He lifts his shoulders, but the way he glances at his brother, I realize Thatcher wants to tell me something. I’ve been avoiding Jane, and I can’t avoid him if he’s my car escort.
Normally, I’d be like fuck no, but his stern, no-nonsense demeanor seems softer tonight. Apologetic. He awkwardly clears his throat, then nods to me like, please, give me a chance.
I feel like I owe Thatcher and Jane more of an apology.
Maybe this is my chance too.
“Will you be alright?” Banks asks again. He’s hawk-eyeing the balcony and our exits, and I think he might need air too. Even if his supreme vigilance calms me, Akara said it’s not always a good thing for Banks to be this on-guard.
“You’ll join us in five?” I ask again.
“You won’t even notice I’m gone.”
“Okay.” I inhale deeply. “I think Thatcher is right!” I try to speak louder. “One of us should stay for the end! For Kits!”
Banks nods, then cocks his head to his brother. Seeing me about to leave, Banks looks more uncertain. Not wanting to stay here while I go.
“Gabe is coming with us,” Thatcher calls it into his mic. “We’ll be fine, Banks.” He gives his brother a look that I’d bet only Banks can interpret.
Banks cracks a quarter-smile. “You’re such a fucking gabbadost’.”
“Always will be.” Thatcher pats his shoulder, then puts a hand to my back, leading down the metal balcony.
Muscular, wide Gabe Montgomery walks ahead.
Once we leave the stage entirely, I inhale a bigger breath. Sandals hit squishy grass the further we trek away from the stage through a back VIP exit. Basically how rock stars leave without being swarmed by fans.
Comparing yourself to a fucking rock star. Good one.
I feel my confidence draining. Pulse still jumping up and down. Especially without Banks or Akara, but Thatcher keeps a hand on my back. Like he knows that touch calms me.
I breathe.
Stars twinkle overhead, and the smell of funnel cake grease and weed mix in the air. Rows and rows of big trucks have ruined the grass and kicked up dirt. Back here in the VIP, I see all the innerworkings. Where the equipment is housed. The tour buses for the bands.
Crew shuffle around hurriedly, some more leisurely.
As we continue walking along the grass, I work up the nerve to speak to Thatcher. An explanation of why I’m dodging Jane. An olive branch…? “I—”
“I’m sorry.” Thatcher gets it out first.
I stare up at him, our pace starting to slow.
His strict eyes carry a lot more emotion than I think I’ve seen. Maybe because Thatcher is fucking intimidating and staring into his gaze sometimes feels like staring into the sun. So I tend to look away. I’m not right now, and he keeps talking. “Banks instantly treated Jane with warmth and love, and I didn’t give you the same grace—and I’m sorry.”
I didn’t expect that kind of apology, and in my shocked silence, he adds more, “Skylar used to joke that Banks is love and I’m war, and we were twelve back then. Some things are hard to grow out of, harder to change, but…” He takes a beat. “I know I’m not just built for war anymore, and you deserve that love and warmth from me.”
I’m speechless, emotion balled up in my throat. “Thatcher…” I swallow, unable to say the fucking words I want to say.
“You’re my family, Sulli.” Thatcher picks up my string of silence, which shocks me again since he’s usually so quiet with me. “The moment my brother fell in love with you—you became my family, and I should’ve told you that. I should’ve told you that I’m rooting for you, Akara, and Banks. I should’ve told you that I’m here if you need me. I should’ve told you that I hope I can raise my daughter alongside your daughter or son—I should’ve told you that I love you. And I’m fucking sorry I never did until now.” His voice cracks.
I’m seeing Thatcher Moretti for the first time. He’s letting me see him, and I think I finally understand how Jane fell in love with this man.
Why Gloria also calls him her “good son”—and I suddenly really want to be closer than further away from Jane and Thatcher.
I’m not good with words, but if he said all of that to me, then I can say more to him. “Thatcher—” A sudden, violent push thrusts me off my feet—so powerfully, so severely that I’m on the ground in a split-second with breath trapped in my chest. Did Thatcher just push—?
Pop!
I jolt.
POP!
The second pop rings my ears. Screaming. Shrieking. Fearful noises pierce the air—wind is still knocked out of me. Confusion, spiked adrenaline all disorient me in a dizzying mess. My palms are on soggy grass.
I barely see Gabe running away from me. Sprinting with all his might towards something, and before I can glance behind me, Thatcher grips the back of my shirt, tugging me up to a stance. His arm swoops around my shoulders.
My feet move before my head.
He pulls me behind a tour bus.
We sink to the ground to hide from the amassing people who stampede. Mostly crew.
“Stay down,” Thatcher tells me.
My ears are still ringing, pulse hammering in my temple, my throat—what happened? What just fucking happened? Please be more confetti poppers.
That didn’t sound like a confetti popper. That sounded like a fucking gun. I can’t catch my breath, panicked, and my eyes dart every which way, until I feel Thatcher’s arm go slack on my shoulders.
I turn.
Leaned up against the tour bus, he’s lost color in his face, but he’s still surveying our surroundings. Ensuring no one is nearing us.
Something feels really fucking wrong.
“Thatcher?” My eyes flash over his body.
He’s bearing his forearm to his abdomen, a gun in his hand. His black button-down seems wet. His security badge and lanyard are stained red…
Blood—he’s bleeding. No, no, no, no. “Those pops were bullets?” My voice sounds distant in my ears. In my head.
“His, then mine,” he says in a shallow breath.
The second pop seemed louder because Thatcher had pulled the trigger. And before the guy even fired, Thatcher shoved me to the ground.
To save me from being shot.
He took the bullet. “You’re wearing a bulletproof vest?”
He shakes his head, wincing and breathing strangely.
Stab proof vest, I remember. Some of SFO switched to stab proof vests, which don’t stop bullets. No, no, no, fuck, fuck. “Thatcher,” I choke. “Thatcher.”
His hand goes limp on the gun. “Take this.” He passes me the Glock, his arm weak against his abdomen now, weak against the gunshot wound. He’s bleeding. He’s fucking bleeding.
Holding the gun, I use my other hand to apply pressure against his wound.
He swallows hard, nose flaring. “Sulli…” He’s taking short breaths. Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding.
“Fuckfuckfuck.” Is all that comes out of my mouth.
His eyes flutter. He’s about to leave.
Don’t.
Don’t go.
“No, please,” I beg, tears and snot coming out. “Please don’t go. Please. He needs you. He can’t lose you. Please. Jane—Jane can’t lose you…I can’t lose you.” I sob and then I rip the earpiece out of his ear. Maybe he already called this in—but I move fast in case he didn’t.