Authors: Kaylea Cross
“He was on a call this afternoon when things went a little haywire, and well... he was shot.”
Her knees buckled. “What?” She sank onto the couch, her hand snatching up the remote. The screen came to life, showing flashing lights and people running around shouting instructions, police and medical personnel rushing past the camera bearing victims on stretchers.
Nate's voice seemed to float somewhere in the distance. Rayne, shot. Bleeding through the bandages. His still body being lifted into an ambulance. She made a sound in the back of her throat, every drop of blood in her body freezing.
“Oh, God.” Panic welled inside her and she hardly heard Nate's attempts to calm her. Rayne had been shot. She needed to get to him right away.
“Christa, can you hear me? Are you listening? He's being treated right now. He's
okay
, honey.”
She gulped air, trying to stop shaking, her teeth chattering. He wasn't dead or dying. He was okay.
“I'm sending a uniformed officer over to get you. Stay inside with the door locked and make sure you check his ID before you let him into the building.”
“Okay.” The fear was almost paralyzing. “Hurry.”
“Hang in there.”
What choice did she have? She grabbed her purse and waited at the door, heart pounding as the seconds ticked by.
Rayne heard her calling his name and took a painful, bracing breath before pushing into a sitting position. He was still in shock, but the fear was starting to creep in at the edge of his mind and he wanted to make sure he held it together in front of her. She rushed in, eyes wide at the sight of the sling securing his wounded left arm across his chest. “Hey, kiddo.”
He held out his good arm and she clung tight, fingers clenched on the fabric stretched across his shoulder blades, trembling. “Rayne, I— ”
“Shh.” She felt like heaven in his arms. He squeezed her closer as she covered his face in sweet, desperate kisses, wincing at the pain in his chest but not caring. He never wanted to let go of her again. “Just hold me.” She obeyed, slipping her arms around his waist, being careful of his arm and cracked ribs. For a few minutes she stayed that way, cheek pressed against his heart, as if absorbing the feel of him.
He pulled back and cupped her neck with his good hand. “I need tell you something, but I want you to look at me when I do.” She raised her blue eyes to his, held his gaze. “I love you, Chris. More than anything.” It felt damned good to have the chance to tell her so. “Wish I'd told you before.”
She gave him a watery smile, her face alight. “I love you too.”
He leaned down and kissed her, his hand buried in her hair. He almost hadn't made it home today, had been reminded how fragile life was, and he didn't like how it felt one damn bit.
“I haven't been that scared since... you know,” she told him hoarsely.
“Me either. I still can't believe it happened at all.”
She sniffed and wiped her eyes, scanned his injuries.
“Only one bullet actually got me,” He gestured at his bandaged arm where one had passed through his triceps and been blocked by the Kevlar vest, protecting his lung and heart. “The docs told me it missed anything real important, so it's just soft tissue damage. The vest saved me from the other two. Lucky me, huh?”
“Poor baby. Do you need anything?”
“Just you,” he said quietly, bringing her gaze sharply to his. He knew she was feeling scared and helpless and wanted to take care of him, but he only wanted to hold on to her until he felt stable again. As though she sensed it, she laid her head against him and closed her eyes, offering her love and reassurance without hesitation.
They sat in silence for a long time, savoring each other's presence with a new appreciation. Life was so precious, so fleeting. He intended to relish every day from now on, and cherish the things that were important to him. Especially Christa.
“So,” she said against his shirt when they were back home on his couch, “what happened today?”
He shifted to try and ease the aching in his ribs, but it lessened only slightly. The mere act of breathing was painful. “Murphy's Law happened,” he answered and told her everything, grateful for her warmth pressed against him, chasing away the chill that gripped him inside. “My teammate's still in the ICU with a fractured skull but at least he's conscious, and the little boy was taken into surgery before I was, so I haven't heard anything,” he finished, staring ahead at nothing. “I want him to be okay, Chris. I'll never forget the expression his face when he tried to run to me.” His jaw clenched and his eyes stung. “He was looking at me as if I was going to save the day, like I was some kind of goddamn superhero.”
