Page 54

high-dollar hooker

Christian

Fitz is prone on the concrete floor. Blood oozes from his side and one leg is at an angle that doesn’t exist on a human skeleton without being manipulated into that position. I dial nine-one-one while checking his vitals. He’s breathing but the pants come in shallow bursts.

“Jefferson County emergency services. How may I help you?”

I give the address and the basics of the situation.

When the operator asks me to remain on the line, I decline. It’s an invitation I cannot accept.

Sharp, indecipherable words are being barked from another room, if you can call it a room. Metal studs run from ceiling to floor. In places, sheetrock has been installed. In other places there’s nothing but ductwork and wire hanging from where the ceiling tiles should be.

I have no clue whether those cop dramas or movies are accurate, but I assume an actor has done more research than I have in this kind of situation, so I flatten my back to the wall and slide along, peering around corners as if bullets can’t slice through the pressed paper.

Everything changes when I hear a scream that can only be my wife’s and her angry tearful words. “No. Don’t hurt him.”

I run. I run as fast and as hard as I can, giving no fucks about alerting anyone to my presence or any consequences that go along with that. That’s my Princess. She’s mine. And no one hurts her.

Skidding around the corner, my blood freezes and my mind stutters to a halt.

Cian is strapped to a chair. The side of his face is pulpy and purple, and one eye is so swollen he can’t see out of it.

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

A gun is held to his head by a man wearing a black mask eerily similar to the ones used by the men who cased my house the night I was shot.

The rest of the firearms in the room—five or so—are trained on me. All but one. And that one is aimed on Seamus Murphy…

… And it’s held by my wife.

Her hands tremble, and the anguish in her face is enough to bring me to my knees.

“Princess?”

She shakes her head. Her red hair spins out around her as tears stream down her face and her nose releases what it can no longer hold inside.

“Princess?”

“No.” The word is torn from her like it was ripped from her very soul. I have no idea what or who she’s saying no to.

“Do it,” the apparent leader of the group says. “Last time we ask, Princess .” The word drips with sarcasm, and I want to shove it back into his mouth for the tone he’s taking with her. “Pull the trigger or your brother will know what it’s like to have copper and lead slice through his brain.”

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

No way. She either kills her dad or they kill Cian.

“Don’t do it, sis.” Cian grits through clenched teeth just in time to have two of those teeth fly from his mouth with the force of a punch.

The sound of her mournful wails is more than I can take. How do I save her from this?

Sirens scream in the distance and the handful of masked men stare from face to face in the group. It was barely controlled chaos before. Now it resembles cockroaches scurrying from the light and not knowing how to avoid getting squashed.

Everything happens at once. The goon who was threatening Cian drops to the ground. Brain bits and blood ooze from his skull.

The lead goon turns on Ayla, lifts his weapon, and squeezes.

I do the only thing I can—I dive.

Ayla

“Noooo!” My throat burns with the fire of my scream.

Shots ring out. They ricochet off the concrete and zip near the men I love. Dad topples backward, knocking me over like a pin in a bowling alley.

I don’t have a moment to see if he’s hit. The moment I’m down, hands lift me. This has happened before. Like hell, I’ll let it happen again. I thrash and fight, biting down where I’m able at the rough hands that manhandle me. “Let me go.”

“Ayla-girl, settle.” Those are the only words I could hear right now that would zap the fight right out of me. I sag into my brother, sobbing and mumbling words that have no meaning, but are everything.

“I love you. I love Ci. I’d never?—”

“Hush. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Christian—” I start.

“Later.You first.”

The man who could shoot someone without a second thought holds me tightly to his chest and runs with me to safety.

He deposits me in Christian’s SUV parked right out front, checks me over clinically, rubbing hands over me looking for bruises or cuts, and then slams the door and runs back into the fray.

I have news for him. It’s not my body that’s the problem.

The abrasions on my mind will be worse. The brutal memory of holding a gun to Dad’s head and seeing him question whether I would do it to save Cian.

The anger and resignation in his face when he realized I would.

We both know that if I’d had to, I would have.

