Everyone in the club was careening towards the exits. It was a complete madhouse, I was pretty sure if anyone fell over they’d be trampled to death. People pushed against me, and while I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, I figured if I went away from people running to the exits I’d be heading in the right general direction.
Eventually all the people running past had dispersed, and there were only a few people left on the floor. The neo-Nazi was on his back, with about four enormous bouncers holding him down on the floor. Karen was on her phone in the corner. About two feet away, with another bouncer helping him, was Kiegan, holding his arm and wincing as blood flowed through his fingers.
“Holy shit, Kiegan, are you ok?” I exclaimed, rushing over to him. He smiled ruefully.
“Never been better.”
I rolled my eyes and looked around to find something to stem the bleeding with. Before I got a chance, however, a couple of paramedics showed up, followed closely by some police officers.
Karen immediately got off the phone, relieved, and made her way over to the paramedics.
“He’s the one who was shot,” she told them, pointing to Kiegan. Then she turned to the cops. “I’ve got my main tech guy coming in, he’s going to get you all of the security footage straight away, but that’s the man there,” she told them, pointing to the neo-Nazi on the floor, who was still groaning and struggling to get away from the men on top of him.
I had to admire Karen’s composure as I just stood around with my mouth wide open, watching Kiegan, watching as the paramedics made their way over to him and loaded him up on a stretcher. I was so caught up in watching him that it took a second for me to realize that one of the police officers was talking to me.
“Miss, did you see what happened?”
“Um, somewhat. I was up there,” I replied, pointing to the VIP rooms. “I saw from the window.”
“Good, I’d like to take your statement please.”
“Can I… go with him?” I asked, motioning to Kiegan who was being hauled away. Why did I care? I didn’t even like the guy. Hell, I hated him. Two months ago I probably would have gone out to celebrate if I’d learned he was shot.
“I’d rather take your statement straight away if you don’t mind. Then I’ll have an officer drive you to the hospital to see him.”
Noticing my worried face, he added, “don’t worry miss, I’ve seen plenty of people shot in the arm, and none of them have died.”
I laughed a dry laugh that I could tell made me sound like a crazy person.
“I don’t even know why I care,” I whispered, and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. Maybe it was too much champagne. Maybe it was the emotions of the day. But all I wanted to do was go home and cry my eyes out.
Instead I spent fifteen minutes with the man who turned out to be Detective Lane, recounting everything that had happened. It was funny, even though I was telling him what I’d seen, repeating one of the most traumatic experiences of my life in my brain, it still didn’t feel real. It felt like I was telling a story, or repeating the plot to a TV show.
Finally, Detective Lane thanked me, and escorted me to a waiting cop car with lights flashing. I got in the back and breathed a huge sigh.
“I’m sorry about your… boyfriend?” the officer in the front seat ventured, a woman in her early 30s.
“Boss. And brother. Stepbrother, really,” I clarified.
“Oh, sorry,” the officer blushed.
“No, it’s no problem. Thanks for the ride.”
“My pleasure. I’m heading over to take his statement anyway, so when Detective Lane asked me to hold on a bit I didn’t mind. I imagine the doctors will be taking a bit of time stitching him up anyway.”
“Do you know if he’s ok?”
The officer nodded. “Yeah. I heard through the radio from my partner that it’s just a through-and-through, missed the major arteries, he’s just going to have a pretty sore arm for a while.”
“Good,” I muttered to myself, but still unable to ignore the relief that washed over me. Maybe it was just a natural human reaction. Maybe if I had really wanted him seriously hurt or dead there would have been something wrong with me.
When we got to the hospital, I followed the officer into the emergency room, where a nurse directed us down the hall. We found Kiegan sitting up on a bed being stitched up by a doctor. He was shirtless, dried blood on his arm, his muscles clenching from the pain, the tattoos covering his chest moving with every little twitch of his muscles.
He looked over at me and grinned.
“Hey,” he nodded. The officer took out her notebook.
“Mr. Hunt, I’d like to get a statement from you about what happened.”
“Sure. He was threatening the chick with his gun, I went down there to stop him, we struggled, the gun went off, and luckily it only hit my arm.” He flashed her that smile that made all the panties of every girl at the Moreton Academy wet when we were kids, and I pushed the fact that his list of conquests now included me to the back of my head.