Forty
Alex
“Sir!” squeals the paramedic treating me when I leap off the gurney and bolt out of the medic van. “A bullet collapsed your lung! You need urgent medical treatment!”
The sharp pain charging from my shoulder to my back dulls to barely a pulse when Regan’s frantic search of the half dozen patrol cars, three squad vans, and four ambulances ends upon spotting me.
“Alex.” Her hands dart up to cover her loud sob when she spots the wound a thick band of gauze can’t conceal.
I push off my feet and race to her, reaching her in under a second. She thumps my chest with her fist three times before her tears soothe the sting of her hit. “You just lost any chance you had of introducing handcuffs into our bedroom. We are never doing that. I don’t care how much you beg.”
I cough up half a lung while laughing. I shouldn’t laugh, but when forced between chuckling and jumping into the air, I chose the one less likely to cause me more pain. She said “our” and “we” in the same statement. If that isn’t something to celebrate, I don’t know what is.
Although I have a thousand better ways we could celebrate running through my mind, I keep my thoughts focused—barely. “Where are the girls?”
Regan spins me until I’m facing the paramedic glaring at me before replying, “They’re okay. They’re with Carly.” She stops studying every gingerly step I take to raise her watering eyes to mine. “You could have mentioned Carly was gay, then I wouldn’t have spent the last year and a half wondering if you two were getting freaky.”
I laugh for the second time. It’s not a smart move. I’m working with half a lung, and before Regan got here, half a heart. I can barely stand, much less chuckle over the jealousy lining her face.
The instant the life was snuffed from Kristin’s eyes, I knew Regan was safe, but with no one giving me an update on how she was doing mentally, I was riddled with panic. She fired at a living target; that’s vastly different than a paper silhouette.
Although I’m confident it was my bullet that ultimately killed Kristin, Regan still shot her. She may have even killed her if the loud ricochets of her gun hadn’t filled me with enough adrenaline to draw me back to consciousness.
After climbing the stairs at the back of an ambulance, I shift my torso to face Regan. Other than her cheeks being a little pale, and the vein in her neck working overtime, she looks okay. But just in case, I ask her if she is.
She assists me onto the gurney I fled mere seconds ago before answering, “I’m okay.” Her shoulders deflate when she exhales deeply. I grow panicked she lied until she asks, “Did they tell you?”
I extract the rest of her question from her eyes before asking one of my own: “About Kristin killing Dane?”
When remorse clouds Regan’s beautiful green irises, I nod. In all honesty, I’m still in shock. I guess I shouldn’t be. Unlike everyone around him, Dane didn’t see his disability as a disability. It frustrated him, and he would have given anything to go back to the way he was, but he barely stayed down for a minute. It was only those who should have been rallying around him instead of mourning the loss of his legs responsible for the negativity surrounding his injury. If I had done that instead of hiding from him because I hated the guilt I felt every time I saw him, I may have caught on sooner to what Kristin was doing.
“Brandon gave me an update while you gave your statement.” My last word comes out in a hiss from the paramedic’s chubby fingers poking my wound.
The pain in my eyes has nothing on the hurt reflecting in Regan’s hooded gaze. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d confuse her concern as worry for me. It’s a pity for all involved, I know my girl better than anyone.
“What is it?”
Regan waves off my question as if I’m being silly. I’m not willing to back down so easily. Ignoring questions that need answering hasn’t gotten me anywhere fast the past six years, so I’m not interested in walking that same worn track.
“Rae. . .”
Growling her name works every damn time, and I fucking love it. Her eyes snap to mine in less than a nanosecond, and her little vein works even harder. She’s not scared, though. She’s turned on.
I ask again, “What is it?”
Her chest rises three times before she rushes out in a breath, “I think Isla witnessed Dane’s death.”
“What?” I ask, certain I heard her wrong.
“She trusted a stranger over her mom, Alex. And she didn’t freeze or clam up when I accused Kristin of murdering Dane.” The moisture in her eyes doubles. “She wouldn’t do that unless she already knew. I think that’s the reason she’s a little funny with you. She thought scaring you away would protect you.” Her lips pop into the corner of her mouth. “I once thought the same thing.”
“Once?” I seek her gaze. When I get it, I ask, “So you don’t anymore?”
She waits long enough I forget the paramedic is jabbing me with a needle—because all I can feel is a knife piercing my heart—before shaking her head.
I exhale loudly, forcefully pushing the invisible knife away from both me and my heart. I fucking knew she wantedthisas much as me.
After taking a few moments to calm my erratic heart rate from both her confession about Isla and her pledge of not pushing me away, I hold out my hand palm side up. Months of frustrated tension leave me in an instant when Regan accepts it in under a second.
