35. Annie
Chapter Thirty-Five
ANNIE
P lease, no.
“ O h my God,” I whisper, pulling up my jeans as quickly as I can. Brendan yanks his on, too. The gun jerks a warning at us and we feel it in every cell of our bodies. Other than this warning, the guy’s hand is shockingly still. This isn’t his first robbery.
I glance to the door. The one I forgot to lock.
“Give me all your money!” His voice is terrifying as louder he yells, “NOW!”
Brendan, shirtless and barefoot, tries to appease him, saying as calmly and soothingly as he can, “Look. Here’s my wallet. Take it.”
“Throw it on the ground!”
I can’t keep my eyes off the gun. Brendan takes half a step and drops his leather wallet onto the floor with a dull thud. “There. Take it. Just leave us alone, okay?”
The guy eyes him through the mask. He bends for the wallet, the gun trained on Brendan the entire time. But he doesn’t leave. My heart is slamming in my chest and I’m holding my breath. I see a ring on the guy’s finger. It looks like a silver skull of a bull.
He growls, “Now the register!” and jerks the gun toward the bar.
Brendan, on high alert, looks to me. “Annie.”
“I have to open it,” I whisper. Fury flashes across Brendan’s face because we have no other choice. He knows it. I know it. He nods and I edge toward the bar.
“FASTER!” the gunman yells, taking one terrifying step toward me.
I jump and Brendan races to soothe him, “Okay. She’s just nervous. Give her a second. You’re gonna get the money.”
The gunman backs closer to the door for an easy escape, his gun shifting to cover us both. I almost fall when I hit a divot in the rubber mat behind the bar. Gasping, I right myself and rush to open the register, body shaking. Twenties, ten, fives, ones – I grab them all.
“Under the drawer!” The gunman growls at me.
I throw him a curt nod to let him know I understand. Lifting the register, I hold up the few fifty and hundred dollar bills I have, for him to see. “This is it. There’s no more.”
He jerks his gun toward him, urging me back. I begin my return, walking slowly, staring from the barrel of the gun to Brendan’s face. He’s watching the gun, too. His shirt is still off and all I can think is why is this happening? Tears well up in my eyes. My business is struggling already and now he’s taking all the money we made tonight plus the extra I had in the register, hoping we’d have a busy night. My mind is swimming and my heart hurts as the tears fall. I don’t see his finger tense on the trigger. I don’t see that he has no intention of letting us escape. I don’t see it. But Brendan does. He sees the intention and jumps in front of me, yelling “NO!”
I go deaf from the explosion of the shot ringing out. Brendan crumbles to the ground. I scream. Before I even know what I’m doing, I throw the cash at the gunman’s face and run forward through it. He flinches and closes his eyes as anyone would. I knock his firing arm to the left. Another shot rings out. I grab his wrist with both hands where it’s weak twisting it backward toward him until he buckles, a natural human instinct to avoid breakage. I bend his fingers, too, just like my dad taught me, enough for me to grab the gun, jump back and point it at him. “Get out! Get the fuck out of my bar!”
He’s shocked. It takes him a second to realize what’s happening.
Just like he did, I yell louder, “NOW!” He backs out. My hand isn’t like his was. It’s shaking. But I’m just as dangerous because I’m clear on only one thing. I don’t have time. Brendan is unconscious. I have to call 911. There is no time. “FASTER!”
He backs out the door and I shut it quick, fumbling with my keys to lock it. It starts to open again and I shoot through it. Hear a yell of pain as I hit my target through the wood, a hole left behind just like the one in my dad’s glove compartment in our family truck from the time his gun accidentally went off. I don’t open it to check if the guy’s dead. I don’t care. Locking the door fast, I race to Brendan thanking God my dad was a hunter and taught me how to use a gun. How to respect its power and know how to harness it when needed.
I skid to the ground at Brendan’s side. There’s blood seeping out of his ribcage. I kneel to check if he’s breathing. Feel for a heartbeat. A faint pulsing pulls tears of relief and urgency from me. Wiping them away so I can see, I run to get my phone from behind the bar, dial 911 and rush back to him. Falling to the floor beside him, I pick up his head to hold it tenderly on my lap.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s been shot! We were robbed and the guy had a gun and…”
She interrupts, “Ma’am, where are you now?” I tell her the address and the name of my bar, demanding she hurry. She assures me an ambulance is on its way and I drop the phone.
Stroking his hair and kissing his forehead, I whisper, “Don’t die. Please don’t die.” I press down on the wound to stop the bleeding, not sure if this works for guns wounds, just knife wounds, or what. I’ve only seen it done in the movies, so I pray I’m doing it right. I feel so lost staring at his face. I kiss his lips, always holding back the blood. “Please don’t die, Brendan. God, please don’t die.” His eyelids twitch. “Brendan?!!”