She murmured and rubbed his arm, but the lead weight didn't go away. The guilt felt like an anvil pressed on his solar plexus. If he hadn't fallen through the ceiling, Daniel would most likely be home with his mother, but instead she was sitting next to his intensive care bed, keeping vigil over the tenuous grip he had on life.
He pushed the image away and tightened his hold on her while she ran her fingers over his bandages as if her touch could heal him. And maybe it did, he thought, kissing her temple. Thank God she was being so brave about everything. He couldn't take it if she cried right now. “I could use a shower,” he coaxed. “I can still smell the hospital on me.”
“You shouldn't be getting that sling wet,” she told him, all business as she stood and assessed him. “I'll draw you a bath instead.”
He let her help him into the master bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub as she filled it. How beautiful she was, inside and out. “How did you do today?”
She gathered towels and soap. “Fine. I laid low here, like you said.”
She eased off his shirt, careful not to hurt him but the pain still made beads of sweat pop out on his brow. He stood and let her pull his pants and boxers off, too sore to even think about making love to her, and since he'd thought about little else the past few weeks, it said a lot for how serious his injuries were. When she helped him into the tub he winced at the hot water stinging the abrasions on his knees and arms from where he'd fallen through and hit the floor. “I'm going to be one sore puppy in the morning.”
She ran a hand through his hair, then washed him down carefully, eyes tracking every bruise and welt on his chest and arm. “God, look at you.”
Truthfully, he wasn't feeling much pain at the moment. Her hands on his skin were prompting a reaction he hadn't expected, as if his body knew how close it had come to dying and was doing everything it could to remind itself he was still alive. He made himself lie back and let her take care of him, comforted by her gentle touch and her calmness. She brought him such a sense of peace.
All too soon she rinsed him off and toweled him dry, then moved him into his bedroom where she undid the towel at his waist, letting it puddle on the floor.
“Lie down,” she told him, watching him with hungry blue eyes. Leaning over him, she grabbed a bottle of lotion she'd placed on the bedside table. “I want you to lie still while I do this,” she was saying, but the blood had rushed out of his brain to pool in a more important organ, so he missed whatever else she told him under the roaring in his ears.
This was straight out of his fantasies— him lying helpless while Christa rubbed him all over with her oiled hands... Except he hadn't been shot up and bruised to hell in his fantasies. The look in her eyes was exactly right, though. Hungry and focused, staring at him as if he was the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. At odds with the incredibly soothing touch she was using. The woman looked like she wanted to eat him alive. He squirmed. As he shifted on the mattress her cool hands stroked over his shoulders and chest, her gaze trailing down to devour his erection.
God. He sank onto the sheets and lay back against the pillow, body throbbing. Closing his eyes, he absorbed the tingle of her hands wandering down his chest and stomach, her lips trailing wet kisses in their wake, moving lower. He sucked in a breath as she gripped him in her slippery hands, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He didn't know if he could take the feel of her mouth on him right now without thrashing around. “Chris— ”
She teased his navel with her warm tongue. “Are you too sore for this?”
“It might kill me,” he admitted hoarsely, “but it's a hell of a way to die.”
Only an idiot would stop her, so he lay there trembling in anticipation of the moment when she closed her mouth around him. He nearly came up off the bed, grabbing a fistful of the sheets in his good hand. Maybe it was because he'd almost died, maybe it was because he was wounded and at her mercy... whatever it was, he'd never felt anything so intense.
His fingers released the bedding to slide into her hair and hold her close, moaned and dug his head into the pillows, his body going up in flames. “Chris— ” he warned again in a rough whisper, but she kept going, slowly, as if she was enjoying his pleasure as much as he was and was in no rush to finish. He stood it for as long as he could, letting it build and build until he was fighting to contain it. “I'm going to come,” he whispered hoarsely, giving her a last chance to release him. But she only sucked him deeper and made a purring sound that destroyed him. He threw his head back with a deep groan, and exploded.
He collapsed onto the bed, as weak as a newborn foal, his heart thundering in his chest. His ribs were killing him and his arm throbbed, but it had been worth it. When he summoned the strength to open his eyes he found Christa lying with her cheek pillowed on his thigh, looking up at him with a satisfied glow in her eyes.
