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I had a flashback to when I was ten years old, holding on tightly to my dad’s hand as we stood in the emergency room. I remember the doctor whispering my mom’s name and saying, “I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” And then my dad dropped my hand, covering his face while he let out an anguished sob that I would never forget.
And everything was different from that moment on.
There were no more hugs. No holding on to my hand. Nothing.
I blinked and looked over to find Dawson sitting in a chair beside me, typing away on his phone. He was biting his lower lip, and there were circles under his eyes. How late was it? How long had I been in here?
Then it all came flooding back.
The meeting with Greg.
The parking lot.
Frankie.
The shooting. The blood.
“Dawson,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and dry.
He got up and reached for my hand, sitting on the bed beside me. “Hey, sweetheart, how are you feeling?”
“Like shit. How’s Quinn?”
“Quinn is out of surgery and in recovery. He’s going to be fine.”
“Thank fuck. What time is it? How long have I been here?”
“Several hours. You passed out from the shock.”
“Val? Is he okay?”
“Yeah. Val was with the police for hours, but he’s here now, being checked out.”
“The guys?”
“All waiting outside to see you. Are you ready for company? Do you need anything?”
I shook my head, my eyes welling up again. Fuck, why couldn’t I stop crying?
“Just some water. And I want to see them. Can you send them in?”
“Of course.”
Dawson leaned over to hug me, but I held my hand up and shook my head. “Go home. Be with your son. I don’t need you. If the guys are here, one of them will stay with me.”
“But—”
“I don’t want you here. You and me. It just isn’t going to work.”
His face fell, but he said nothing in response.
I just…I couldn’t look at him right now.
This. This was exactly what I was talking about when I told Dawson that my life was crazy.
I wasn’t safe. Well, I guess I was, now that my stalker was dead, shot by my bodyguard.
Jesus Christ.
