“Of course, I’ll ensure no one goes near her.”
“Good.” I squeeze the nape of my neck, bracing to ask the question to which I’m downright scared to hear the answer. “Now talk to me. How is she doing?”
More tapping on the keyboard follows. “Stable. Strained wrist, cuts, and bruises. A mild concussion. Twenty-six stitches on her thigh, eighteen on her shoulder, four more on the gunshot wound, two at the front and two at the back. The bullet went through and out. Nothing but muscle tissue was damaged. She’s conscious, but...” he trails off.
The short pause shouldn’t affect me the way it does. My thoughts shouldn’t grind to a halt. My heart shouldn’t climb up to my throat that pulses and throbs. But it does, and there’s shit all I can do about my body’s reaction.
“Butwhat?”
“She’s hooked to diazepam. The attending’s note says she had a panic attack on the scene.”
I rub my face, eyes closed. The images his words summon, amplify the unease rolling around me like sewage. The car crash alone must’ve scared her senseless, but I know blood seeping from her wounds had a more sinister effect. “Make sure she doesn’t look at blood. She can’t stand the sight.”
“No blood. Got it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Layla
My head feels as if someone inflated a balloon inside. The humming and beeping of the machines around my hospital bed aren’t making it any better. It’s not pain. I’d be astounded if I could feel pain while hooked to IVs with painkillers. No, this is more infuriating. A constant, exhausting pressure as if my head is slowly heating up, tiptoeing closer to boiling point.
My body weighs a tone. Feeble, fragile, and heavy all at once. Stitches pull on my thigh and shoulder, only itchy for now. The itch will morph into pain once I’m out of here, no longer under the numbing influence of whatever glorious pain relief drips into my veins.
I try to remember; to replay the car crash in my head. Everything from when Archer pulled the trigger to shoot the tire is a blur. Straining past the milky fog in my brain is a daunting task. I give up fast, too tired to piece together a coherent, sharp picture.
Greeted by a young doctor shortly after I was brought to the hospital, the initial haze started dispersing. Pumped full of painkillers and with the effects of whatever they used to knock me out at the scene wearing off, the panic eased away. All I remember clearly is that all-consuming, blood-curdling panic, the thick fear wrapped around every muscle, bone, and cell in my body.
And that was before I saw a pool of my own blood around my injured body. By the time the ambulance arrived, I was on the verge of passing out, my breaths sawing in and out, vision blurred by tears, chest so tight it felt like I was breathing around twenty-four broken ribs.
I recall bits. Muffled voices, Rick’s distorted face in front of me, the firm touch of his big hands holding my shoulders. His desperate, futile attempts to calm me down.
He couldn’t.
The ambulance crew tranquilized me on the spot before they hauled me out of the pick-up truck. I was hysterical. Bat-shit crazy. At least that’s the description provided by the attending doctor once I calmed down with however much Diazepam they pumped into my system.
Not my proudest moment, I admit.
When I started to regain consciousness and rational thinking, fear came back, too. The doc hooked me to Diazepam again to suture my wounds in peace. Almost an hour later, the same IV still drips slowly, keeping me calm, weak, and tired. So, so tired. My eyelids want to close so badly, but I fight sleep. I’m waiting for Jean, Tayler, and Rick to visit. Doc promised to send them in once they’re checked over.
I want to go home, curl into a ball and pretend that my life isn’t a series of unfortunate events. The problem is, I don’t have a home. Now that Dante found me in Texas, I’ll never be safe again. Running isn’t really an option. He found me once, so he’ll do it time and time again.
My days are numbered...
I’m thankful for the drugs whooshing through my system. They numb the paralyzing train of thoughts that’d normally drive me insane. Dante wants me dead. And dead I’ll end up, I’m sure.
The door to the room opens abruptly. Again, if not for the diazepam, I’d be jumping out of my skin. Now, a mild flinch is all my body can muster. My heart, on the other hand, picks up the pace a little when a tall man enters. A hoodie is pulled over his head, and he’s not wearing a lab coat, dressed all in black. My pulse hurries again at the sight of a gun shoved into the holster by his belt. He parades around with the metal handle in full view, not trying to disguise it.
The machine that monitors my heart rate beeps faster as he pulls down the hoodie, revealing a wicked, chilling smile. I’m jolted into motion, frantically trying to pull myself up. At least that’s what I think is happening. In reality, I’m moving as if through quicksand. My stiff muscles and bones don’t want to cooperate while I try to at least sit up.
“Ah, you poor little thing. Let me.” The man crosses the room to adjust the pillows behind my back. “You hid well, Layla. I’ve been looking for you for two weeks.”
I silently, stupidly gawk into his dark eyes, taking in the stiff posture, broad shoulders, and exotic looks. His colorful accent and tanned complexion hint at Latin descent.
He sizes me up, snorting softly. “So young... so pretty. How did you fuck up your short life so badly, Imp?”
My eyebrows furrow as a peculiar familiarity washes over me at the nickname. Someone used to call me an Imp... it would probably be easier to access distant memories without three separate drugs in my bloodstream.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asks, unnaturally pleased, his grin disturbing and taking more real estate across his face by the second. “Oh, come on! Don’t hurt my feelings. Think harder,Imp.”