Shotgun carefully lifted me and carried me back to the bedroom. I was surprised by how safe I felt in his arms and was almost disappointed when he placed me down on the bed. Moving around had taken its toll, and I was suddenly extremely tired. I could barely keep my eyes open as I mumbled, “Thank you.”
“You know”—his eyes drifted over me—“you’re stronger than you look.”
“And you’re kinder than you let people think, so I guess we’ve both got people fooled.”
“If you think I’m kind, then you got the wrong idea about me.”
“Actions speak louder than words.”
“Exactly.” With an incoherent grumble, he started for the door. “Get some rest.”
“Wait,” I muttered with a groggy voice. “I thought you still had questions for me.”
“I do, but they can wait. I’ll be back later tonight, and we can finish up then.”
Too tired to argue, I closed my eyes with a groan, so out of it that I never even heard the door close. I was sleeping soundly when, out of the blue, the dreams started. It was one horrible nightmare after the next. I could feel the panic creeping over me as I tried to pull myself out of it. I must’ve been causing quite a scene because it wasn’t long before I felt someone shaking me. “Wake up, Remington. Come on, kid. Wake up.”
When I opened my eyes, I found Doc hovering over me. I inhaled a quick, pained breath as I mumbled, “I was having a bad dream.”
“I see that.” He stood and smiled. “It’s over now.”
“I wish that were true.”
“It will be soon enough. You’ll see.” A soft smile crossed his face as he asked, “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, just a little woozy.”
“I imagine.” He reached into his pocket and took out a bottle of pills. “I brought your pain meds. Use them whenever you need them.”
“Okay, thanks. I think I’m okay for now.” I happened to glance over at the window, and when I saw that it was dark outside, I asked, “What time is it?”
“It’s almost nine.”
“Seriously?” I thought I’d only been asleep for an hour or so, but in truth, it had been more like eight. “I hadn’t realized that it was so late.”
“You needed the rest, but you also have to eat something. Can I get you a sandwich or some more crackers?”
“Don’t go to any trouble. Anything would be fine.”
“Okay. I’ll grab you something from the kitchen.” On his way over to the door, he asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A bottle of water would be great.”
“You got it.”
He walked out, and ten minutes later when my door opened, I expected to see Doc, but instead, it was Shotgun. He didn’t say a word as he closed the door and placed a bottle of water along with a sandwich and a bag of chips on the table next to me. There was something about the way he moved and the expression on his face that gave me the feeling he wasn’t in the best of moods. He remained silent as he walked into the bathroom to grab the chair left by the sink and brought it back over to the edge of the bed. As he sat down, I asked, “Is everything okay?”
“No. Actually, it’s not.” His face was void of expression, making it difficult to determine just how bad things really were. I decided not to push, and just sat there silently waiting for him to speak. After several long, agonizing moments, he finally said, “Earlier, we were talking about what happened on the day of the attack.”
“Yeah, and I already told you that I don’t remember much about it.” I could tell he was on edge and not happy with my response. “I’m sorry. I’m really trying, but everything’s so muddled up in my head.”
His blue eyes never left mine as he said, “Gonna have to try harder. Your life depends on it.”
“Man, you really know how to set a girl’s mind at ease.”
“Just giving it to ya straight. Figured you deserved that much.”
“Well, I appreciate it, and I’ll do my best to tell you what I can.” I tried to think back to that day, but the memories were just out of reach. I could come up with these little glimmers, but nothing more. I knew Shotgun would just keep pushing, so I continued, “I know I went to work that day. I had a project I was working on for a new bakery in town, and I went in early to finish my part of the presentation. After that, I don’t really know.”
“Did you go out to dinner?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you go to the Parlor that night? Have a burger with Thomas?” As soon as the words left his mouth, my breath caught, and I knew something horrible was about to follow. I grimaced as I prepared myself for what he was about to say next. “Do you remember Thomas? Thomas Long? He’s a cop.”
And just like that all the memories bombarded me at once, hitting me so hard I could barely manage to speak. “Oh my God.”
“You remember Thomas Long?”
“Yes! Where is he?” I asked on the verge of tears. “Is he here too?”
Shotgun’s brows furrowed with confusion. “No, he’s not here.”
“Oh, God.” I gasped as I brought my hands up to my face. “That means they have him.”
“Who?”
“The men who attacked me! There were so many of them. We couldn’t get away.”
“I’m not following, Remington. I’m going to need you to start from the beginning and tell me exactly what you remember.”
My throat felt like it was closing on me, and my heart was racing a mile a minute. The memories of those men, the hitting and kicking, the threats and confusion, were racing through my mind, and it was hard to put it all into words. I inhaled a deep breath and tried to calm my rattled nerves. “I told you about my friend, Madeline. She’s the one who set me up on a blind date with Thomas.”
I went on to recount everything that happened that night—how we’d been eating dinner and Detective Mathews showed up, and when we left early, eight or nine men had been waiting for us in the parking lot. I started to cry, and my entire body trembled as I told him about Mathews showing up again. “He’s the one who ordered the two men to finish me off and get rid of me.”
“Did he tell them to take you to Stilettos?”
“I don’t know.” Shotgun gave me that look again, the one where he wanted a definitive answer, but I didn’t have one to give him. I wiped the tears from my face as I snapped, “I’m sorry, but I was pretty freaked out. I mean, think about it. I was hurt and confused. I thought I was about to die. I really wasn’t listening to what they were saying at that point.”
“Okay, I get it.”
He ran a hand over his face, then stood as he muttered something under his breath. When he started walking over to the door, I asked, “Wait. You’re leaving?”
“I have things to take care of.” He opened the door, and as he stepped into the hall, he said, “Eat your dinner.”
Before I could respond, he closed the door. It was official: the man they called Shotgun was an asshole. He was cold and heartless. He didn’t give a damn that the memories of that night had taken their toll on me, and I was a crying, blubbering mess. He only cared about getting the answers he needed, so why was I feeling so disappointed that he was gone? Damn. That concussion was worse than I thought.