SIX (29 page)

His huge frame is shifted with the sounds of strained grunts and he’s strapped down.

One of them puts a collar around Six’s neck and another takes over my post as they wheel him out to the ambulance.

I follow behind them on unsteady legs, the blood from my hands dripping a path as I go.

They load him into the ambulance and one of the paramedics who was pushing jumps in last.

He begins poking an IV into his skin while the other ushers me inside and closes the door behind me.

A monitor comes to life and they place patches on his chest and something on his finger.

The paramedic repeats her actions over and over, checking his oxygen, checking his airway, checking his pulse.

Please don’t die. Please don’t die.

The sirens blast as we pull out of the parking lot.

We bump around during the drive as they continue putting pressure on his wound and checking his vitals before eventually slowing and coming to a stop.

The doors open and a buzz of noise and activity leaves my head spinning.

He’s rushed through doors and more medical professionals come over.

They share medical speech and run down the halls.

I’m just trying to keep from screaming.

My feet race to keep up, my hands eager to touch his skin, hold his hand.

One puts their hand out and tells me I can’t go any further before they disappear through doors that have “Operating Room” written above them.

The paramedics who brought him in stand behind me, telling me to sit in the waiting area and fill out some paperwork if I can.

I shake my head, my mind racing with every possibility of outcomes waiting ahead of me.

My fate rests in that room with the man I love.

If he dies, my soul will go with them.

Why don’t they understand that? Paperwork can go fuck itself.

I shrug the paramedics off and attempt to sit, but end up pacing instead.

My mind conjures up visions I don’t want to focus on and moving seems to somewhat help.

A familiar sound alerts me to Parker.

My head pops up as she shrieks, telling Lucky she’s going to kill him for scaring her like that.

His words are muffed from the oxygen mask on his face, sounding drowsy and disorientated.

When she sees me, she shuffles over, her brows dropping low over her eyes and her mouth turning down at the corners.

I take a seat in one of the chairs, my shoulders hunching as I curl in on myself.

“How is he?” she asks, concern tinting her tone.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

Her ass drops down into the seat next to me and she nudges my hand until I release it from the balled-up fist.

She entwines her fingers with mine and I let the warmth of her palm give me a little bit of strength.

Sniff. Scrap. Beep.

I’m going out of my mind.

Everything appears heightened, my nerves are shattered, and my patience is thin.

I am surviving on two hours of sleep and that’s only because a nurse forced me to lie down on the spare cot in Six’s room.

He hasn’t woken up and it’s been three days.

Three whole long, excruciating days.

He had a rare subclavian artery injury.

The bullet punctured the vein and then lodged in muscle.

The surgeon explained it’s a rare injury and he repaired it with gore-tex graft or something, but Six lost a lot of blood and his body had gone into shock.

It’s ironic that his skin is littered with bullet scars and a bullet in the shoulder has him fading from us—
from me
.

Sniff. Scrape.

“Lucky, I swear to God, if you keep hitting that chair with your wheelchair and making it scrape across the floor, I’m going to shoot you in the other leg. And, Jo or whatever your name is, stop sniffling. What are you even doing here?”

My eyes blaze at the freaking woman. I know her name is Jo, she works at the bakery and is always bringing food to the bar.

Her body huddles into itself and her red-rimmed eyes make me want to poke her in them.

“I brought him cinnamon rolls for when he wakes up. You’re not the only one who cares about him, you know,” she huffs.

Before I can reply, she storms out, but she shouldn’t even be here. She didn’t really know him.

She cooked him food because she’s hot for him—that doesn’t make her entitled to sit here sniffling at his bedside.

If she comes back, I’m going to lose my freaking mind.

“Lucky, maybe we should go back to your room and let Misty get some rest,” Parker announces, like rest is something I can do.

Lucky lost a lot of blood, but his wound had gone through and through and he’s going to be fine.

He doesn’t even need physical therapy and will be discharged today.

“I don’t want to leave in case he wakes up,” he grumbles, rocking that stupid wheelchair back and forth.

“I’m sure Misty will call me if he wakes up.

We need to get your things packed away,” she urges.

With a “Fine” chucked over his shoulder, he swivels his wheelchair out of the room and Parker comes over to pat my shoulder before following him out.

