Not Looking for Love: Episode 7 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) (12 page)

"And with him gone, maybe you'll focus on the job more too, Michael," Vlado says, his eyes turning from cold to ice age. He's already pulled the trigger in his mind. Now he just has to do it in real life.

"I need you, Michael," Vlado goes on. "We must achieve great things together."

Vlado's cheek twitches, and I see his finger move on the trigger as though in slow motion. I lunge right, even though I know I'll never dodge this bullet.
 

The gun fills the room and the bang sounds like the whole world's exploding. There's no pain, just the ringing in my ears, which sounds a lot like a song. A song Gail might be singing, like she does sometimes in the shower when she doesn't know I can hear.

"No!"

Vlado's scream rips right through the song, and I don't understand how I can still be standing up if I'm dead. Then the fog in my brain fades, and the scene comes back in crystal clarity.
 

Mike's on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around him, seeping into Vlado's light grey trousers as he kneels beside the body.

The body. Mike dead? No.

The gun’s lying about a foot to Vlado's right, and I lunge for it as the door slams open and his driver bolts in, squinting at us. It takes him just long enough to process what’s happening for me to grab the gun, and point it at Vlado. My heart's racing and I'm not admitting I'm seeing what's right in front of me, but at least my hand is steady. I've never fired a gun at a person before. But I could do it now, I would. The driver sees that too, maybe, because he grabs Vlado under his shoulders and hoists him up.

"Do nothing stupid," the driver warns, but I might still have pulled the trigger, if he hadn't placed himself between Vlado and the gun. He pushes him out and the door slams shut after them.

I don't feel myself move as I crawl closer to Mike, my fingers all slippery with blood as I feel for a pulse. The whole scene is 2D like I'm just watching it on TV, and I can't feel a pulse.

Then Mike takes a gurgling breath and I'm on my feet, digging in my pocket for the phone, slipping in all the blood.

A deafening boom of an explosion sounds outside. The whole building shakes, plaster raining down, white specks swallowed by the blood. Car alarms are blaring now, Mike's key beeping in his pocket. I hear it all as though it's coming from a great distance.
 

The 911 operator is yelling something into my ear, but I can't make out the words.

"Ambulance," I say and give the address. "Now!"

I kneel back down into the puddle of blood next to Mike. I've pictured him dead so many times this year, even pictured killing him in my darkest moments. But now that it’s real, I don't want him to die. He took that bullet for me. He can't die. Stop the bleeding, a voice in my head says, and it sounds a lot like my mom's, or Gail's.

I turn him over, hope I'm not making it worse, and press my hands over the hole in his shirt. It's just a little to the right of the center of his chest, blood still gushing out. That's a good sign, I think. I can feel his heartbeat, faint but there. My ears are still ringing, yet I can see the struggled breaths he's taking. His eyes are closed and still, his eyelids purple, matching his lips. He was shot in the lungs. Has to be. Can't be.
 

Sirens blare outside, joining the noise made by the car alarms. Fire truck or ambulance, I'm not sure, maybe both. Sound comes back on as cops rush in, force me away from Mike, cuff me, drag me from the room. No one's paying attention to my yells that I didn't do this, that Mike needs the hospital now, that they should be chasing Vlado.
 

The sun blinds me once I’m outside. As my eyes finally adjust, I see why they're in no rush to go after anyone else. Vlado's Mercedes has been blown to bits, pieces of it strewn across the parking lot. I think I recognize his leg by the blood stained trousers near the wall, but I'm not sure.
 

The cop leading me pushes me into the back of a cruiser and slams the door shut. A few minutes later they carry Mike out. His face is not covered, and one of the paramedics is pumping air into his mouth. So maybe he'll be alright. Maybe he'll live.
 

I need to call Gail, tell her to get out of the apartment now!

I search my pockets, but I must've dropped my phone after I called 911. I wish I'd remembered to take my other phone when I left this morning.

A detective opens the door and leans in, peering into my face like he can read what he wants to know right from my brain. "What happened here?"

"Will my brother be alright?" I ask.

"So the man who was shot is your brother?" he asks without missing a beat. "What happened?"

His cool, arrogant manner might faze me, if I hadn't had all sorts of experience with cops by now. And despite the cold sweat still running down my back, my stomach cramping and my heart racing so hard it might burst out of my chest at any moment, I can still read this situation. Clear as day. I have to stay out of prison, if Gail and me are to have a future.

"I want a lawyer, and my phone call," I say.

"You're not under arrest yet," the detective says. "Did you shoot your brother?"

"No. That man did," I say and point with my head to what I think is Vlado's leg.
 

"One of the two men who died in the explosion? Why?"

"I don't know," I reply. "I want my phone call now."

The detective slams the door shut and signals for one of the uniformed officers to drive me away.

