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Desmond snarls, “You won’t be going anywhere.”
“Like hell I won’t,” I snap at him.
“Who is it?” a woman questions in the background. My jealousy flares, but it’s not enough to drown out my panic.
Desmond mumbles in the background, arguing with someone, then his voice rises a little more before he mutters, “Fine.” Coming back to the phone, he instructs, “Towels, put pressure on the wound, Charlotte. We are on our way.”
“We?” I ask, a shiver running down my spine at the implication.
“Yes,” he replies firmly. “I’ve got backup. Just stay with Matty.”
The sense of relief is immense, but it’s quickly replaced by worry for Lyric and fear for Matty. I grab the nearest towels and rush back to the kitchen, where Matty slumps against the table, his face pale. Blood stains his clothes, and I do my best to follow Desmond’s instructions, putting pressure on the wound.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper to him, more to reassure myself than anything else. “Desmond is on his way.”
Matty’s breathing is shallow, his eyes glassy with pain. He nods weakly, and I can see fear flickering in his eyes. I stroke his hair, trying to offer what little comfort I can.
“I’m going to give you instructions. I’m not leaving you just yet,” Desmond says. I forgot he was on the phone. In the background, he hisses, “You drive since you want to come.”
“Desmond.” I lick my lips as Matty slumps over onto the table, and for a moment, I think he’s dead. The phone falls from my hands, and I barely catch Matty in time before he slides off the chair and onto the floor. There is no way I can lift him to somehow make him comfortable, so I don’t. Instead, I crawl over to the drawer where I keep all my kitchen towels and yank the drawer out. It crashes to the floor with a thud, towels spilling out.
There’s so much blood that when I turn back to Matty, I don’t even know where to start. He’s soaked from head to toe, his clothing clinging to him like a second skin.
“Scissors.” I scramble up and open the knife drawer where I keep my kitchen shears before I spin back to Matty. With trembling fingertips, I cut away his shirt. In the back of my mind, I register that he isn’t wearing a coat, shoes, or socks. “What did you get into?” I ask, more to myself than him.
As the fabric of his shirt peels away, a small hole is revealed, and for a moment, all I can do is watch as blood oozes from the wound.
“Who shot you?” His chest moves rapidly as though, even in sleep, he can feel the bullet wound. His mind knows the pain is too much to bear, so it shut down. “Desmond.” I reach down and put my phone onto speaker, smearing blood across the surface.
“Charlotte, talk to me,” Desmond barks. “Five minutes. We are five minutes away.”
“I’m here,” I tell him, my voice shaking as tears build in my eyes. I want to stay strong for Desmond, but it feels like everything is crumbling around me. “Someone shot Matty,” I choke out.
“Where?” Desmond asks sharply.
My finger trembles as I press it against the side of the wound. Blood spills out, and I feel my stomach roil from the sight. “Um, his right side…”
“Have you checked his back for an exit wound?”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “What do you mean?”
Desmond takes a deep breath before calmly explaining, “Check his back for an exit wound to see if the bullet went through.” I swallow hard, trying not to panic as I slowly move around him to search for an answer.
My heart pounds as I try to focus amidst the chaos. Matty’s labored breathing fills the tense air. I carefully shift him to check his back, my fingers trembling. The seconds feel like hours as I assess the situation.
“No,” I reply, my voice strained. “There’s an entry wound, but no exit wound.”
“All right, apply pressure on the entry wound,” Desmond instructs. “We need to slow down the bleeding. Use whatever you can—clothes, bandages, anything.”
I scramble to gather my thoughts, trying to maintain composure. I grab a towel, quickly tearing it into strips, and press them firmly against Matty’s wounds. Blood seeps through, and I apply more pressure, my hands coated in his blood.
“Desmond, we need to get him to a hospital. This isn’t something we can handle on our own,” I urge, desperation clear in my voice.
“We’re almost there, Charlotte. Just hang on a little longer. You’re doing great. Keep applying pressure,” Desmond says, his voice strained with concern.
Matty moans in pain, his face pale and contorted. I offer what comfort I can, whispering to him and trying to keep him conscious.
“We need Dom,” Desmond says to someone else. “Charlotte, I need to make a phone call. We are pulling up right now.” A breath passes. “Fuck, they are dead. Backup, I need backup.”
