Page 37

Ash's body tenses.

Running bootfalls pound, growing louder. Getting closer.

"Behind me," Ash says. His arm drops from my shoulder and crosses in front of my body. Hand on my far hip, he pushes me back. I go up a step but then resist.

"I can help, you're barely standing." I duck, pushing his suit jacket aside, going for his weapon. But Ash grabs my forearm. I twist to look up at him, eyes hard, heart pounding in my chest, fear making me reckless.

"They are most likely first responders. We don't want a TMZ report about you greeting them with an illegal firearm." He loosens his hold. "Get behind me." I don't move. "If they are not first responders, I have another gun on my left side. Use it."

I back up another step and move over so that Ash is between me and the booming approach. Peering down the stairwell, I see hands on the railing just one floor below us. There are a dozen of them. There is clanging—oxygen tanks?

Please let it be fire fighters.

My prayers are answered when the first one comes around the bend, his uniform bright and obvious. I let out a stifled sound—something that no one can hear over the surprised yells of the firemen.

They quickly surround us, some continuing up to the devastated restaurant, while the others tend to Ash and me. "Are you okay?" one of them asks me, his face close, eyes concerned. "Any injuries?"

I shake my head, the ability to speak suddenly stolen. My hands are shaking and my lips numb. Others are already moving with Ash, helping him down the stairs. I start to follow, and my escort takes my elbow. I try to tell him I don't need help, but that's an obvious lie. Now that his guiding hand is there I don't know how I could stand without it.

We continue down, spiraling toward earth, the stairwell unfurling beneath us. And then we are out. In the night. In that cool mist. Flashing emergency lights reflect off the wet pavement and the windows of the buildings surrounding us.

Goose bumps break over my skin. I can feel all those little cuts. And the burn on my arm starts to throb. The napkin I wrapped around it is gone.

The hand on my elbow leads me to an ambulance, and I lose track of Ash. A woman takes over my care. She's blonde with dark eyebrows and an intense gaze framed by mascara-caked lashes.

She leads me into the ambulance and seats me across from her on a gurney. "My name is Fiona Blake, I'm going to take care of you. What's your name?" she asks me, her sharp brown eyes holding mine.

"Angela Daniels," I answer, my voice sounding far away. Through the frame of the open doors I can see fire trucks and other ambulances. Crowd control barriers are set up and people are pressed up against them, including paparazzi. One spots me. His face lights up.

As he raises his camera, I turn my back, shifting to stare at the front of the ambulance and shield my face. Fuck.

"Angela Daniels?" the woman asks, her eyes darting between me and the flashes strobing at my back. Recognition dawns. Awe slackens her jaw and she blinks.

Fiona doesn't strike me as the type to fall over herself now. She'll reel it in and act like it's not a big deal. But she will tell this story for the rest of her life—and, in all likelihood, she will tell it to the tabloids.

I drop my gaze, feigning humility even as anxiety is riding up my spine with each flash of light that hits it. "Do you know where the man I came out with is?" I ask, the sentence ugly, my thoughts jumbled.

I need to pull it together. This is a performance as much as anything else. "I'm concerned about him, he had a head injury. Do you know if Prince Omar made it out? I didn't see him?"

"I'm sorry, I don't have that information. I do know several people were taken to hospital already." She puts a hand on my shoulder. "From what I know everyone is in stable condition. Let's get you checked out and then we can find your friends." I lift my head to meet her gaze. She's smiling softly, reassuring.

"Okay, thanks." I let the tears in my throat affect my voice. She should see me as scared, concerned, and normal. That's the story I want told.

"Let me see your arm please."

I hold up my injury for her inspection. Latex-gloved fingers gently cradle my forearm. It's streaked with black smears and blood. The blister has popped, the skin white and deflated over the wound.

Pain pounds up my arm with each heartbeat. Nausea tingles along my jaw. The adrenaline and other chemicals that kept me going are fading from my system.

"I'll take over here. The chief needs to see you," a man says from the doorway. He's tall with a long nose and brown eyes behind round, Santa Claus-style glasses.

He doesn't look at me, just keeps his focus on Fiona.

"What are you talking about?" Fiona asks, her tone annoyed.

"Chief just said to take over. They want you at the exit. They've got major injuries coming out." My chest tightens. Is it Omar?

Fiona makes a face, brow scrunching. Very much awhat the fuck are you sayingexpression. "Chief asked for you by name," he adds. Fiona cocks her head slightly, clearly skeptical. "You want me to tell him you're not coming?"