“I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have been an asshole earlier. I’m just totally at my max with stress about this whole situation. All I want is to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Her head turns to me and she offers me a small smile. It’s not much but I’ll take it.
“Do you remember that time Dax Stevens poured hand sanitizer into Mr. Duncan’s coffee while he stepped out of the classroom?”
She nods and looks out the window.
“God, the whole class was laughing so hard when he came back in. He was so eager to tell us about the Civil War that he downed practically half his cup before he realized it didn’t taste right. When he puked in the trash can, you almost threw up.” I flash her a grin. “Dax got in so much fucking trouble. His dad probably beat his ass for getting expelled over that shit.”
“Poor Mr. Duncan.” A small chuckle escapes her and it’s fucking musical. It breathes hope into a brittle part of my heart that had been recently darkened.
She leans forward and switches the song she always skips over to the next one we both love. My chest swells with happiness. We can fix this. I just need to breathe life back into my girl. Make her remember the good times.
Reaching over, I hold my hand out to her. And like a million other times we rode around in my truck together, she grasps my hand and our fingers thread together.
Everything is going to be okay.
WHITE AND THEN black.
White and then black.
White and then voices.
“Warren.”
A blur stands in my vision and I attempt to blink away the haze. When my eyes find their focus, my father comes into view. His dark hair is disheveled and his eyebrows are drawn together in concern. Lines that weren’t there before crinkle along his forehead. My dad looks older. And stressed as hell.
“Warren, do you remember what happened?” His voice shakes as he asks his question.
I try to speak but it’s then that I realize something is in my throat. A tube maybe. Shaking my head, I attempt to conjure up my memories.
Something niggles at me.
Something heavy.
As if my heart is aching.
“Son, you were shot. Do you remember that?”
Again, I shake my head no.
His frown is immediate. “Do you remember Baylee?”
Baylee. Baylee. Baylee.
My heart rate speeds up and I can hear it on the monitor. The sound is comforting and I find myself needing to count the beats. How many of those rapid beats would resound on the monitor in a minute’s time? My eyes dart all around the room in search of a clock. Finding nothing, I decide to count them. One, two, three, four, five, six—nearly two beats per second. Two beats per second means one hundred twenty in one minute. Is that normal? Is it abnormal? Is it the reason I’m in the hospital after being shot like Dad claims?
I forget to count when I’m with you.
The voice, my voice, echoes in my head over and over again. That phrase seems to be a mantra I’ve created for myself. Because of her.
I close my eyes and I see her bright blue eyes. Kind and compassionate. Hungry and loving.
She loves me.
And I love her.
Reopening my eyes, I plead with them to my father. To ask him where she is. Everything is confusing and hazy but when it comes to thinking about her, I can recall every tiny detail of her beautiful face.
“I’m sorry but…” Dad trails off and reaches for my hand. I jerk it away before he can touch me.
My heart rate thunders in my achy chest and the beats are out of control. The machine is dinging noisily at my side. Why is he sorry? What happened to her?
“We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. McPherson,” a woman says from somewhere else in the room. “Or should I call you Mr. Atlantic?”
The panic in my chest doesn’t subside and I’m at the point where I feel as if it might rip right down the middle at any second. My skin would tear while the bones would crack as my heart makes its escape. Blood would spurt and spray the dingy, yellow ceiling tiles, making them a brilliant red instead.
An attractive older woman steps into view, her brown eyes narrowing at me. I don’t know her, yet she appears to know me. Before she gets too close, Dad stops her with his arm.
“That’s close enough, Detective Stark.”
Stark?
Why does that name ring all sorts of bells in my head?
She nods her acquiescence. “We’d like to talk to you about Baylee Winston and Gabriel Sharpe. She’s wanted for questioning right now for her involvement in your attempted murder. We have reason to believe she was Mr. Sharpe’s accomplice. Is it correct that you were sending funds to help her mother?”
The room spins and I snap my eyes closed to keep from throwing up. With this tube down my throat, who knows what would happen. I could drown on my own vomit. It would spew and spew but would have nowhere to go. Gobs of stomach acid would find their way into my lungs, burn through the tissue, and eventually suffocate me. Then who would help Baylee?