I don’t have the keys to the Hyundai. Will Carlo shoot the windows out?
Mad panic swells behind my eyes again, and then there’s a crunch of tires on asphalt. A car door slams, and boots are pounding toward me. A distraction. I can run.
I lunge, but at the same instant, Carlo seizes me, spins me, and oh no. Oh shit. It’s Forty. I’m facing him with Carlo’s hand clamped around my neck and a gun jammed into the small of my back.
Forty skitters to a halt twenty feet away. He’s aiming a gun at my head, both arms straight, one hand cupping the other.
“Let her go.”
No. He’s not aiming at me. He’s aiming at Carlo.
I start to shake, shivers coursing all down my body, and I move to hug my arms around my waist, but Carlo yanks up on my throat, tilting my chin in the air as he burrows the gun so deep I’m forced to arch my spine.
From where he stands, Forty can’t see the gun at my back. He can only see the hand around my throat.
That’s where his eyes are trained. Carlo’s head. My throat. They’re scanning steadily between Carlo’s forehead and where his hand squeezes my neck.
Forty’s stance is sure. He’s a soldier. He’s calculating, lining up his target. He’s not going to see the gun at waist level in time. Carlo isn’t going to wait for him to choose his shot. He’s going to swing his arm from behind me and shoot. I’m his shield.
“Last time. Let her go.” Forty’s hair is mussed. He’s wearing his cut and a white T-shirt stained by drops of blood scattered down the front. He has grass stains on his jeans. He’s been fighting.
His square jaw is tensed, but his lips are slightly parted. His chest rises and falls. He’s breathing deeply, exactly like he taught me to do. So he’s totally oxygenated when he exhales and pulls the trigger.
He’s so beautiful.
I’d go for him again, any day. I was right when I was fourteen, and I was right last month. He’s the one.
I was made untethered, like a bird or a butterfly or a balloon that slipped its string. He was made steady and firm, like solid earth or a strong hand.
Made for me in the same way I was made for him.
I smile. I want him to see me smile.
“Baby?”
“I love you.” I inhale the rich, early morning air. “He has a gun at my back,” I say, and I fling my arms wide, throwing all my weight backwards as I wrench my torso, twisting into the metal digging right above my hip.
Bang.
Bang.
Carlo collapses, and I crash on top of him, pain ripping through my side. The silence echoes.
“Nevaeh!”
Shouts come from the clubhouse, feet pound. I’m sprawled on my back, and my hip feels wet. The bone burns. I whimper. It hurts.
Carlo is lumpy underneath me. He’s not moving.
“Baby.” Forty’s there, kneeling over me, shirtless, pressing hard on my hip. It hurts. “What did you do?”
I mean to say stop, that hurts, but my tongue’s not working right.
Why is he not wearing a shirt? Every time my eye catches on his tattoos or his scars, my gaze slides away.
I can’t focus.
I’m lying on something awkward and cold. Carlo. It’s Carlo.
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah, baby. Hold on. We’ll move you.”
There’s more shouting. There’s been shouting. I don’t know how long. There’s a bunch of people, and then there’s a stretcher. Where’d they get a stretcher?
Wall and Grinder are lifting me into the back of a van while Forty keeps pressure on my hip.
The gorge rises in my stomach. I turn my head and wretch, but there’s nothing in my stomach.
“Give her water,” Forty barks.
There’s a girl in the van with us, early twenties. She has dyed blonde hair, and her tanned face is blanched white. She’s a sweetbutt. I don’t know her.
“Angel!”
“Yeah!” The girl fumbles with a water bottle, holds it up to my lips. I try to sip, but it dribbles down my cheek. “Sorry,” she whispers.
I try to smile. It’s okay. I’m getting tired, though.
“She’s freezing.” Angel presses her palm to my forehead.
“I need shirts. Cover her up.”
There’s a bustle, and then they’re heaping flannels on me, and it all smells like beer and man sweat, and I wish Forty would stop leaning on my hip; it hurts.
“Shouldn’t we take her to the hospital?” Angels asks, tentative. Yeah. That’s a good question. Why am I in a van? I need an ambulance. Drugs. Good drugs.
Wall answers her. “The nearest ICU is in Shady Gap now. The Dentist is way closer. And he has more trauma experience than any doctor outside of Pyle.”
“The dentist?” I definitely don’t think I should be going to the dentist. I mean, I haven’t been going like I should, but now?
“You know. Sunny’s old man.”
Oh, I remember Sunny. Story’s mom. A real hippie chick. I liked Sunny. When did she hook up with a dentist? This is too confusing, and I’m really tired. I let my eyes drift shut.
“Oh, no you don’t. Nevaeh!”
Forty is shouting at me. He doesn’t have to shout. It’s a small van.
“Shut up. Let me sleep.”
“Nevaeh!”
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” I chuckle weakly. Lou and I always used to say that to each other. Oh, Lou. He’s gonna be so pissed when he gets home, and the TV’s on the floor.
“Nevaeh, you need to stay with me, baby. We’re less than five minutes out. Just hold on. Everything’s going to be okay. Stay with me.”
“I’m right here.” I manage a small smile. His face is utterly serious, totally severe. There’s something in those brown eyes I don’t think I’ve seen before. Fear.
Oh.
I’m dying.
I force myself to smile for real. “Forty?”
He’s staring at where his hands are clapping a bloody, wadded up rag to my hip. Is that his shirt?
“Forty.”
Finally, he looks up and meets my eye.
“I carved that shit into my car.”
“I know.”
I chuckle. It comes out a cough. “And you came anyway?”
He frowns. His face is so strained. He looks old. Like someone’s dad.
“Of course, you did. You love me, don’t you?” I hope he’s someone’s dad one day. He’s going to be the very, very best at it.
“With everything I am.” He’s so solemn. It’s a vow.
“I love you, too.”
“Why did you do it, Nevaeh?” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence, cracks wide open.
I try to shrug, and there’s a piercing pain, but I don’t think my shoulder moves. “I saved your life. I didn’t let the bad guy win this time.”
“Goddamn, Nevaeh.” His eyes darken.
“I saved the day.”
Me. The girl too scared to open her mouth. The woman who ran every time the going got tough. Who could never figure out how to get things to work out her way.
In the end, I got the boy.
And I saved the day.
It’s a good story. The best.
I drift off, and there’s shouting, but the voice is deep and familiar, and it’s a beautiful sound to hear as I float away into the dark.