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“Why?” The idea that my picture is floating out there, being passed around, while others might be looking for me — or, even worse, sharing that information with even more people — makes my throat tighten; am I slipping that much? I stand, tighten my grip on the gun, point it at her. I have to regain control. “Why were you hunting for me?”
“Because of the baby.”
Her eyes flicker to Charlie and the room feels like an inferno; I loom over her, getting so close that the only thing she can see is me, and the only thing I can see is her. I can smell her, too. A gentle scent of strawberry, and a subtle vanilla aroma; body wash or hand cream, maybe. I can count the freckles on her cheeks. See the individual strands of each gentle wave of hair.
But as tempting as she is, she just said the magic words to set me off. I don’t care how the quiver in her lips stirs my cock to life or how my hands want to drop this gun and explore each soft inch of her curvy body; I plucked Charlie from the smoke and flames and carried him past the bodies of his mom and dad — my brother, my sister-in-law; Charlie is all the family I have left in this world, and I will burn it to the fucking ground to keep him safe.
“Why the fuck do you care about that baby?”
Suddenly, Charlie turns onto his side and emits a mewling cry that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. I turn my head just in time to see a thick stream of vomit erupt from his mouth, followed by another cry. Then, shade by shade, cry by cry, his complexion changes, grows pale, and his little limbs shake.
“I followed you because I was worried,” she says.
I turn to see her standing, her back straight, her kind eyes locked on Charlie and shining with a suggestion of steel.
“You were worried?”
Her voice is unwavering, warm, but with a hint of don’t fuck with me.
“Your baby is sick. Really sick. And I can help him. In fact, I might be his only chance. But if you want my help, you’re going to need to give me that gun. It’s up to you, Nick, and there’s not much time. What’s it going to be? The gun or your baby’s life?”
Chapter Seven
Emily
Time slows to a standstill.
He looks from his gun, to me, and then to his baby, who is shaking fitfully and looking the color of old mushrooms.
“You want me to trust you with my gun and the little guy’s life?”
I nod, stand tall, while he ponders the question at a glacial pace, as my heart beats faster and faster and the baby’s breathing gets harder and harder. Time is running out.
“It’s a big ask, Emily,” he says.
“You can keep thinking about it while I take care of your kid, because I’m through waiting for you to decide,” I say. My heart aches for the little one, and I stride around Nick and kneel at the baby’s side. First, I place two fingers on the spot between the elbow and the shoulder and feel for a pulse. It’s elevated, and his skin feels hot, clammy, and I put my lips to his forehead to test his temperature. It’s up, too. His eyes are watering and a brilliant red rash sits around his pudgy tummy.
I take out my phone and pull up a name from my contacts list.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Nick says behind me.
“Saving your kid’s life. Shoot me later if you want, but let me do this first,” I say, hoping he won’t take me literally. I want to save the baby, but I don’t want to get shot. Those tough words — and I have no idea where they come from, somewhere deep inside me, maybe, that I’ve never accessed before — come out steady, even though my legs are shaking and my heart feels like it’s playing the xylophone with my ribs.
The phone rings, rings, and then a familiar voice picks up. I put it on speakerphone. “Emily, it’s late. What’s going on? Are you OK?”
“Hey Maggie, sorry to call you so late, but I’m having a bit of an emergency and I need your help.”
“An emergency? Are you OK? Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I say. Nick has wandered into my field of view and he’s violently gesturing ‘no’ with both his free hand and the gun. “You don’t need to come to me. I just need your help with something really important.”
“Em, I appreciate your work ethic, but if this is about your paper, it really can wait until another time.”
“It’s not about my paper. It’s about a baby.”
“A baby?”
“Yeah, there’s a baby here, and I think it’s dying.”
