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Gianna, call 911.
A guy is on the ground bleeding.
Give them my location. Hurry up and get here.
“Shit,” I say, pocketing my vibrating phone. I’m sure Gianna is panicking. I drop to my knees beside him.
Gianna needs to run here, my mind races, trying to make sense of the situation. Who is this man? What happened to him? And why, of all places, did he have to end up here?
Stay with me. I urge him with my eyes, my whole body trembling.Help is on the way.
As if he were listening my words, the man manages a weak nod, his lips pressed into a thin line as he fights to stay conscious. I hold his hand, willing him to stay strong.
The man’s dark hair is matted with sweat and blood, his face pale as the moonlight washing over us. A short stubble covers his jawline, hinting at just hours without care. His starched white shirt, torn in places, reveals a lean, muscular frame that speaks of stamina despite his current weakened state. The vulnerability in his eyes cuts through me, stirring my protective instincts like a lioness guarding her mate.
Blue and red flashes start to lighten the darkness as they approach as relief washes over me. The man’s eyes flutter, and I can tell he’s fading fast.
“You…” I can read the words on his lips. “You… saved me.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say in my mind with a weak laugh, even if I know he can’t hear me. “But you’re not alone.”
As the emergency vehicles pull up and paramedics swarm around us, I keep holding his hand. I refuse to let go until they pry it from my grasp, promising they’ll do everything in their power to save him.
The paramedics’ urgent movements seem to blend with the whirl of blue and red lights, and I feel a strange mixture of hope and anxiety. As they work on the man, I step back and give them space, watching from a distance. My hand feels cold without his grip, and I rub them against my leggings, trying to find warmth.
The familiar figure of Gianna finally appears as she jogs towards me, her eyes wide with concern. “What happened? I saw the commotion, and then I saw you!”
“This man…” I signal, glancing over at the wounded man who’s now being loaded onto a stretcher. “I found him like this, Gianna. Bleeding and in pain.”
“Who is he?” she asks, her brow furrowing as she tries to make sense of the situation.
“I don’t know,” I admit, feeling a pang of guilt for not knowing more about the person whose life now hangs in the balance. “But I couldn’t just leave him there, G.”
“Of course not,” she agrees, pulling me into a tight hug, then releases me to keep talking. “You did the right thing, Spencer. I’m proud of you.”
As the ambulance doors close and the vehicle speeds away, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s more to this story than meets the eye. A part of me wishes I could be by the man’s side, seeing him through this ordeal, but I know that’s impossible.
“Come on,” Gianna says gently, tugging on my arm. “Let’s go home.”
“No,” I’m sure I say this out loud. “I can’t leave him alone, G.”
“What?”
But she has no time to protest as I run behind a paramedic, asking him silently if I can ride in the ambulance with him. After he rushes me inside, I keep holding this strange man’s hand as if my own life were on the line. And I swear I can feel his fingers tightening against mine. He wants me here.
No one should go through this alone. No one.
Chapter Two
Percival
Myheadthrobslikesomeone’s pounding a drum inside it, and the pain in my chest is almost unbearable as the dimly lit room spins around me. I blink, trying to focus on something—anything—to anchor myself to reality. My fingers grip at the scratchy sheets as I struggle to sit up straight. What happened?
“Easy there, Mr. Hills,” a soft voice cautions from somewhere in the shadows, a gentle hum that only intensifies my pounding headache and the pain in my torso. “You had quite the night.”
Quite the nightis putting it mildly. Images flit through my mind like a frenetic kaleidoscope; the champagne bubbles dancing in my glass, the blinding flash of the paparazzi cameras, the electric energy in the air as the contract was signed. That soccer player, man… he’s going to make us all filthy rich.
I can almost feel the crisp paper beneath my fingertips as I signed my name on the dotted line, grinning like a fool in my thousand-dollar suit—sans tie. Those things always feel like they’re going to choke the life out of me. The money hasn’t even hit my account yet, but I swear I could already smell the intoxicating scent of wealth wafting off the leather of my designer shoes.
