Page 2 of Wrecked for Love
With a guttural cry, I wedged my arm between his belly and my back. My fingers curled around the gun’s grip, cold and solid. I didn’t hesitate.
One. Two. Three.
Each shot was muffled by his own bulk. The man’s body jerked against mine with each blast, his grip loosening until he crumbled to the floor behind me. Blood spread beneath us—his, mine, Cody’s. It all blended together, a bloodbath.
I fell forward, gasping, fighting to stay conscious.
“Cody, wake up.” My voice trembled as I tapped his cheek again and again. It used to work when he was just high. But now his face was so pale, his lips a sickly shade of purple. A sob escaped me. “I’m so sorry…”
Tears blurred my vision, spilling down my face until I could barely see. I wanted to shake him, scream at him to get up, but his stillness was crushing me.
And then—sirens. Growing louder, closer.
I couldn’t stay. Police custody wouldn’t protect me from Gideon Purcell. If anything, it’d lead The Revenants straight to my doorstep. That’s if I didn’t bleed out first. I could already feel the numbness creeping into my back; the knife still lodged between my shoulder blades. Every breath sent a wave of cold pain radiating through me. I knew better than to pull it out. It would only make the bleeding worse and turn this nightmare into a death sentence.
But even out there, where would I go? I didn’t know how to get help.
I stumbled back through the hallway, my steps faltering. That’s when I saw it—a room with an open door, a safe hanging ajar. Cody’s words hit me all at once. He said there was money.
I didn’t think. I just grabbed it. Didn’t count it, didn’t care. A few grand? More? I didn’t know. I just fucking took it. Although somehow I managed to remember to leave the fresh bills behind.
There was no time to clean up. My blood was smeared across the floor, my fingerprints marking every surface. Too much. Too late to cover anything up.
I had to run.
I staggered outside, every movement sending a jolt of pain through my back. My hands shook as I gripped the steering wheel, but I drove. I drove and drove, not knowing where I was going. Only that I had to keep moving.
But I couldn’t. Not for long. I was too weak. My back throbbed, but at the same time, it was going numb. The blood loss was catching up with me.
Everything started to go black.
The last thing I heard was a voice—rough, older. Probably a cop. And that was it. I was done for.
A wet,slobbery sensation roused me from unconsciousness, and I cracked open my eyes. For a moment, I feared I’d been dumped in some wilderness, a wolf breathing down on me. But as my vision cleared, the friendly face of a husky dog came into focus, its tongue lolling out in a goofy, contented grin.
I found myself lying on my side, a pillow propped behind me. I tried to scoot up, but a stabbing pain yanked me back down. At first, it felt like any sharp ache, but as the fog lifted, the truth hit me—I hadn’t imagined it. I’d literally been stabbed.
“Easy, easy. Don’t try to move yet,” a rough voice reached me through the confusion. I blinked past the pain, letting theroom take shape—a modest bedroom, neutral curtains, wooden furniture. Definitely a house, his house, most likely.
“Rick Ashbourne,” the voice said, introducing himself. His face was etched with deep lines, especially around his mouth. He looked to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, standing tall—his height almost gave the impression of a basketball player from my vantage point.
I winced as the throbbing behind my eyes sharpened, rubbing my forehead like it was the worst hangover. I shifted slightly, trying to pinpoint the wound, but another sting stopped me cold.
Rick explained, “The blade had sliced into your back, about two inches from your left shoulder blade. You’re lucky—that pneumonectomy saved your life. And luckier still that it missed your heart. Everything worked in your favor because I’m no human doctor. I stitched you up. No surgery needed.”
“Thanks for saving me,” I murmured, still disoriented. “How long have I been here?”
“I found you last night. It’s evening now, the day after,” he said, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it, though he only managed to make it more tousled.
“You said you’re not a human doctor. What are you?”
“A vet,” he replied.
The revelation amused me. I was tempted to tell him that aside from dreaming of becoming a writer, I also hoped to study to be a vet one day. That I was saving up while juggling multiple jobs—pet groomer, pet shop assistant, and unofficial whisperer to both furry and leafy companions.
“And that,” he gestured toward the dog, whose nose now rested on my foot, “is Bobo. He was my daughter’s dog.”
“Was?”