Through narrow slits, he tries to focus on my face. He groans from the pain. “What’s happening?”
I keep pressing down on the wound. There’s blood all over my hand. “You jumped in front of the bullet. You saved my life.”
Growing louder and louder, multiple sirens rush toward us. He closes his eyes again. “Annie,” he moans. “It hurts. What are you doing?” He tries to look at the wound, but his head falls back and his eyes close, weak from blood loss.
“I’m saving yours.” I kiss him. “Can you hear the sirens? Help is coming. Stay with me. Please stay with me!”
Banging on the door pulls my head to that direction. The door is locked. They’re banging on it, but I don’t want to leave him. What if my hand pressed here is what’s keeping him alive?
A police officer appears in the window and yells through it, “Ma’am! Unlock the door!” I shake my head at him, eye blurred by tears. He slams his baton into the glass while someone else, maybe two people, throw their bodies against the weight of the door trying to break it down. The window caves first. He used his gun to break it, aiming toward the bar. I squeeze my eyes shut at the explosion of bullet and glass, lunging my torso to cover Brendan and ducking my own head.
Firemen, Police and E.M.T.s pour in through what used to be my window, stepping over shards that reach up dangerously from the frame. Their feet crunch through the glass on the floor as they race to us. I’m lifted up, my arms reaching toward Brendan as I cry out, “No!!”
“We’ve got him.”
I weep, restrained by stronger arms than mine, as I watch the E.M.T.s check the wound, press on it. Another runs in with a stretcher and they raise him on it, rushing to the door. It’s still locked.
Through my dazed mind, I see what they need and reach for the key attached to my belt. “Here!” This is the last time I’ll ever wear it like this. They struggle to detach it from me, but the blood has made it too slippery. The E.M.T.s are already speeding to the window instead. “Go through the window!” the police yells to them as if they don’t already know. But everyone’s in crisis mode and trying to help save Brendan’s life.
I’m staring after him as the policeman lets go of me and speaks, but I can only see his mouth moving, can’t hear what he’s saying. I want to be with Brendan. I break into a run for the window. They can’t leave without me! “Wait! Wait, please! Wait!!”
The ambulance doors are just about to shut me out. Brendan’s inside with oxygen being pumped into him through a mask.
“Please!” I grab the door and fight her for it.
“You can’t ride with us. I’m sorry,” the female E.M.T. says, struggling with me.
Thinking quick, I blurt out, “I’m hurt, too!” She’s taken aback. Regret flashes across her face at her mistake. She holds the door open and I climb in. “Thank you!”
“We’re taking her to the hospital. She’s hurt.” She hurriedly tells the chasing policeman who nods as she closes the door. Sitting down next to her, I take Brendan’s hand and watch his unconscious face. The siren switches on. Our bodies sway with speeding twists and turns through traffic, like a jerking, grotesque dance to music no one wants to listen to.
The E.M.T.s - one male, one female, plus a male driver – are all in their early thirties with arms that belie the strength it takes to do a job like this every day. The female pokes and prods me while I stare at Brendan. All of them remain faceless. It feels like I’m not really here.
“Where are you hurt?”
With my eyes fixed on him, I mumble. “I’m not.” She frowns and shares a look with her partner. “You’d do the same thing.”
She places her thumb and forefinger on his wrist to monitor his pulse, muttering, “I don’t think I would have been so quick-thinking.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Even as I hear the question, I know they don’t know. They can’t possibly. But I want hope. I can’t believe I didn’t lock the door. I can’t believe the gunman pulled the trigger. I can’t believe Brendan saved my life. I can’t believe he’s dying. None of this seems real. It can’t be. The night turned from a dream to a nightmare.
“We’re doing everything we can,” the male says to me.
“You always say that.”
“And we always do it.”
My eyes flutter over to his face. Resolutely he looks back. They are doing everything they can.
I look back to the mask covering Brendan’s mouth and nose, to his eyes shut gently like he’s sleeping, to the paleness of his skin. “Please stay with me, Brendan. Please stay.” Arms go around my shoulders. The female E.M.T. holds me. The human tenderness is crushing, breaking down the wall of shock. Everything starts to spin.
She looks to the driver. “Can you go any faster, John?”
He looks back and gives a brief nod, but we all know he’s going as fast as he can. Nausea overtakes me. My vision blurs and I see the male E.M.T.s mouth move. I don’t hear him as he says, “She’s down.”