Reluctantly, Shea nodded and allowed Kallie to be lifted from her arms.
“Come on, baby,” I whispered, helping her to her shaky feet. She seemed to be operating on autopilot as she pulled her clothes over her wet swimsuit while they strapped Kallie onto a little board.
We followed them around to the front of the house, and Shea climbed into the back of the ambulance with Kallie, a blanket around her shoulders, her hair matted, tangled, and littered with sand.
Tremors kept rolling through her and I knew my girl was coming apart.
I gripped her by the face. “I’ll be right behind you,” I promised.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay.”
I turned to the guys. “Watch my brother.” My voice was coarse and rough, filled with my own kind a creeping fear.
“We’ve got him,” Lyrik promised with a shake of his head. “Go take care of your girls.”
In the Suburban, I followed the ambulance, those twenty minutes it took to get to the hospital almost unbearable.
They unloaded Kallie and took her straight to a curtained-off room. Shea held her on the bed, again refusing to let her go. Awkwardly, I stood at the side, doing my best to keep my cool while they messed with Kallie, checking her, prodding at her, the little girl’s face swimming with fear and alarm, but always obedient and respectful.
All I wanted was to take it away. Make it better.
Four hours later, they released Kallie.
She’s okay.
Shea picked her up and into her arms, frantically kissed the side of her head, the tremors that held her before still rocking through her body. “I’ve got you, Butterfly,” she whispered to Kallie who appeared almost as exhausted as her mother.
I approached them, pulled both of them to me, and wrapped them in the whole of my arms. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t really know who I was asking, but Shea nodded at my chest. “I just need to go home.”
“Okay, let’s get you both out of here.”
I wrapped an arm around Shea’s waist and began to steer them back through the corridors, discharge papers in my hand as I led them down the hall and out of the emergency room. The large sliding doors skated open to the early night.
Lights flashed.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
I blinked against the surprise of it, and Shea yelped in mortified shock, cringing and burying her face in my chest while hugging Kallie closer to her.
A crowd swarmed around us, and we were bombarded by a cacophony of shouted speculations as the fucking paparazzi stole picture after picture of us. “Sebastian Stone…there are reports there was a near drowning at the home you’re staying at nearby. Can you comment?”
“Can you tell us who the child is who was involved?”
“What is your relationship with the child’s mother?”
“Does Hailey Marx know you’re here?”
I covered the back of Kallie’s head with my hand, pressing both of them as close as I could get them.
Guarding.
Hiding.
Protecting.
Refusing to let one of the most traumatic days we’d ever experienced become their entertainment.
“Stay away from us,” I warned.
They shouldn’t be here, weren’t supposed to know where we were. This place was supposed be a sanctuary.
I’d been right when I’d been tempted to give Jennings whatever he wanted and then turn and leave it all behind.
My shit would just follow me back here anyway.
There was no escape.
Anger speared me, and I shoved through the mass, tossing off the assholes encroaching on our space, invading on our lives.
“We don’t have anything to say,” I growled as they flocked. I wanted to spit as they followed us out to where my SUV was parked in the middle of the lot, a rapid-fire of questions shot at us from every direction.
I rushed to get Shea and Kallie into the back seat, slamming the door shut when they were safely inside.
When I turned, a microphone was thrust in my face. “Who was supposed to be watching the child when she nearly drowned?”