“Beckett, hang in there, okay?”
God, please let her be fine.
With nothing else within reaching distance, I rip my t-shirt off and press the fabric to her injury. She hisses in pain. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I repeat. I made yet another mistake, and she paid the price.
I taunted them, and Beckett took the bullet.
How could I have been so stupid?
“Did you see who it was?” she asks, her body trembling, voice wavering.
“No.”
“Help is coming,” Lauren says as she rushes over. Her eyes are wide, her face pale. “What can I do?”
“More towels,” I tell her.
“Okay.” She darts away.
“Shawn?” my partner yells through the open door.
“Back here. Beckett is hit.”
With a grim expression, he rounds the couch.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Your house is all sh-shot up because of me.” She’s going into shock.
“Don’t apologize. I need you to stay with me, okay?” Keeping pressure on her wound, I prop her up against my chest, then rub my free hand up and down her arm. “Can you stay with me?”
“Here,” Lauren rushes in and offers me a towel. I throw my blood-soaked shirt to the side and use the towel.
“Who are you?” Anderson asks.
“M-m-y?—”
“Her friend,” Lauren says, pointing to Beckett. “Lauren,” she adds with a look at me. I nod in response.
Better to keep her out of it.
“Nice to meet you,” Anderson says as he crouches down in front of us. “Beckett, you’re going to be okay, all right?”
Sirens scream in the distance, and with every passing moment, my own adrenaline begins to wane, and all I can feel is panic.
Pure, blinding fear.
What if the bullet hit something vital? What if she doesn’t make it?
God, please don’t take her. Not yet. I need her here.
“Shawn,” she whispers.
“Stay with me, Beckett.”
“I’m tired.” Her head lolls to the side.
The towel is already saturated with her blood. The floor is slick with it. Both of which mean she’s dangerously close to bleeding out. “How far out is that ambulance?” I snap at Anderson. Panic claws at my chest, and tears sting my eyes.
She can’t die.
