Right now, all I hear is a ringing in my ears from the gunshots, and my heart thudding loudly. As I get closer to him, I feel shards of glass slicing into my palms and knees, but I ignore the pain. All I’m focused on is the man lying on his back staring up at the ceiling.
Please, not again. I can’t handle two dead bodies in one week.
I eventually make it to Andrew’s side and the first thing I see are several bullet holes in his chest. His sweatshirt is now not only stained with beer and food but his blood as well. It seeps out of the holes in his chest and blooms on the sweatshirt in one giant bloodred circle.
With a shaking hand, I reach out and press two fingers against the side of his neck. I wait for the beat of his heart against my fingers, but nothing happens.
Realizing that my fingers are pressed up against the neck of a dead body, I snatch my hand away and scramble backward until my shoulder hits the wall. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around them and stare unblinking at the man I was just talking to moments ago.
Someone shot him. Someone shot at me. He was getting ready to tell me something important and was cut off by bullets to the chest before he could finish his sentence. Someone out there must have been following me and they didn’t want Andrew to talk.
This is not good. Not good at all.
CHAPTER 7
Lorelei. Come on, snap out of it, baby. Look at me.”
The voice registers in my brain but it doesn’t make sense. That voice wouldn’t be talking to me this nicely. He’d also never call me “baby.”
I feel warm hands on my face and my head is turned so I’m no longer staring at Andrew Jameson’s dead body. Now I’m staring at a well-muscled chest in a tight blue shirt. My eyes slowly travel up and I see Dallas staring at me with a worried expression, his thumb wiping away at something on my cheek.
“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding. Breathe, Lorelei.”
At his command, I let out a shaky breath and suddenly feel tears pooling in my eyes. I blink rapidly, refusing to let them fall. I don’t know what Dallas is doing here or why he’s being so nice to me, but I will absolutely not fall apart in front of him. That will only give him more ammunition.
Glancing around, I realize it’s gotten dark. The sun was setting when I pulled up to Andrew’s house. I must have been sitting here for a while. I remember sitting against the wall, afraid to go outside in case the shooter was still out there.
Everything comes rushing back at once. Talking to Andrew, a few seconds away from him telling me who killed Richard, and then gunshots. I wasn’t even scared at the time—I must have been moving on pure adrenaline. But now the breaths are leaving my lungs quickly. Too quickly. I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.
Dallas turns my face back to him and bends his head lower so he’s looking directly in my eyes. “Don’t look over there. Just look at me. It’s okay. Nice and slow.”
Nice and slow. In and out. Don’t think about the fact that there’s another dead body just a few feet away from me or that Dallas has the most amazing gray eyes I’ve ever seen and they’re currently looking at me with gentle concern instead of irritation.
Dallas slides his hands off of my cheeks and I immediately miss their warmth. He reaches down and grabs both of my wrists, pulling my hands up and inspecting them.
“Fuck. Your hands are full of glass,” he curses as he gently starts plucking a few pieces out.
I look down and realize he’s right. I stare unblinking at the palms of my hands. They are covered in dots of blood and tiny shards of glass and they suddenly hurt like hell.
He lets go of one of my hands and quickly reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. He brings it up to the side of my face and presses it against my cheek. I flinch when it touches my skin and feel a small sting of pain.
“It’s all right—it’s just a small scratch. A bullet must have grazed you,” he says calmly.
The look on his face contradicts the softness in his tone. He’s clenching his teeth and a muscle ticks in his jaw. He’s probably angry with me that I came in here, acting like I knew what I was doing, and now a prime suspect is dead.
I want to defend myself, but I can’t make the words form. What if it was my fault? Maybe someone saw me leaving Stephanie’s house and they followed me here. What if I’m the reason Andrew Jameson is dead?
The distant sound of sirens pulls Dallas’s gaze away from mine and he quickly looks out the open door and then back to me.
“Hurry, get up.”
He grabs my arms and pulls me to my feet.
“The cops are going to be all over this place in ten minutes. You need to get the fuck out of here,” he tells me, pulling me toward the door.