Page 38 of Demon
Demon. My heart slowed its frantic beat. Demon. It steadied the thundering, pounding rhythm and now I could breathe.
“Ciara. Your alarm. Turn it off. On your phone,” Demon prompted when all I could do was stare at his bare chest. I nodded silently, reaching for the handset that was having a hissy fit. A very shrill hissy fit. And suddenly it was quiet again.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“Fuck’s sake,” the voice on the other side of the room complained. “I had to listen to you two fucking all night and then you had the fucking cheek to wake me up before fucking lunchtime.”
“It wasn’t all night, Fury,” Demon answered, pulling me deeper into his chest.
My cheeks burned and my stomach returned to its normal place. My heart beating heavily, but slowing, and my breathing was just back to normal until the sudden clatter of the bedroom door against the wall broke the silence.
“Demon! Demon!” a man’s voice again. But this one was full of panic.
Demon let go, turning away from me, pushing upwards onto his elbows. I sat up, looking across to the doorway where his brother stood, outlined by the orange light in the hallway. Three other heads bobbed up too, the atmosphere in the room suddenly electric.
“It’s dad. He’s collapsed. I need you to come now!” Indie said again, panic now clear in his voice.
Chapter Eighteen
Demon
I leapt out of bed, the cool air rushing at my skin. Indie had already gone, and Fury and the twins were scrambling out of bed on shaky legs, rubbing at their eyes in just-woken-confusion. Somewhere at my feet were my clothes. But all I could find were my jeans. I pushed into them hurriedly, the material folding, stopping me from ramming my leg all the way down. The second leg seemed to take even longer, and this time I lost my balance, falling back onto the bed. Fuck’s sake.
In front of me, Fury was already out the door and the twins were busy fighting over who’s t-shirt was whose. Once my other leg was safely inside, I ran forward, pulling the jeans up over my arse, fiddling with the brass button as I ran and twatting my little toe off the foot of one of the beds. Fuck, it stung like a bitch.
Outside, in the hallway, there was a commotion. Feet thundering on the old wooden floorboards. In front of me. Behind me. Bodies racing to the ground floor.
My father was slumped on the sticky floor behind the bar, his dark-haired girlfriend bent over the top of him. His hands clutched his bare chest, breaths coming in short shallow bursts and even under all his tattoos I could see the colour of his skin. Grey. His eyes seemed to bulge in his head, his cheekbones throwing shadows across his face. He looked like he’d aged thirty years in one night.
From the other side of the bar, I could hear Indie on the phone.
“I need an ambulance to theDog on the Tyne, Gateshead.”
“Ste, come on, babe. You’re going to be ok,” Tori cooed. “Demon. Don’t just fucking stand there. Get him some water.”
On another day, I would have had to control the urge to punch her in that fucking annoying mouth of hers. But today I obeyed, pulling a glass from a shelf, and holding it under the tap. The glass shook in his hand as he tried to bring it to his lips, water spilling out onto his chest, collecting in droplets on the unruly grey hair in the middle. Then he started coughing again. Deep, desperate convulsions, never stopping. He gagged with the next bout, vomiting all over himself, and still the cough wracked his body.
Prising the glass from his fingers, I guided it to his mouth.
“Here. Just sip at it. It’ll help.”
His lips trembled over the glass, shallow gulps, the cough returning straight away, unrelenting. I gave him a few seconds and then lifted the glass to his mouth again, a tinge of blue just appearing as he pressed his lips against it. Then for a few minutes the cough subsided, his chest heaving, desperately trying to pull in some oxygen. His ribs seemed to suck in his flesh with each breath, his skin pulling across the top of his stomach. He seemed even greyer now, sickly, and beads of sweat collected on his forehead. Resting his head back against the bar shelf, he closed his eyes.
“How long for that ambulance, Indie?” I shouted.
“Dunno. I’ll ring them again,” he called from the other side of the bar.
His voice trailed off. To my right, faces peered at us, but none were distinct. Just faces watching on like I was. Unable to do anything but wait.
My father’s breathing changed. It became high-pitched, almost a whistle, and the sweat that had clung in droplets on his brow now streamed down his face. Indie pushed through the small crowd of faces, looking on worriedly.
“I don’t think we can wait for an ambulance, Indie. We need to get him to the hospital now.”
“And how the fuck are we going to do that? I’m still that far over the limit my own organs are preserved. Same as this lot.”
“I’ll take him.”
“On your bike? You going to tie him onto it?”