I can still smooth this over once the questioning begins. So long as they let me make a call.
 

Maybe it's for the best I left my phone in the warehouse. They don't know it's mine, and I'll deny it if they ask. It's good that I didn't drive here either. Maybe they'll believe it's my first time here. Maybe I can stay out of prison. But they have my fingerprints on the gun. They could pin the shooting on me. I let it all go once I realize that.
 

Greg's car is gone from under the trees as we drive past. Did he set the explosion? But why?

It's funny how quickly I calm down while I wait in my cell. The lethargy and acceptance of being locked up come back as soon as the door slams behind me. Sure, I've had nine months of practice being in jail, but I still thought this'd be harder. They haven't booked me yet, so I'm hopeful.
 

My jeans and shirt are stiff from Mike's dried blood on them by the time the cops finally lead me to a phone. It's dark outside, and Mike could be dead. They won't tell me anything about his condition, probably because they don't know. I stopped asking hours ago. And the lawyer I asked for probably won't be here until morning.

I still have Gail's number memorized from back when she first broke it off with me, and I called her like a hundred times. I guess there really is a purpose to everything.

By five PM I'm pacing the apartment, unable to sit still any longer. But it's early yet, and still light out. I don't even know what Scott went to do. Maybe it was a full day thing. He said he'd be back. So he will be back. I manage to sit down, force myself to do some work on my thesis, since I do want to finish it as soon as possible.

By nine, I'm shaking. I can't concentrate on work, I can't pace anymore, can't cry. I'm not even sure I'm breathing right. Something's wrong, I know it is. Wrong beyond fixing it feels like, wrong as in too late to fix.

Tears flow on their own when my phone finally rings just after ten. I can't stop them. It's a restricted number, and maybe I shouldn't be picking up at all, since it could be danger. But it could be Scott, and that hope triumphs anything. It could also be someone telling me he's dead.

I whimper as I hear his voice, all the tension, the apprehension softening, flowing away in rivers of relief.

"I can't talk," he says. "Pack and leave the apartment. Take some of my stuff too, if you can. But leave as soon as possible. In the next half an hour. And take the car. The keys are by the door."

"Are you alright?" I manage to squeeze out.

"Yes, I think so," he says, but I can hear the sharp edge of a lie in his voice. "I'll call you again as soon as I can."

"What happened?" I ask.

"I can't talk, Gail," he says, a little more sharply. "Just promise me you'll leave right now. Only take what you absolutely can't live without."

He's the one I can't live without! “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he says.
 

I nod then say OK, when I realize he can't actually see me.

The room is spinning, and I can see only foggy shapes through the sheet of my tears. The line goes dead, and I just sit there, clutching the phone in my shaking hand, trying to decide if this really happened.

But it did, and I have to leave. I heard the fear and urgency in Scott’s voice even if he didn’t tell me much more. Something is wrong. Very wrong. And I can only hope it isn’t beyond fixing. So I let it all go, concentrate on the task at hand.

I'm still holding my phone when I reach the bedroom and take out my two suitcases. It's a good thing I organized the closet the other day, because I'm packed in fifteen minutes. I have no idea what Scott wants me to take, so I grab a few pants, a few shirts, some sweaters and his windbreaker. I have the suitcase closed before I realize he'll probably need some shoes too.

I'm wearing my black leggings and a tight tank, but I've already been packing for almost half an hour, so I just throw on my jeans jacket and slip on my ballet flats. I leave the bra and panties that are still lying on the floor in the bathroom, but I do grab our toothbrushes and Scott's cologne, stuff it all in my purse along with my laptop. The suitcases are too heavy to lift, but I can wheel them out fine. His phone is laying next to the car keys, and I grab that too.
 

A little over thirty minutes after Scott’s call, I'm in the garage, breathing hard, the world still coming in and out of focus as it always does when I'm very nervous. Where do I go? Scott didn't say. I can't go home to Connecticut, maybe they know that's where I live. I can't go to my dad's, since maybe they know where that is too.
 

I have no idea where his car is parked, but that's a problem I can solve. Leaving the suitcases by the door, I stride through the rows of cars, pressing unlock on the key every few steps. But none of the cars are clicking open, and the garage is packed. Maybe there's another level. A car finally lights up just as I'm about to give up

Scott's car is stick shift and I only know the basics of driving that, but I still manage to load the bags and drive out of the garage.

I stop at the first bus stop I reach, the car lurching as I take my foot off the clutch without turning it off. I have no idea where to go.
 

I'm breathing hard again, my heart thumping, my vision turning black at the edges. What if Scott's not coming back?

I keep staring at the phone, but he's not calling back. I'm on my own.

I take a few deep breaths to steady myself, and start the engine. A hotel is my best bet for now.