And that was why… at least one reason. Because of his anger. No man worth his salt would allow his son to be killed in his place. No father would allow a child to be sacrificed for his comfort. And knowing that Dad not just wanted it—but expected it—was the moment I knew.

I knew he’d always be Seamus first and Seamus second, and everyone else somewhere down the list.

Cian telling me to allow his death so I didn’t have to live with the guilt of Dad’s murder on my hands was icing on the cake.

The difference in the two men couldn’t be more stark.

One day when Cian has kids, he’ll know that his kind heart, not his choices, will be the thing that allowed them to exist. His bravery made a maniacal choice easy.

Though, I’m so glad I didn’t have to see it through to its logical end.

Ambulances and police cruisers screech to a halt in front of the building.

Cops in full riot gear with guns drawn approach the building slowly and methodically.

Fire trucks bring up the rear moments later.

The sweep of different lights swirling over and over bathes the car, bounces off the mirrors, and nauseates me.

It’s a red and white rave that I never want to attend again.

Hell, I didn’t want to attend in the first place.

If I hadn’t refused Fitz when he insisted on that damn safe room, I could’ve skipped this fucked-up party. I didn’t see him after they shot him and dragged me away. I hope he’s alive and the EMTs can save him. I don’t know how I’ll live with myself with any other outcome.

A figure runs from the shadows, crouched low to avoid being seen, and yanks on the locked door handle. Are they stupid? I’m not letting them in.

“Ayla.” My name is a whisper shout from the driver’s side.

Liam ?

I unlock the doors, and he dives into the car, starting it and tearing away from the scene.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Everyone not in need of medical attention is being arrested. I’m trying to avoid any questions as to why I was there.”

“But Christian?—”

“Christian isn’t being arrested.”

Fuck. No. No. No. I drop my head back to the seat.

I can’t take anymore. “Take me back, Li. If my husband needs an ambulance I need to be there!” There’s no authority in my voice, no argument I can make to dissuade him.

He says nothing but doesn’t turn around.

He drives us to his place. It’s a new townhome development just inside the limits of Ken Caryl, nestled right in the foothill.

My brusque, tatted brother with both of his ears pierced lives in an end-unit townhome in Ken Caryl.

My snicker turns into an out-and-out laugh.

“Something you want to share?”

I shake my head and wave my hand at the same time, but don’t add to the conversation.

He parks out front and escorts me into his home. If I’ve been here before, I don’t know it. I don’t make a fuss about that and neither does he, but he points out the half bath downstairs which I avail myself of immediately.

I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My cruel day and the ruthless choices I was forced to make are written all over my face. The red splotches, the puffy eyes, the swollen red nose—all are evidence of heart wrenching moments served up one after another.

At least I’m not callous enough that I’m unaffected. Small victories.

When I exit the powder room, Liam is on the phone. “Got it. Thanks” He looks up at me as he drops the phone from his face. “They’re at Porter.”

“If I never have to visit a hospital again, it will be too soon.”

“Right there with you. Except for babies. That shit is not happening at home. Though, at this rate, Christian may never let you out of the house. ”

I stare dumbfounded at my brother. My brows cinch together as if them touching each other will have this all make sense.

“What? The baby talk makes you mute?”

“No. I’ve just never heard you say that many words in a row. Ever.” I pause and shake my head as if I can clear it. Then mostly to myself, I add, “And you were talking about babies.”

“Yours. Not babies in general.”

“My brother, the sentimental fool.”

His bark of laughter is the lightest thing I’ve heard all day. And it’s a good thing, because when we hit the hospital, we discover the fallout of Dad’s “business partners” not getting their way.

Mom is already in the waiting area. Cian is in the emergency room. Fitz is in surgery. There has been no update on Christian.

My oldest brother has a broken eye socket. Miraculously, he doesn’t have a shattered jaw though he does have a referral for a plastic surgeon and a maxillofacial specialist. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. I think I’d skip the whole business and choose a coma for a week.

The bone around the eye had a clean break with no fragmenting. Best case scenario or so they say. I’d argue that not having a break that close to your eye and therefore no risk to your vision would be better, but science people don’t listen to “people in the arts” with the respect they should.

Or hysterical sisters either, it seems.