Page 134 of Painted Scars
His phone slips to the floor with a clatter. He scrambles to get it, and it skitters along the linoleum. “Need her voice,” he grits out.
“We don’t have time for that.” I scoop up the device and lift him.
A shot cracks in the air, a bullet pinging the locker ahead of us. I scream and duck.
Grayson stumbles into me. Blood blooms dark on his shoulder. I come away with it on my jacket.
“Go!” He shoves me forward, barely able to get the words out. “August won’t forgive me if you don’t get out of here.”
Like hell. I’m not leaving August’s friend to die.
Another bullet shatters the cinderblock near my head, and I curl my body in. Boot thumps down the hall, and I glance back at the trio closing in on us. Panic claws at my throat as I drag Grayson back three paces.
Rough arms lock around my throat and strap under my chest.
“Get off me!” I fight, kicking, biting, nails raking skin, drawing blood.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” My duffel is ripped from me by a man in a black suit. He slashes my bag, spilling the contents on the ground.
A hood drops over my head before my hiss ends. My world descends into darkness and panic. The ground disappears under me.
Grayson croaks my name as the man drags me away.
I don’t go without giving them hell, writhing and head butting the man carrying me. Fire cracks from my skull to my neck.
“Fuck!” he snaps, almost dropping me.
“The boss wants this little bitch alive,” someone grunts. “Don’t touch her. That’s his job.”
Another man grabs my wrists and twists them behind my back. I arch and cry out, my brain misfiring, scrambling to remember my self-defense training. Plastic ties bite into my wrists and cut tight before I lock onto a single technique. I’mhauled out of the school and tossed into the trunk of a car, locked inside, choking down the sob in my throat.
They drive long enough for the muscles in my shoulders to scream and cramp, my wrists to beg for freedom, and my brain to cycle through places I don’t want to consider. The vehicle slows on gravel and crunches to a stop. Doors grind open. A roller door perhaps?
Light filters through the fine spaces of the fabric over me as the trunk opens. Two men lift me out and carry me inside to my doom.
CHAPTER 38 - AUGUST
Ihear the wheezing before I see the blood. My pulse spikes so hard, it makes my ears ring. I don’t need to see his face to identify the source. The cadence of the sound is one I’ve heard too many times. Panic dragging the breath thin and ragged. Why is Grayson out of the bunker? Why did he leave Kate alone and unprotected? Unless…
Body alert, my muscles coil tight. I dump the cheesecake box on the top of the lockers without a second thought. My hands find one of three guns I carry, the safety flicked off before my brain finishes the warning.
Light on my feet, I pick up my pace, navigating the halls. I round a corner, and air leaves my lungs. My best friend lies on the floor, red spreading under one shoulder like a fucking angel of death. Neck wound from a bullet. Shallow. Katar’s gun lies abandoned a few feet away.
Heart climbing into my throat, my knees slam the ground. “Stay with me, Gray. Don’t you fucking check out on me.” I press two shaking fingers to his throat, the thumping under me erratic. “Don’t you fucking check out on me.”
His bloodshot eyes flick open. “You gonna kiss me too, Sleeping Beauty?” he croaks, his voice full of crushed glass.
My chest unlocks enough for air to scrape in my mouth.
A huff of relief breaks loose, half laugh, half growl. “I’ll turn you into a frog.” The joke’s flimsy, but without it, the cracks will show. I keep a finger on his pulse while I lift him into a seated position, because I don’t trust myself counting the beat. “Are you hit elsewhere besides the neck?”
“Kevlar saved me.” He’s trembling, clammy, breath sawing in and out, one hand clamped over his wound. I can’t tell if his pallor is blood loss, or if he’s spiraling.
The sight pulls me back to every other time I’ve found him like this.
I crawl around him on my knees, tug his dress shirt open, and check for other damage. His Kevlar vest bears two dents. I pop his chest straps, lift the edges, and peel back his shirt. Bruises on his back where he took two hits. Evidence of every dollar well spent on self-protection. Proof of how close he came.
“You’ll live.” I clap him on the opposite shoulder, gentle enough to not break him.
