A line of shots sprays over us. I can’t do anything but cover her and wait for the car to drive away. Or to kill us both. Beneath me, she’s screaming, fighting to get away, but I can’t let her go. I can’t risk her safety.
I hold her, wishing I had magic words to calm her, but she’s writhing and wiggling. My arms tighten around her as more shots come toward us.
Then, searing pain pierces my side and I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
They fucking shot me.
13
Corinne
His body is limp. Deadweight on top of me. But the shooting’s stopped and the car it came from is screeching away. At least there’s that.
I open my eyes. Oh God. This can’t be happening now. Not when we’ve only just found each other again.
I should push him off so I can check his wound.
But when I gaze into his face, his eyes are open and he’s… smiling.
Smiling?
The strength to shove him away is easy to summon. “Get off me.” I don’t know whether to be mad that he fooled me or mad that I fell for it, mad that I almost admitted to one or both of us that I might like him more than I want to believe or want him to know, or relieved he isn’t dead and I won’t spend my last minutes of life crushed under his bulk. Although as far as ways to go, there are worse.
All in all, it’s a lot to process.
I sit up when he kneels next to me. “Are you okay, Corrie?”
Am I okay? Hell no! The ringing in my ears has barely subsided. I brush off my pants and run my fingers through my hair, expecting a tangled mess.
“I thought you were dead!” I exclaim. “Or at least, shot.”
He raps his knuckles against his stomach, and while his ab muscles are hard, this sounds like he’s knocking on a solid door. “Bulletproof.”
I roll my eyes, thinking he’s making a terrible joke and getting ready to lecture him on the appropriate time and place for something like that. “Whatever.” But he lifts his T-shirt to show me the Kevlar vest he’s wearing. “Oh,” I say. “That makes more sense.”
“Yeah. Looks like we’re going to have to get you fitted for one now.”
I’m glad he thinks so. But if I have to walk around for the rest of my life wearing clothing that’s supposed to repel bullets, I’d rather shut myself in. And neither of those things is going to happen.
“You scared the shit out of me.” My heart is almost back to its normal pulse rate.
His lips twitch and I know it’s because he’s trying not to laugh or look smug. Bastard. “I know, but I had to act dead so they wouldn’t swing back around.” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “Look, we need to get back inside, and I need to make some calls.”
I don’t ask if he’s calling more criminals. Not important to me. Not after someone decided to use us to practice their drive-by shooting skills.
He ushers me toward his place, and I go readily because I’m not the kind of girl who gets shot at on a daily basis. On any basis, really. Needless to say, I’m a little out of my element. Plus, my knees are weak and I’m lightheaded. So, letting Tomas’s hand rest at the small of my back and his body remain between me and the road makes sense to me.
My breath is short, shorter when he whisks me through his front door and pulls me into his arms. I want to fall apart for one minute while I figure out how to pull myself back together, and I want to feel the warmth of his skin while I do it.
He kisses the top of my head and murmurs something so soft I can’t hear it. Or maybe it’s because my heart is beating in my ears.
Not that the words matter. They don’t.
Being here with him, in his arms, breathing him in, tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling his head down, are all direct results of my adrenaline. Doesn’t have one damn thing to do with my feelings—feelings I don’t have—for him.
After a minute, he puts a hand on each of my shoulders and holds me out so we can look at each other. “Corrie, I don’t know if they were shooting at you or at me.”
I nod, and he brushes a finger from my jaw to my chin, then runs it back down my throat.
“Until we figure it out for sure, I need to know you’re safe. I want you to stay here.”
His lips are a tight line, like he’s expecting a fight. But I know he’s right. “Okay.”
That being said, if those guys were in fact after me and they knew where I was today, they probably know where I spent last night. Which means my parents aren’t safe, either.
Not that I expect Tomas to invite them here, but I need his help protecting them. If something happens to them because of me … because of some decision I made, I’ll die.
“But what about Mom and Dad?”
He frowns. “Let me think.”
I nod. They have to get out of town. I could send them on vacation. They have plenty of money now to go, but they won’t use it for that. They’re way too frugal for a vacation with their “bonus” money. But if they think I paid for it—like I could afford it—or Tomas did, for which I would pay him back, then there’s no way they’ll let the trip or the money used to pay for it to go to waste.
“What if we send them on vacation?” Before he can answer, I add, “I’ll pay you back, but I need to make sure Mom and Dad are safe. They won’t hide, so I can’t tell them what’s going on, or Dad’s going to try calling up his old Army buddies for backup and Mom’ll freak. But if we—I would do it, I just don’t have … enough—anyway, I want to send them on a long trip. One of those cruises that takes them around the world. Or a visit to my Aunt Camille’s ranch in Colorado.” In the most remote—one stop sign, one gas station—mountain town I’ve ever seen.
The more I talk about it, the more anxious I get for their safety. I won’t be able to explain the reasons behind all this, and they’re going to fight it tooth and nail.
I can hear their protests already. They both have jobs to be dealt with. The mortgage, the house. Fluffy Fluffington, my mom’s Pomeranian who hates to travel. Detail after detail—the newspaper will need to be notified to stop delivery, someone will have to tend to Mom’s roses and the azaleas, or maybe they’ll have to move out and then I’ll have to find a way to store their stuff in my apartment, and where the hell am I going to put a lawn mower or a curio cabinet full of Norman Rockwell figurines …
Once more, panic weighs on me. And once more, I can’t stop myself from inhaling in sharp gasps. I haven’t been this unsettled since I was a kid. A long time before any Italian thugs took shots at me.
Tomas, meanwhile, is still and quiet, looking at me with an unreadable expression.
“What?” I demand. I feel a little silly, a nervous wreck falling to pieces right in front of the coldest man I’ve ever met.
“We’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe,” he says. Tomas lays a hand on my shoulder and eases me down onto his sofa.
His touch, his voice—it does something to my anxieties. Cools them. Takes the edge off.
“I’m going to go to your folks’ house and get you your clothes.”