swollen now, covered in a colorful bruise that stands out in ghastly contrast against her pale skin. Not to mention the “laceration” (as the nurse called it) on her upper arm that they cleaned and stitched up first thing while Mackenzie winced and I held her other hand.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Marisa demands when I’m done. “Shouldn’t you be off tracking that guy down and beating his ass?”
I guess it’s a fair question. I can’t say the thought hasn’t already crossed my mind a time or twenty.
“A few years ago, I’d already be on my way to do just that,” I tell her honestly. “But as much as I want to make that asshole hurt, it wouldn’t be the right move. Because if I went after him, that means I wouldn’t be here with Kenz. She’s my first and only priority. Plus, I don’t want to leave her by getting thrown back in prison.”
I sound so reasonable, even though on the inside I’m vibrating with rage and the desire for retribution. He is not going to get away with this. I will do whatever it takes to make sure he can never hurt Mackenzie again. But not right now because she needs me here.
Marisa’s eyes soften in silent approval and understanding. She takes in a deep breath then looks down at the floor, nodding her head like she’s trying to process everything. Then she straightens and scrutinizes me. “Do you know who did this? Did you have anything to do with it?”
I nod and swallow down the lump that rises in my throat.
“Eli. He’s after me for revenge because I gave the cops information on his brother that helped put him in prison for life.”
Her eyes narrow.
“How long have you known he’s after you? Did you have any idea Kenz was at risk?”
It all pours out of me—the abridged version, anyway, because I’m not sure how long those scans will take. I tell Marisa about the confrontation in the grocery store parking lot, the pranks on my car and house, even the creepy surveillance photos. I didn’t intend to dump so much on her, but once I start talking, I can’t stop. I’m compelled to confess my sins, although I’m not expecting or looking for absolution.
“At first I really thought she didn’t need to know any of this. When things got worse, I knew I had to tell her, but I was … a coward, I guess. And selfish. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her when I’d just gotte
n her back. So, I convinced myself I’d be able to figure this out on my own.” I duck a little so she can see the dead seriousness on my face. “But I swear to you, I never thought he’d come after her directly. He only sent those pictures a few days ago, and I hired the bodyguard right away. I talked to my lawyer and was trying to make a plan. But I wasn’t fast enough.”
Both of my hands go up to my hair. I’ve been doing this a lot over the past hour, tugging at it as an insufficient outlet for the powerful emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
