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And as quickly as it began, it was gone, the squeal of tires replacing the low boom of the gun. When it was apparent that the car was gone, people started crying, yelling, calling 911. I moved gingerly, aware of the fact that my arm was on fire, hot lava spilling from my blouse and down my arm.
My attention wasn’t on my own bodily injuries as I focused on Polly’s gray pallor and terrified eyes.
“Are you okay? Are you hit?” I asked quickly, running the one arm that was still working over her shaking body.
“No, no,” she whispered, and then her eyes widened. “You are, Rosie. You’re shot.”
I awkwardly stood up, dusting my skirt. “It’s a flesh wound,” I dismissed, then frowned at my sleeve. “I’m more worried about my blouse. This is vintage,” I moaned.
Polly stood in front of me, regarding me in horror. “You’re shot,” she repeated. “And you’re worried about your blouse?”
“Of course. The arm will be fine after a couple of stitches and hopefully some good drugs. Crepe silk, on the other hand?” I shook my head. “There’s no ambulance for that.”
She grinned weakly among the chaos around us. “You’re crazy.”
I grinned back. “The best people are.”
Getting shot was like heartbreak. You saw people experience it in the movies, and in my world, more often in real life.
You know it hurts. You see it.
But you don’t actually realize the fucking agony of it until it happens to you.
Heartbreak was obviously worse, because like for silk crepe shirts, there was no ambulance, no hospital for a break that incurable. Well, maybe there was, if you counted a fallen cop with great abs and an even better ass.
Who just happened to be storming through the ER, murder on his face and fear in his eyes.
I’d been rather blasé about the whole thing. It was a shoulder wound, for chrissake. I wasn’t about to faint or cry like the other nitwit who got a graze on her shin. A graze. It only just broke the skin, wouldn’t even need stitches. You would’ve thought it took the whole leg off.
No, I wasn’t one to make a spectacle over something as asinine as a bullet wound. Not until I saw Luke’s eyes. The utter terror in them. I guessed he’d gotten a frantic call from Polly, babbling about how I’d been shot. She’d been more upset than I had.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she chanted at my bedside once they’d stitched me up.
I squeezed her hand. “Babe, I’m okay.” I frowned at her. “Don’t faint,” I commanded. Then I smiled. “They gave me morphine. This is aces.”
She gaped at me, tears welling in her eyes. “Someone shot you. Someone shot at us.”
I shrugged, ignoring the twinge that came with that. “It happens.”
“It does not happen,” she shrieked. “Hangnails happen. Bad hair days happen. Drive-by shootings do not happen.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Bad hair days do not happen.” I frowned, patting my hair. “Not to me at least.”
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
“My hair is not your fault. It’s those damn doctors messing it up,” I snapped.
She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “No, this, the shooting. It’s my fault.”
It was my turn to gape at her. “You? No, the list of people who I’ve pissed off enough to try and ruin my shopping day by shooting me is almost as long as my shoe wish list. Trust me, this is my fault. Therefore I’m glad I’m the one lying here with the bad hair, not you.” I paused. “Your hair looks great.”
“I’m serious, Rosie,” Polly said, face grim. “This happens the first day I’m in public after… you know who,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not Voldemort. You can say his name, however bullshit it is.”
“He’s got connections, Rosie. Bad ones,” she continued, wringing her hands.
I laughed. “I doubt it. Someone as cowardly as him does not have enough pull to organize a drive-by, especially in broad daylight.”
“But—”
She was cut off by the aforementioned fallen cop, plus another man with murder in his eyes—his whole body, actually—following close behind.
I didn’t think Polly was cut off by my murderous man. She was cut off by another.
Heath.
Guess he was back.
Couldn’t fault the guy’s timing.
“Holy fuck, Rosie,” Luke all but yelled, pushing past a male nurse who was about to take my blood pressure.
His hands gathered my face with a gentleness that didn’t match the rest of him. “You got shot,” he whispered.
“So they tell me,” I murmured.
“Baby,” he rasped, his tone broken, defeated.
I put my hand on his. “I’m okay.”
“You got shot,” he repeated.
“But I’m okay,” I repeated.
He wanted to say more, I could tell. He wanted to declare how he would protect me forever and how he’d failed in his job and how he was never letting me out of his sight. The usual things an alpha male said to his woman when she’d just been shot.
