Page 33 of Reckless
I thoroughly believe shooting whoever broke into my apartment will be justified. So, I don’t hesitate to aim straight for his heart. I would have pulled the trigger, too, if I hadn’t heard the bedroom door open, followed by the sound of Phoebe’s soft footsteps.
My heart drops to my feet as the intruder turns, and I see the whites of their eyes through a ski mask. A knife glints in their gloved hands. I raise the gun, thinking only of eliminating the threat.
“Griffin?” comes Phoebe’s voice.
My aim is true, despite the interruptions, but the intruder feints enough that when I squeeze off the first shot, it’s off the mark. Glass explodes. Wood splinters. Phoebe screams.
The man in the ski mask uses the moment of surprise to his advantage and charges, shoulder down, at me. He hits his mark, one shoulder straight in my ribs, and knocks every wisp of breath from my lungs. We tumble to the floor, and the gun lands a few feet away despite my best efforts.
There’s a glint of metal, a sound of frustration muffled by the material of the ski mask, and then white-hot searing pain.
“No!” Phoebe screams as she jumps onto the attacker’s back like a wild cat. She wraps an arm around the guy’s throat and punches at every available surface with her free fist.
As she fights and claws, I crawl toward my discarded gun. The intruder manages to buck Phoebe off his back, and she lands hard on the kitchen floor. He follows her, and before I can get to the gun, he’s thrusting the knife into her stomach. She screams again, loud and thin and full of terror and anger.
“No!” I yell hoarsely, still gasping for air from the blow to my midsection.
My heart bottoms out at her gasp of pain as she goes boneless. It feels like I do too. The intruder leaves the knife protruding from her midsection and gets to his feet. He takes one look at me, sees how close I am to the gun, and then sprints for the front door. I expend three rounds in his wake before cursing and turning back to Phoebe.
With as much as I want to chase him down, Phoebe’s hurt, possibly dying, and I refuse to leave her alone.
And it’s all my fault.
I should have been more prepared. I shouldn’t have let my guard down. If she dies, her blood is also on my hands. Just like it had been with Allison.
She’s on the floor writhing in pain when I make it to her side. The knife juts from the fleshy side of her abdomen. I shift only enough to be able to pull open a drawer and grab a couple of dishtowels, then I press them around the knife, making her wince.
“I know. I know it hurts. I’m so sorry.”
“You . . . okay?” she pants.
“I’m fine. Don’t talk. I’ll call an ambulance. Stay with me,” I order as I dial 911. I give them my address and answer their questions with clipped responses while I hold her. “They’re coming. Just stay with me.”
It seems like it takes an eternity for the paramedics to arrive, and when they do, the paparazzi are right behind them. It won’t be long before the entire thing is leaked to every gossip rag in the world, but I don’t care. All I care about is making sure she’s okay. I don’t care that they’ll compare it to Allison’s death. How they’ll speculate that I was involved with two women who ended up hurt… and one dead.
They load her into the ambulance, and police and medics head my way. I can’t help but remember a scene almost exactly like this when Allison was carted away after the accident that took her life.
Someone else is hurt because of me.
Chapter Seventeen
Phoebe
“How are you feeling?”
Dozens of people have asked me that question over the past few days, but aside from Emily—who called me freaking out and hasn’t stopped texting every few seconds—Catherine is the only other one who I feel genuinely wants to know. Of course, the one person I want to ask me has been suspiciously absent. I try not to think too much about it, but it stings.
“A little sore, but the doctor says I’m healing nicely.” Luckily the knife missed anything major. I was only required to stay in the hospital for a few days before being released and allowed to go back to work, much to Catherine’s dismay. “The police think they may have a lead based on a blood sample found at the scene. The shot that missed him must have nicked him after all.”
“That’s wonderful, but I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
“Thank you, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I hate that you’ve had to get someone else to cover for me at the studio.”
She waves away my concerns. “Don’t you worry about that. But I do have some news you should know.”
I shift a bit so that I’m sitting up straighter. She’d wanted to have a conversation at my apartment so I could rest, but I was determined to get out and about and insisted on meeting at her office. “Good news or bad news?”
“Depends on where you’re standing, I guess. Good news is that you don’t have to worry too much about missing work. Bad news is that you don’t have to worry because production is halted until they can recast Mr. McNalley’s role.”