“You lot are fucking scumbags,” he says to the second photographer. Dillon is in his face, pushing him back, but the photographer is still snapping away while retreating. His camera is on a strap around his neck that is fixed to the top of his shirt so Dillon can’t rip it away as easily as the last one. “Can’t you leave them alone? Give them some fucking privacy.”
“Dil.” I reach for his shoulder, and he winces, cursing out loud. My fingers are coated in blood, and I freeze, instantly taken back to the scene of our accident. I’m shaking all over as I stand rooted to the spot, the sounds of approaching sirens doing nothing to drown out the screaming in my head.
Dillon is saying something to me, but I can’t hear him. I’m locked in my head, fighting an intense bout of panic as I’m trapped between the present and the past. Reeve’s lifeless form resurfaces in my mind’s eye, except this time it’s Dillon’s face staring at me.
Dillon is hurt.
He’s bleeding.
He could be dying.
That crazy bitch did something to him.
I don’t remember hearing any gunshots, but it all happened so fast.
Blood trickles from my fingers down my arm, and I stare in a horrified daze at it. No! Oh my God, no! My heart pounds painfully behind my rib cage at the thought of something happening to Dillon as well. I offer up silent prayers to a God I no longer believe in, begging him to let Dillon be okay.
The overriding thought ping-ponging around my frantic brain is I can’t lose him too.