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It happens within seconds, but it’s like time has slowed to a seep.
I fall onto my knees, my hand pressing against my shirt. This doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel as bad as it should. I’ve never been shot before, so maybe it’s shock? I lift my shirt and check my stomach, but there’s no bullet wound, only a graze and a nasty bruise. I try to suck in breaths, but nothing comes. Nothing. Nothing, and then?—
My inhale rattles through my chest.
Thank fuck.
“Jesse.” Marci’s next to me. “Jesse, oh my God. Jesse. An ambulance. I’ll call an ambulance. Jesse, talk to me, please.”
“It’s okay,” I manage. “I’m fine.
“You’re not fine.” Her face is streaked with tears. “You were shot. You’re not fine.” She takes her phone out with shaky fingers. “I’m calling 911.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, and lift my shirt. “Look.”
Savage puts his knee on Billy’s back. He’s got the guy’s arms pinned in one hand, and is holding up Billy’s weapon in the other. He unloads it.
“Rubber bullets,” he says. “Strong enough to knock the wind out of you, maybe even kill a deer. You good?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Man, I love breathing. Never appreciated my lungs this much. Or the woman next to me.
“I don’t have my cuffs,” I say. “You got him?”
“I’ve got him.”
“Probably drop the gun,” I say. “That’s evidence. Marci, Angel, I’m fine. I’m not shot. Not with a real gun, but we do need to call 911 and get the cops over here.”
She’s shaking from head-to-toe, kneeling next to me in that green dress, her mascara running down her cheeks, and she’s never looked as beautiful. I sweep her hair back from her face and cup her cheek then take the phone from her hand.
I make the 911 call, then holster my gun and get to my feet. I head into the kitchen and root around, coming back with a cable tie to restrain Billy’s hands in the meantime. Then, once I’m sure he’s taken care of, I bring my woman into my arms and hold her tight.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should never have come here. This is my fault.”
“It’s not your fault for caring about your family or wanting to help them. It’s your brother’s fault for taking advantage of you. I’m fine.” This could’ve gone a lot worse.
Threatening me or anyone else with a gun, rubber bullets or not, is a serious fucking offense. He’s going to be put away for a long time because of this, and I can’t find an ounce of pity for him in my cold soul.
I inhale and wince.
“What’s wrong?” Marci asks. “What is it?”
She places a protective hand over my midriff.
“I think he might’ve cracked a rib,” I say.
Savage nods. “Possible.”
He sits on the sofa, one foot up on the coffee table, his arms folded, and one gray-speckled eyebrow arched at Billy.
“What was the kid thinking? What were you thinking, kid?”
Billy doesn’t say anything. He lies on his front, head turned to the side, staring out the open front door at the street, blinking slowly.
Sirens wail in the distance.
The next hour is a blur of motion, and at its center is Marci. She’s all I care about. The EMTs get here and check me out, but I’m more worried about her mental state. This can’t be easy for her to take, and I donotwant her to blame herself for this.
