Petr leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together. “I know that since he came to Bogan, he’s been working really hard to forget something. Someone. I guess that part didn’t work.” He stares at me hard, eyebrows up, mouth twisted. “Tomas isn’t a man who’s going to let dying get in the way of what he wants.”
I appreciate the implication. I just wish I believed it all the way. Things between Tommy and I have been … so … unsettled and strange. We’re adults now, adults with scarred hearts. Not the same people we were when we were teenagers who only had eyes for each other. Not naïve enough to believe we can make it through anything anymore.
All our childish dreams and ideas are gone. They died when he left.
But I nod anyway.
Because there’s still that one thing between us that can never die. I don’t know what to call it or how to express it. All I know is that I feel it more than ever right now. Love. Fate. Destiny. I’m meant for him and he’s meant for me.
So he can’t die. Because I know it now as much as I knew it that night he kissed me beneath the apple blossoms:
I love him.
I still love him an hour later. And three hours after that.
I love him when the doctor comes out and says he’s out of surgery and is recovering in a room where I can see him. She wheels me into a room that’s stark and sterile, so white the light in here is blinding. The bullet that went through his arm was just sitting in a pocket of muscle. The bullet in his leg missed all the important stuff. The stab wounds are more painful than dangerous. Barring infection that they’re giving him antibiotics to combat, he’s going to be fine.
My first easy breath in at least three days comes right now. He’s going to recover.
Tomas is in the bed, covered by a white blanket, white bandages on his shoulder, his arm, probably his leg, too. He’s asleep with a shock of hair hanging over his forehead and his beard stubble still tidy. But he looks like a slightly older version of the boy he was when I first loved him. He’s still my Tommy.
I roll closer to the bed and take his hand in mine. “Don’t die.”
He groans a little and squeezes my hand. “Oh, this hurts.”
I pull myself up so I can stand beside his bed. “Shh. I’ll go get a nurse and some pain medicine, okay?”
“No.” His voice is thicker and deeper than normal, though not any less sexy. “Stay here with me.”
“Okay.” I brush the hair off his forehead with my free hand. I owe him my life. No telling what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up. That angry old Russian man wasn’t offering to slice me a piece of pizza with that monster of a knife. If Tomas hadn’t come in when he did, there’s no telling how much longer I had left to live. “You saved me.”
He breathes out slow, quiet, steady. “Had to. I love you.” His hand goes limp, and his breathing levels out. He’s asleep just like that, which is hardly fair since I didn’t get to say it back to him.
I sit with him the rest of the night. And the next day. The next, too. A rotation of different members of his Bratva show up at random intervals so that I’m never alone. I call my folks and Leila, but the man I want to talk to, the one I want to be with, is still not awake and I’m worried.
So worried that Leila’s big newsflash of information doesn’t faze me. “They’re looking for Peyton. Said he conspired with an Italian mobster to launder money. He’s being charged with racketeering. The cops have been all over the Sentinel offices. He’s disappeared though.”
Because he’s dead, I almost say. But I don’t tell her because the fewer people who know, the better.
“And where have you been?”
Oh. Right. I don’t have a lie prepared. I told my folks the truth—little pieces of it. Just enough to let them know I’m okay but Tomas is in “bad health.” I don’t plan on giving Leila even that much of the story, though. She’s still my friend and I love her, but we’re going to have to do some work on our relationship after all the lies she pulled.
“Uh, well … I needed some time. You know, after the whole Alvin thing … I shouldn’t have come back to work.” And now I need to ask. “Did you mention the Flash Bomb program to the police?”
Shit. What if her lines are being tapped? Sweet Jesus. Phone taps. Omitting evidence from an official police statement. Two months ago, I would’ve never thought about any of these things. Now I have to figure out how to cover. “Or Dunlow International? I just want to make sure the clients are … protected.” Oh Lord. I’m horrible at this.
“Flash Bomb is gone. Peyton destroyed it before he left. Destroyed everything, actually. It’s all encrypted and corrupted. Dunlow bailed, too. Said if we end up working somewhere else, call, but they need to not be part of the scandal.”
I sigh. “There’s that, at least.” Not that it’s much. One client, even one that big, won’t pay enough to start my own company. And without equipment and people, I can’t do the job they need anyway. But maybe in a couple years. “What about you? You doing okay?” We’ve both lost our jobs. And she was sleeping with Peyton. Not that I told her what happened to him. But she knows he’s disappeared. Maybe she’s already assuming the worst.
“I guess. I can’t believe I didn’t know what an asshat Peyton turned out to be.” She chuckles but the sound is dry, without any joy whatsoever. “I was always a sucker for a pretty face.”
“Hmmph. Do I have some guys for you to meet, though…” I could introduce her to Kostya. Or Vlad. Maybe Ilya. They’re all eye candy.
She laughs. “Maybe later. But we should get together this week and have a drink, see if we can pool our resources. We could probably even get a business loan? Dunlow International would be a great first client…”
She goes on for a few minutes, planting seeds, building hope, giving me something else to look forward to. I listen, not saying much.
“…So, think about it and we can talk this week?” she says.
“Yeah. Sounds good.” When we hang up, I can smile because even though he isn’t awake, Tomas is stable. And even though I have no job and no place to live, I have prospects.
A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Hey, honey!” It’s about time. I’ve been in this room for almost three days alone. I thought they were never coming home. Mom rushes to me and throws her arms around me.
“How was your flight?” I mumble into her hug.
When she pulls back, she has tears streaming down her cheeks. “My baby was hurt. And Tommy, too.” She looks over her shoulder at him as she flicks away a tear. “Our poor little Tommy.” And now she’s moved to stand beside the bed and lean over the rail to press a kiss against his cheek. “God, you two. Just never could stay out of trouble.”
I laugh as Dad takes the chair next to mine and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore, but it’s okay.” I told them as little as possible but lying to them has never been a particular skill of mine. So, they know a lot more than Leila or anyone else.