Page 78 of Vegas Daddy


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“We could have gotten them if it weren’t for me.”

I shake my head. “No, darling. We could have gotten them if someone hadn’t screwed up and our explosives went off according to plan.”

The fight is over. I can’t tell how many losses we’ve taken, but I’m sure as hell that the Becerra’s fared far worse. I pick Willow up again and start toward our base camp on the other side of the property line.

“Blow this place up,” I order one of the lieutenants. “Do it fucking properly this time.”

“W-where are you taking me?” Willow asks, looking obscenely pale.

“To the hospital. I don’t have the supplies I need here to take care of you myself.”

“But they’ll ask questions.”

“They can try.”

“Zane—”

“I’m not going to let you bleed out on me, darling. Just hang on.”

A sense of urgency floods me. She’s weak and barely coherent by the time I lay her down in the backseat. I don’t think I’ve ever driven so fast in my entire life, one hand on the steering wheel while the other reaches back to hold her hand. Willow’s frightfully cold to the touch, her grip weakening by the second.

“Stay with me, Willow,” I urge, speeding through the narrow streets of the town. “Where the fuck is the hospital?”

“Z-Zane…”

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“The bleeding…won’t stop.”

In the reflection of the rear-view mirror, I can see her struggling to stay awake. Things are taking a turn from bad to worse. Maybe I was wrong—maybe the bullet did hit something vital.

“Keep your eyes open, Willow,” I tell her firmly, shouting over the loud grumble of the car engine. “You stay with me now.”

I nearly crash the car into the curb just outside the small hospital’s emergency room. I don’t even bother turning the car off, kicking open the driver’s door to circle around and pull Willow out of the back. I rush inside, the hard metallic smell of her blood smearing all over my shirt.

“I need a doctor!” I shout, startling a few of the nearby nurses.

One of them approaches me, but I don’t understand a word she’s saying.

“I need someone who speaks English. Get me someone who speaks English!”

A petite nurse in her early twenties steps forward, understandably spooked. “I speak a little.” Her accent is heavy, but I understand her.

“I need a doctor. My wife’s been shot.”

“Put her on the stretcher.”

It’s a frenzy but organized. The hospital staff get to work, checking Willow’s vitals as they rush her off down the hall. When I try to go with, one of the nurses stops me.

“No puedes, señor!”

“What?”

“No further. Hospital staff only.”

“I need to be with her.”

“We will do what we can,” she insists, “but you cannot go further than this point.”

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