Chapter 18 What The Fuck #2
But the chatter comes to a standstill, and her tone turns hesitant. “Harlow? Are you there?”
I swallow over the boulder in my throat. “I’m here.”
“What’s wrong?” she demands. “You’ve said, like, two-and-a-half words. I know you. Something isn’t right. What happened?”
All of a sudden, my head is pounding so hard I feel like my eyeballs might pop out of their sockets from the pressure.
I yank my pony loose and lean back in Devon’s chair to close my eyes.
I try to focus on anything other than the vision of blood seeping from Roman’s body.
It doesn’t matter how unnerving he was before it happened, he was shot.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I was shot at.”
I don’t even get a pause for her to process the information. I have to pull the phone back from my ear when she exclaims, “What the fuck? By a bullet?”
Damn.
That doesn’t ease the headache coming on.
“Please don’t scream. My head hurts.” I wince. “But, yes, what the fuck was my exact sentiment. What the fuck could be the tagline that represents my life these days. I was hit by a tennis ball shooting at least seventy miles per hour out of the machine, and then there were bullets.”
She lowers her voice. “You mean you were hit by a tennis ball and shot at with an actual gun?”
“Yes. Not to mention, I hit my head when I fell. I was out for a second—or sixty. I didn’t ask. All I know is I woke up and the guy I was sharing a tennis lesson with was lifeless and bleeding all over the freshly painted court.”
“Let me get this straight. You were shot at but it hit some other guy instead of you?”
“Yes. Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I did get hit in the head with a tennis ball that felt more like a rock being slung at me. And here I thought today was going to be a new start after last night.”
“What happened last night? And here I thought your life had settled down. From now on, you’re required to check in multiple times a day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, cocktail hour ... and maybe snack time. I demand it.”
“Nothing has settled down, Chrissie. Not one thing—and I need everything to chill the fuck out.”
“I get it, Harlow. But I’m losing patience with your rambling.”
I sit here with my eyes closed and allow the worn leather from Devon’s office chair to wrap me up in a big hug. It’s soft, yet supportive, and feels like a jacket that gets better with time. It even feels like him—masculine and experienced with a firm hand.
I love it.
Maybe I’ll live in this office until I can move into Grandma’s house and hire fulltime security. Though no amount of security could have saved me from a shooter across the lake. It seems that my safety is in the hands of fate.
“I had sex last night,” I admit.
This time there’s a longer pause. From her tone, I think she forgot all about the shooting part of my story, and I can hear the smile on her face in her tone. “You did?”
“You sound so happy,” I mutter.
“I am!” she exclaims.
“Headache,” I remind her on a mutter.
“Sorry.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Please tell me you had sex with your British roommate. I need this to be true like I need you to not be shot at ever again.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know I had sex with him.
Against a wall. He held me there like I was a feather he plucked from the air to make a wish on.
I’ve never had sex while held against a wall, let alone given two earth-shattering orgasms during the big event.
I have the rash on my back to prove it. And you know what?
I don’t even mind. It reminds me how good the sex was, which I really need right now.
I might beg him for a repeat so I can forget about being shot at. ”
Chrissie doesn’t have the chance to cheer me on or whisper about how happy she is for me.
A deep voice clearing his throat breaks through the room alerting me I’m not alone. “Ah-hem.”
My eyes fly open as my body lurches to attention on a high-pitched yelp.
“What’s wrong?” Chrissie shrieks.
Pain shoots through my head from the quick movement only to find the door to Devon’s office standing wide open. Three men are crowded there staring at me.
One I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing an EMS T-shirt with a pair of jeans. He’s also carrying an orange duffle with the international logo for healthcare on it.
The other guy isn’t as sweaty as he was earlier, but he’s still wearing the same workout clothes.
Any other human might look ridiculous in running shorts and an old ratty T-shirt with a badge on their waistband and a gun holstered to their hip, but not him.
The Italian Stallion standing before me could dress up as a cowboy clown to read me my rights, and I’d happily let him handcuff me.
That is, I would have last week.
That was before the spy who moonlights as a sex god became my bridal assistant. The man who makes me feel light as air is standing front and center biting back a smirk with the other two flanking him.
That door must be well oiled. It’s as heavy as an anvil and looks older than dirt. How did I not hear it?
“Harlow,” Chrissie calls for me. “Did you pass out?”
“I wish,” I mutter into the phone.
Devon flips his keys around his finger before sliding them into his pocket. “I brought a medic to check out your head. If you’re up to it, Dean wants to ask you some questions.”
The Italian stallion, AKA lawman Dean, gives me a low wave. “Only if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’ve got to go, Chrissie. If I don’t die from embarrassment, I’ll call you back. I need an update on my dad.”
“And I need to hear the rest about the wall sex—” she starts.
