“Grady!” a deep voice shouts from somewhere nearby, though I can’t see where from. I can’t see much, really. All I can see is thick black hair that curls at the ends and has thin gray streaks in a few places, and tanned skin. He really doesn’t look old enough to have a daughter Cheyenne’s age, even this close up. He’s too much of a bastard to be this attractive.
“Ian,” an impossibly deeper voice commands, “help me lift him.” Just beyond the thick head of black hair, I can see the two men working to gently pull Grady off of me. A moment passes before they’ve made any progress, and then he is being lifted up. First, they drag his upper torso and then pull him to the side. For a brief moment, the respite from the impact leaves me breathless, then dizzy with relief. Then it happens.
A fresh wave of pain hits me right in my gut as the two men drag Grady off my lower torso. My muscles spasm, and my lungs fight desperately for air. It’s too much, the feeling, and not enough, the clarity, all at the same time. It’s awful. The whole thing, from when they first started lifting him until now, has taken less than a minute, but it feels like forever.
A half of a second after the pain subsides some, Grady gasps for breath and struggles against his friends. I watch with rapt attention as his eyes shoot open and lock on mine. A beautiful green—deep and rich—zeroes in on first my face before they lower. His eyes travel down my body, but not the way a lover’s do. It’s not the way I’ve imagined he would explore my flesh after a heated argument that’s left us both livid.
His eyes slide down my frame in a sterile manner as he inspects me. I follow his attention, and when I find the source of my discomfort, I gasp and let my head fall back onto the hard wooden floor. A spot of blood is seeping into my blouse from my abdomen. The deep red stain focuses my energy as I close my eyes and try to block out the awful throbbing. It’s no use. Now that I know what’s causing the pain—a bullet wound to my lower gut, just above my hip—there’s just no ignoring the horrible dread that’s set in.
Large, strong hands reach out and put pressure on my wound, providing absolutely no relief. It’s not like it is in the movies, when you’re injured and you can still talk and give orders, or when someone puts pressure on your wound and it feels better. No, that would be far too lovely. I arch my back and cry out for some relief, but nothing comes. The movement only makes it worse as tears stream down the sides of my face.
When I reopen my eyes, Grady is hunched over me muttering something to one of his friends. I can’t understand a word of it. His head is turned and he’s speaking quietly. But then he speaks louder, and I finally understand something. I’m fine, he says a few times to his friends before he turns his attention back to me. Blood darkens his once-black tee shirt on his upper shoulder and streams down his arm.
I force myself to keep my eyes open and to watch him as he puts pressure on my lower abdomen. Everything around me stills for a moment before a sort of white noise creeps up, low and in the back of my head, moving toward the front until it overtakes everything around me. Gone is the sound of my heavy breathing, and gone is the sound of Grady barking orders at his friends, who take off without another word. They’re gone, but Grady doesn’t move. Except for his lips—they’re moving. Slowly, I start to be able to hear him. He’s asking about a car and then it sounds like he’s asking about my wound. All the sounds start to cross and it sounds like a buzzer is going off in my ear. I squint my eyes at him to show that I’m trying to listen, but I don’t understand. It does no good. His lips move faster, and, with one blood-streaked hand, he reaches out and lifts my head off the wood.
Everything about him consumes me. From his eyes to his bulking frame to the smile lines around his mouth. He doesn’t look happy now, but I can tell—he was happy once. It certainly hasn’t ever been in front of me. I thought I could see a bit of it the other night at the pizza shop before he spotted me. It’s inconsequential to my current state, but I think I was wrong about him and Cheyenne. I’ll bet he’s happy around her. Probably never been happier than the day she was born. And I’ll bet he smiled a lot when she was little. Maybe he has a wife who makes him smile, or a girlfriend. Maybe it’s just the club. But his smile lines are deep and long, and they give him away. He’s been happy, and that makes me want to be happy for him.
“Hey,” he shouts in my face, loud and mean. I blink a moment before realizing that I can hear him. And I want to rejoice, but in my current condition, I know it’s not a good idea. Not that I can rejoice. “Good, you can hear me.”
I go to open my mouth, but it doesn’t work. I move my lips until I can force a breath out, and I finally croak, “What?”
“You’ve been shot,” he says in an annoyed voice. Yeah, still a dick. “And I need to get you out of here. Are you going to give me any trouble?”