“Yeah, man. Get that fucker.” My knees hit the ground next to Raina as he pushes the doors open with both hands, the bang of impact barely registering as I lean my head to rest on Raina’s mouth, straining to hear any sounds of her breathing.
My gut flips as I’m faced with silence. Despair pools in my stomach, and a silent sob wracks my body as I lift her limp form into my arms. Her blonde locks, once vibrant and full of life, hang limp and matted against her pale skin. Her face, ghostly white, is disturbingly still.
“Dammit, Raina, not now,” I whisper fiercely against the hollow silence, sending up an unspoken prayer into the charged atmosphere. I press two fingers to her neck, desperation mounting as I wait to feel her pulse.
Nothing.
Not even a faint flutter.
For a split second, my mind goes blank, my heart stopping alongside hers, not wanting to beat in a world where hers no longer pounds.
Then I jump into action, gently laying her out on the floor again. I remember some rudimentary CPR from secondary school, snippets of information filtering back through my panic-stricken mind. Keaton’s deep voice echoes from the halls beyond—him shouting for help from security—but all I can focus on is Raina’s pale face.
Anger swells from deep within me as I start chest compressions. One… Two… Three… the counting monotone in my mind grounding me to the task at hand. With every push of my hands against her chest, fury flows through me like electrical currents.
Mr. Lexington planned this. I know he did.
A famous performer is never as valuable to a label as when they’re dead…
Keaton suddenly rockets around Dickless, shooting down the hall like he’s a firefighter running toward flames. Nash and I share a glance and we follow in our friend’s path, even as the owner of the music label does his best to take up the entire hallway with his hands on his hips, elbows sticking out.
“I’m not done talking to you boys,” he hisses, like we’d even give a shit what he has to say. Not after the way he’s treated Raina. We blow past him, knocking him out of the way and he curses under his breath, choosing to follow us as we struggle to keep up with Keaton. The man is a powerhouse.
We lose sight of him as he turns in the opposite direction of our dressing room. I have no idea where he’s going, but unease works its way through me. “What are you doing back here?” one of the guys from Napalm Delights asks. I can’t tell you which one it is right now with how little I want to pay attention to him, but he blocks our way and Dickless hangs back. “You can’t just go anywhere you want. Carmen wants some privacy outside her dressing room.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Fucking move,” Nash snarls in his face.
Before anything else can happen we hear faint words coming from down the hall. “Don’t give up, Raina. Stay with us. Fight. I know you can.”
What the fuck?
Douchebag’s eyes go wide and flash to Dickless, searching for some sign of what he should do, making it clear he was meant to keep us away from this area.
Nash doesn’t wait for a cue; he shoulders past the guy, barreling toward the faint whispering.
“What the hell is going on?” Dickless asks the band member in our wake. It’s clear to me he’s trying to save face, to make it seem like he’s not trying to stop us from finding our girl.
We blow through double doors leading to a short stretch of hallway. At the end an exterior door is hanging open, letting frigid air blow through, but it has nothing on the ice storm surrounding my heart at the sight of Raina on the floor.
Darius is giving her chest compressions, tears streaking his face, and Keaton is nowhere in sight. Before we clear the shock and jump into action, Dickless appears behind us. His shout for security makes me jump, and it doesn’t take long for the footsteps of venue personnel to come stomping our way.
Why weren’t they already here? Why the fuck is our girl needing to be resuscitated in a godforsaken hallway, with Darius—of all people—as her savior, and no one else in sight until we arrived? My blood boils as anger rushes to the surface, but this isn’t the time for rage.
This is a time for action.
Knowing that and being able to instantly change the rush of bitter anger fighting for dominance over the dread that’s clawing in my chest is almost impossible. Shaking my head clear, I find Nash kneeling by Darius, shouting for someone to call an ambulance.
He brushes our girl’s hair away from her face, leaning in to assist Darius by giving her mouth to mouth while the Brit focuses on the chest compressions. The unbidden tune ofStayin’ Aliveplays in my head before I break out of my frozen state.
I fumble with my tight pants, reaching for my phone and frantically punch in 911, my voice gruff as I snap out our location and request medical assistance. The response is crackled but swift, promising immediate aid.
There’s always been on site medics, but this way they can page them directly, it has to be faster than going through the security guys who are bursting into the door. Fucking useless since Raina was attacked on their watch.
“Dammit, where’s Keaton?” Nash yells as he breaks from breathing for Raina.
The question hangs in the air like a bad smell as I turn back to the scene. My heart stutters painfully at the sight of my Bunny’s pale face—so different from her usual fiery energy on stage and her private moments filled with laughter and music.
As if summoned by our desperation, Keaton suddenly reappears, a medic following close on his heels with an emergency kit under his arm. The relief I feel is monumental, but it’s quickly overcome by fear as the medic kneels beside Darius, taking over the chest compressions.