I don’t let her finish and hang up.
Here I am yammering on to my friend about my sex life and someone was shot.
Devon narrows his eyes and takes a step into the office. “How are you feeling?”
“Horrible,” I spit. “I’m hallucinating. I can’t be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth.”
The lawman wears more than a smirk. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his handsome face. “From what it sounds like, Donnelly is totally responsible for what just came out of your mouth.”
“For fuck’s sake, Dean, is that necessary? She’s had a rough week.” Devon stalks around the desk, swivels the perfect leather chair to face him, and captures my chin to tip my face to his. “What hurts worse, where the tennis ball struck or where you hit the ground?”
“Everything hurts,” I tell him the truth. “My skull, everything in it, and my pride.”
The stallion steps toward the desk and plops his gun and badge between us before falling into a chair unceremoniously. “Dean Moretti, Police Chief, carpenter, and Little League Director of this whopping metropolis we call Winslet.”
I narrow my eyes, because my head hurts and I don’t feel bad for my lack of manners. “Impressive. I’ll call you Mr. Bigshot.”
“Wait ‘til that gets around.” The EMT joins our group. He drops his big orange bag on the floor and unzips it. “For what it’s worth, I’ll never call you anything other than Mr. Bigshot from here on out.”
Dean shrugs like a mild spring breeze is more bothersome to him than my lame attempt at deflection.
“I’m Payne Deacon. I’m a volunteer firefighter and medic. When bullets aren’t flying ... well, I’ve got too many logs in the fire to get into that.” Payne pulls a tiny flashlight from his huge bag. “Devon said you hit your head. Are you injured anywhere else?”
I decide not to mention my pride again so we can get this over with. “No. I’m fine. And my head will be too. Give me a couple of aspirin—I’ll be good to go.”
“That would be a big, fat no, unless you want a brain bleed,” he says matter of fact. He looks up at Devon and orders, “Acetaminophen—that’s it.”
“Got it,” Devon answers, as if I’m not able to remember these details myself.
Payne flashes the light quickly in one eye, then the other, then he repeats the process. He stands up straight and crosses his muscled arms causing his T-shirt to tighten over his biceps. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. You ready?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “It depends. Are they SAT-type questions or more like what’s my favorite pizza?”
His lips tip up on the side. “What’s your name?”
Easy. “Harlow Madison.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“Are you nauseated?”
“No.”
“Are your ears ringing?”
“No.”
“Are you tired?”
I roll my eyes. “Exhausted.”
He frowns. “But are you drowsy?”
“No.”
He gives me the peace sign. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
He points to Dean. “What’s his name?”
I sigh. “Mr. Bigshot.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely sticking.” He tosses his mini flashlight in the bag, zips it up, and hoists it over his thick shoulder.
He turns to Devon. “If she complains of feeling sick, lightheaded, or she can’t stay awake, take her to the ER.
She can get back to ... normal activities as soon as she feels like it. ”
“Thanks,” Devon deadpans.
I cringe.
I’ve spent the better part of the last two months trying to stay alive only to move in with the owner of The Manor at Winslet and wish for a speedy death.
“Seriously, feel free to call me if you need anything,” Payne offers. “See you at softball later, Dean?”
“Not today. I’ll be knee-deep in paperwork from this mess.” Dean sighs before turning his focus on me. “Do you feel like answering some questions?”
“I guess.” I tuck my messy hair behind my ear and realize I must look a sight, not to mention crying through my makeup. “Can I ask you something first?”
“Shoot.”
Wow. Mr. Bigshot doesn’t think twice about his poor choice of words.
“Roman,” I start. “Is he...?”
Devon brushes the hair from my face and plants his fine ass on the edge of his desk. “He was alive on the way to the hospital. He has a gunshot wound to his lower midsection. I’m sure Dean will get an update as soon as the hospital has one.”
I pull in a deep breath.
“Hey.” Devon puts a light hand on my cheek. It may be the lightest touch I’ve ever felt from him. “None of this was your fault.”
“I know,” I tell him the truth. “I really hope he makes it through. We were in the middle of a conversation, and I’d like to finish it.”
Devon and Dean share a questioning glance.
Devon crosses his arms. “What were you talking about?”
“He said we’d met, but I couldn’t place him. I know I’ve never seen that man before yesterday at the pool. I want to know why he lied to me.” I look from Devon to Dean. “I know who’s behind this.”
Dean hikes a brow. “You know who shot at you?”
I hike a shoulder in a bored shrug. “My ex, Albert Humphries. I told Devon all about it. He also sent me a threatening text this morning.”
Devon’s eyes narrow. “I’m going to need to see that text. But my gut says Roman Malloy has nothing to do with your past because he has everything to do with mine.” He interrupts while I fight to understand what he’s saying. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you.”