“Come here,” he murmured, holding out a hand to draw her up beside him. Her presence soothed him. “I love you.” Each time it felt easier to say the words out loud.
Early the next morning Christa was already busy in the kitchen when the phone rang. She set the steaming cinnamon buns on the stovetop to cool and wiped her hands on a tea towel.
“Hi, Nate.”
“Morning. How's our boy doing?”
“Still sleeping.”
He grunted. “Good. Sleep's the best thing for him right now. The ribs giving him much trouble?”
“His chest looks like a tie-dyed t-shirt.” Every time she imagined the bullets hitting his Kevlar vest she felt sick.
“Listen, I've dug up some more info on our perp.”
She stilled. “Okay.”
“Turns out he has a sealed juvenile record, so we eventually got a warrant to look at it. Seems when Seth was fourteen he offed his stepfather. Sliced him up like a ripe tomato, then strangled him.”
Her spine went rigid. She placed a hand on the counter to steady herself, thinking of that silver blade as it slashed toward her.
Sliced up like a ripe tomato...
He let out a weary breath. “We're following a tip that might lead to where he's been holed up, so I'll keep you posted. Tell Rayne to call me if I can do anything, okay?”
She hoped he could feel the net tightening around him. “Thanks, Nate.”
She set the phone back in its cradle. So her stalker was a double murderer. Gee, nice to know. What might he be able to do with his technological expertise? Track her through her cell phone records? The national team website where her name was listed? It detailed the program's itinerary, down to travel days, camp locations. If she somehow made the final cut, he'd know where she was on those dates.
The phone rang again and she jumped. The number on call display was unfamiliar, so she let the machine pick up and a woman's unsteady voice came on, seeking “Lieutenant Hutchinson.”
“Hello? Yes, he's here, but he's still sleeping. Can I take a message?” She reached for a pen but froze in mid motion. “Oh, no... no, I'm so sorry... yes, I'll tell him. Thank you for letting us know.” She hung up, tears pricking at her eyelids. How should she break this news to him?
“Smells good in here.”
She whirled around and found him coming into the kitchen, his hair sticking out all over the place, the sling awry, bruises spreading in violent purples all over his chest. “Morning. How are you feeling?”
“Sore.” He smiled at her sleepily, leaned down to press a kiss on the top of her head, then reached for the coffee mug she'd filled. “Is that cinnamon I detect?” he mumbled. “Did you make me cinnamon buns?”
“Yes, but they're from Pilsbury. I found them in your pantry. Any idea how old they are?” Her tone told him how gross she thought that was.
He took a sip, sighed. “Mmm. Good coffee. You're spoiling me.”
“Well, I think a little spoiling's in order, don't you? But let me know if I start driving you crazy with my fussing.”
“I love you fussing over me.”
“Yeah?” She groped for something to say to lighten the load and stall for time. “We'll see if you still love it when you've gained ten pounds from my cooking and put a lock on your bedroom door to escape me.”
He stared at her over the rim of his cup, poised halfway to his mouth. “You're scaring me.”
“I'm kidding. Here, come sit down.” She followed him to the table with a plate piled with scrambled eggs and a gooey, frosted cinnamon roll. He looked tired, but otherwise surprisingly good considering he'd been shot the previous day. While he dug in with an appreciative sigh, she carefully slipped her arms around him and kissed the side of his neck. “You want your meds?”
He shook his head. “Who was that on the phone?” He glanced up from his plate. “Nate?”
She squirmed in her chair. She would tell him about her earlier conversation with Nate but this latest call was more important. What would it do to him? “No, it was a lady.” She maintained eye contact with him. “She said she was Daniel's mother, that you'd seen her at the hospital and asked her to call.”
He swallowed the mouthful of cinnamon bun, his body rigid. “And? How is he?”
She dropped her eyes, couldn't bear to see the hurt when she told him. “He didn't make it, Rayne.” As the silence stretched she glanced up, saw the guilt and anger there and took his hand, frozen around his fork. “He passed away early this morning. Never regained consciousness. She wanted to thank you for all you did.”