I continue watching the monitors, praying they change and announce he’s going to wake up, even though I’m not entirely sure what they all mean.

I just know the heart monitor is sending out a steady pulse.

It gives me a slither of comfort and lulls my eyes to feel droopy.

Time passes at an excruciating pace while I fight the battle to keep my eyes open. Losing, I let myself drift away.

Beep…beep…beeeep.

No!

My eyes spring open as my knees extend, lifting me to stand beside Six’s bed.

How long was I out?

My eyes dart to the clock on the wall above.

Night has fallen and I’d slept for over four hours.

Tracking the beeping of the machine to see if it was just a dream, my heart thunders in my chest.

Six’s eyes flicker open and relief, the sweetest I’ve ever known, douses my entire body, almost knocking me off kilter.

“Thank God,” I whisper.

Nurses pour into the room, moving me to the side so they can mess with the monitors and tubes while checking his blood pressure and a tear of elation trickles down my cheek.

Thud…thud…thud.

I walk through the hallway to my and Haley’s old apartment.

People’s faces are blurred and there’s no sound from them, just the beating of my own heart.

Thud…thud…thud.

I don’t want to see. I can’t go through this again.

Thud…thud…thud.

My legs are heavy and I want to stop them from dragging, but it’s like the floor is sand and my feet are sinking.

“Taylor…Taylor!” she calls out. It’s too late. I already know this.

Things won’t change, no matter how much I want them to.

Thud…thud…thud.

Pushing the phantoms away, I push into the apartment.

Grief grips my chest in its arctic clutch.

There’s no blood, no crying, no dying Haley.

She’s standing by the window, her arms outstretched.

“Taylor, I’m free. Keep her.”

Beep…beep…beep.

I jolt from the dream, choking.

My mouth is so dry, my tongue feels like leather and my lips are stuck together. Tubes stick out of me and bright light burns my retinas.

A gasp sounds from beside me and Misty’s tear-filled gaze shines down on me, blocking the harsh light.

“Thank God!” she repeats, over and over, rubbing one of her tiny hands through my hair.

A nurse replaces her a few seconds later and there’s movement happening all around me.

I remember going down, the haze taking over and trying to fight it.

My body is jostled as they move wires and tubes.

All but one of the nurses have left the room and this one with the warm hands and gentle smile is making me sip on a straw from a cup of cold water and telling me how unfortunate I am to suffer such complications from a shoulder wound. Unfortunate would be getting shot in the first place.

“You’ve got a good one here,” she adds, tucking the covers around me and gesturing with a head jerk toward Misty.

Misty.

“She hasn’t left your side the whole time you’ve been here. Broke her heart seeing you all banged up,” she whispers to me, patting my arm before leaving with a smile and a nod in her direction.

I find Misty’s eyes and wiggle my fingers, curling them up to gesture for her to move closer, needing her to be close to me.

“Glad to have you back with us, Taylor,” a man in a white coat states, nodding his head once as he comes into the room.

He picks up a board from the end of my bed and reads through it before telling me the injury I sustained, how he treated it, and that I may need physical therapy to get full motor function back.

“Work,” I croak.

“He’s a tattoo artist,” Misty clarifies for me.

The doctor pulls one side of his face up in a half grimace he quickly tries to hide.

“Let’s not focus on that for right now and just focus on getting better. We can discuss it further down the line.”

Jude is going to get his fucking ass kicked for this shit.

I can’t even think about not being able to tattoo anymore and this injury isn’t going to stop me.

Of all the bullets and stab wounds I’ve taken over the years, a friend shoots me and nearly kills me.

“Misty,” I whisper, sounding hoarse.

Being weak and incapacitated isn’t me and I’m itching to get out of this bed but exhausted all at the same time.

Snaking my hand out to grab Misty’s, I bring it to my lips.

“Thank you for being here. Who’s running the bar?”

Her face contorts into confusion.

“You’ve been under for three days and were gone for a week before that.”

“Three days?” I say out loud, not meaning to pose it as a question.

Her hand pulls from mine, drawing my eyes to where the warmth still lingers from her palm.

“The bar has been closed. We didn’t know when or even if you were going to come back.”

“Neither did I,” I tell her honestly.