Page 63 of Save Me
Dad’s breathing is ragged, his skin pale as he comes to again.
“Keep pressure on it,” Adam says from the front, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, watching for any sign of pursuit. We bounce around with the screwed suspension, but we’re moving. That’s something, even though every jolt sends a fresh wave of agony across Dad’s face.
“Hospital,” I mutter. “He needs a hospital.”
“No.”
The one word from Adam is like a slap. “Adam!”
He doesn’t reply, just steps on it faster, pulling back onto the mansion driveway as the gates open.
“Stay with us, Dad,” I plead, feeling tears burn hot trails down my cheeks. I never knew how much I needed him until this moment—until I thought I might lose him.
We skid to a halt on the fancy red brick. Adam is out of the SUV before it even stops rocking, yanking his phone from his pocket with one hand while he reaches for me with the other.
“Go, Vogue, inside—now!” His voice is a command, one I have to obey. I’m floundering. He’s in charge now. He has to know what he’s doing.
I stumble inside, every step jarring my head where I hit it earlier. My thoughts are scrambled, but I know we can’t waste a second. Dad’s life hangs by a thread, his breaths shallow and ragged in my ears.
Adam doesn’t pause as I burst through the front door. He’s already barking orders into the phone as he wrestles with my dad again.
I hover near the entrance, useless, watching Adam, grateful for this cool in the face of danger man; this giant of steel and purpose.
His eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I see the gravity of the situation reflected back at me. There’s no room for error, not with Dad’s life on the line.
“Vogue, stay with your dad. Make sure he stays awake until the doc arrives,” Adam instructs, marching past me with Dad slung over his shoulder. He drops Dad on the couch, pale and gasping.
“Okay.” My voice is steady, surprising me. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe it’s some thread of strength I didn’t know I had. I kneelbeside Dad, taking his hand just like I did in the car, determined to be his anchor through the pain, my other hand keeping pressure on the wound.
“The doctor is on his way,” I whisper to him, trying to infuse my words with hope. My mind races, circling the fact that despite my years of fighting for a future beyond the reach of Westfield’s shadows, I’ve been thrust into something worse. I can only imagine this doctor guy is a back alley type of guy or a vet like they use in the movies.
Fuck. This is surreal. What is going on? What am I thinking?
“Stay with me, Dad,” I urge softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. He nods faintly, his grip on my hand like a lifeline.
The front door slams open with force enough to shake the walls, and Cal bursts in first, his face hard as stone. Quen is right on his heels, eyes darting around, taking in the scene like he’s ready for a fight. Thayer follows, taut with urgency, and Harry steps in last, his silence more unnerving than any words.
“Guys!” I shout. “Fuck!”
“Adam called us,” Quen says, coming over and kneeling down, immediately taking over for me as he rips off his tee and bunches it up over Dad’s oozing wound.
“Shit,” Thayer mutters, running a hand through his hair. “How bad, Quen?”
“Bad enough,” he says absently.
I feel Harry’s gaze on me, a silent offer of empathy.
“Some doctor is coming,” I murmur.
Quen nods, taking it in. “Good.”
“Let’s clear some space,” Thayer says, practicality taking over, moving furniture with Callum and Harry to make a path for when the doctor arrives. It’s action, something tangible in the midst of helplessness, and I’m grateful for it.
“Thanks,” I whisper, and they look at me with a nod. No platitudes or false promises; they understand as well as I do now that words are flimsy shields against the reality of a bullet wound.
“He’s tough,” Quen mutters to me.
“Damn straight,” Dad croaks. “Had worse.”
