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“Y-you got shot, Weston. You’re losing blood. We’ve got to get an ambulance!”
“I’m fine,” he says matter-of-factly.
He’s so handsome.
So perfect.
So flipping stubborn.
Once again, he came to my rescue in my darkest hour. It takes another minute for the rest of our reality to sink in. I cover my eyes as a blinding light sweeps through the windows from...above?
“Is that the police?”
“Close enough. It’s Drake and Bella’s company chopper, so I’m guessing the sheriff isn’t far behind.” He pulls me forward, hugging me with a grip that’s intense, desperate.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, this gentle thunder in his tone that makes my heart skip.
The driver wakes up with a miserable sob. “M-my face...my fucking face is on fire! I-I-I can’t see. My eyes are...oh, Jesus. Help me. For the love of fuck, help!”
West’s arms tighten, holding me protectively closer, leveling his gun at the man’s head.
“Shut up. You’ll have a doctor soon if you quit bitching.” He shoves the gun barrel against his temple. The other man winces as West says, “Don’t temp me, jackass. You almost got her killed.”
I dig my nails into his arm, pleading with the blue death in those eyes.
“Don’t. We’re safe. They’ll be arrested,” I whisper.
He nods silently, but I can see how hard it is for him to resist slaughtering these two clowns.
Thankfully, there’s a loud grinding noise a second later. The doors of the semi open and several sets of big, angry arms reach in, yanking both the driver and Carson out like bags of trash.
Sharp green eyes appear below, dancing in the artificial light.
Faulk leans in the driver’s door. “Are y’all okay? Took a mighty big tumble!”
“We’re good, Faulk,” Weston says, never pulling his eyes off me.
But I can tell his voice is weaker, and his hand drifts to his blood-soaked thigh.
Oh, God.
We can’t stay here.
The dome lights are on with the doors open, strangely blinding, and I can see the slow, horrible bleed seeping through his jeans.
“We’re not okay, Faulk—very not okay! Weston’s been shot,” I say loudly, trying not to panic.
The man nods, jumping into the empty driver’s seat for a closer look.
The next few minutes are a flurry of movement.
Faulk throwing an arm around Weston’s shoulders and helping him out of the truck with another man waiting on the ground.
West insists “he’ll be fine” about a hundred times, but the amount of sticky blood says otherwise. So does the way he staggers once he’s on the ground, like it’s taking all of his energy to move without collapsing.
I see the worried looks on the faces appearing around him.
My heart stops and drops to my feet.
