Page 28 of Stolen Voices

I shift Callie so I can pull my keys out of my pocket and hand them to him. “Will you pull my car around the back?”

“For sure, man.”

“Thank you. And, uh, sorry about earlier.”

Reigns looks at Callie, whose eyes are still closed as she clings to me, then back at me and smiles. “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

Reigns shakes his head at me like I’m an idiot. “Just take care of her, okay?”

Always.The thought is unbidden but feels right. Since I’ve already showed too much of my hand, I joke, “Can’t let my best client die on me, now, can I?”

“Client? Right.” Reigns winks at me before rushing out of the building.

Turning on my heel, I ignore his comment and head for the back door.

“Eli?” Her voice is soft, bordering on a whisper.

“Yeah, Cal?”

“I don’t feel so good.”

I can’t stop myself from pulling her closer and resting my chin on top of her head. “I know, princess.” The endearment slips out but, right now, I just don’t care. I need Callie to be okay. I whisper low enough so she doesn’t hear me. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Even in her weakened state, she has the hearing of a dog and mumbles, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Always.The word pops into my head again. Callie can never be mine, but that doesn’t mean I won’t look out for her.

The back door opens, pulling me from my thoughts. DJ Reigns props it open for me, as I carry Callie to the car, where the front door is already open and waiting for me to place her in the front. I lower her into the seat, adjust the back so she’s lying down, and buckle her in, before placing her purse on the floor and slamming the door shut.

I shake Reign’s hand and climb into the driver’s seat, then speed out of the studio parking lot. Hitting voice command, I call in a favor from an old friend and hope like hell they can help Callie on short notice.

eight

Callie

Myheadpoundsasthe muffled bickering grows louder, pulling me from sleep. My stomach pitches, and my eyes feel like they are being held down by weights, making it difficult to open them.

“Is she going to be okay?” a man asks, his voice rough and laced with worry.

Is who going to be okay? What the hell happened?

Fog clouds my brain, making it hard to remember, and my throat is dry and scratchy. The sheet beneath my palm is silky, unlike the soft flannel ones I’m used to. The comforter covering me smells like fresh linen instead of lavender, confirming that I am not home and in my bed.

Where am I?

“Callie should be in a hospital,” a woman hisses.

Well, that answers two of my questions. They are talking about me, and I am definitely not at home.

“No,” the man says again.

Eli. I fight to open my eyes and call for him, but all I can do is listen to their hushed conversation.

“She stays here.” His tone is stern and not to be questioned.

My chest fills with comforting heat.He cares.