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Thank goodness the motherfucker is drunk, making his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. I'm halfway to his desk when he realizes my intentions. Rotating his wrist, he aims the gun barrel right at my chest as I continue racing forward to prevent him from taking his own life.

A knowing gleam flickers in his eyes just as his finger twitches on the trigger.

Pain stabs into my shoulder. Randi screams. Tank bellows in rage, shaking the walls.

Another shot booms through the white-paneled room just as another punch of pain slams into the center of my chest. I stumble, inches from the desk. With a determined roar, I lunge over it, my thighs slamming against the edge but not before I wrap my arms around Birmingham. In a tangle of limbs, we crash into the desk, his weight slamming me onto it. Wrestling for control, I fight back the pain-filled tears leaking from my eyes to locate the gun.

As quickly as it happened my arms are suddenly empty. Kyle's heavy weight is gone, leaving me heaving atop the desk alone. Shouts echo around me, but I can't focus on anything other than the pain. Somewhere in the room, Randi cries my name, the desperation and fear in her trembling voice urging me to find her.

Grunting, panting to keep from crying out, I press the palm of my uninjured arm to the desk. I lift a couple inches before I fall back to the hard wood.

Tears, or maybe sweat, drip into my eyes, blurring my vision, but still I'm able to make out the shit-for-brains Birmingham wrapped up in Tank’s anaconda arms across the room.

“Trey.” Peeling my cheek from the paper it was stuck to, I turn my head toward the soft voice before it thunks back to the desk. “Trouble.” Tears stream down her face, leaving black lines dividing each cheek. “Please. Please be okay.” Her rapid breaths breeze over my damp cheek. Those edible lips I love so much brush along my cheekbone. “What the hell were you thinking trying to stop him?”

I open my mouth to tell her that I have zero idea, but a spike of pain shoots from my chest, stealing my breath. Slamming my eyes shut, I grunt in pain, my back arching off the desk.

“No,” she cries. “Trey. No, please, stay with me. You're okay.”

My heart thumps against my ribs as warm liquid slides along my skin beneath my dress shirt, leaving a chill in its wake.

“Mess.”

Giving in to the darkness, I welcome the peace it offers.

* * *

“I think he's coming to.” Something soft and cold presses against my cheek, helping me fight through the grogginess that still has a hold over me. A quiet beeping sounds somewhere around me while the crisp scent of ammonia permeates my nose. “Trouble, wakey wakey. You've taken a long enough nap.”

“Madam President, we need to leave right now.”

My senses flicker to life at the sound of that unfamiliar male voice. A florescent overhead light assaults my eyes when they finally deem to respond to my demands to open.

“Fuck,” I grunt. I go to cover my eyes to save them from being blinded, but something at my wrist prevents me from raising my hand. I tug again a little harder this time—same result. Blindly, I jerk at the restraints holding my wrists down, the desperate need to be free overriding everything else. The beeping sound picks up, turning frantic, matching the beats of my pounding heart.

“Trey, you're safe. You're in the hospital.” Randi's voice cuts through the panic, but it’s not enough to stop yanking at whatever the hell is restraining me.

“Off,” I hiss, the single word scratching my dry throat.

Warm, humid breath brushes against the shell of my ear. “So you like to restrain but don't like being restrained. How interesting.”

I'd laugh at her comment if I weren't freaking the hell out. What seems like hours later, the restraints restricting my movement loosen from my wrists. The relief is short-lived, however. Just as I lift both arms to relish in the newfound freedom, massive palms seal around my wrists, holding them to my side.

“You'll rip out your IV again, you idiot.” Tank's deep rumbling voice quells the desperation building in my chest. “It's why we had to have these on you in the first place. I'll let you go, Playboy, if you promise to stop acting like a damn kid.”

Peeking one eye open, I attempt an easy smile. “Got it.” More snappy comments filter through, but I can't muster the energy to say them. Relaxing against the stiff mattress, I close my eyes again. “What's going on?”

“Madam President, it's time.”

“Who's the new guy?” I demand, cringing through the discomfort each word causes.

“Here's some water, Trouble.”

I blink open both eyes. Randi hovers over me, her smile wide and fake while fear flickers in her hazel eyes. I wrap my lips around the thin plastic straw and take several pulls of the room-temperature water. A grunt of displeasure rumbles from me when she pulls back before I've had my fill. “Doctor said to drink it slow. How much do you remember?”

Allowing my lids to slide shut once again, I search my memories.

Birmingham, gun, pain.