Chapter 18
Peyton
I heard the screech of tires followed by a yell. Then I couldn’t believe the voice I heard.
“What the fuck?” Shorty shouted. A second later, his head snapped back, and he crumpled like a paper doll.
Squinting through the pain, I made out the form that went with the voice—March, my March.
Buzzcut yelled and lunged at him. He dodged. Then I saw the glint of the knife Buzzcut attacked with. March pulled off his belt and wielded it between his outstretched hands. Shorty started to get up.
Spotting a knife in Shorty’s hand, I shouted, “Behind you,” as I struggled to my feet.
March slid sideways, but it was still two with knives against one. Getting to my feet, I brought my leg up hard behind Shorty.
His squeal as he went down said it all. On the third try, I’d finally hit the bullseye. According to my instructor, Shorty would be out of the fight for a half minute or so, and we had to act fast.
“Hey, fuckhead,” I yelled at Buzzcut to distract him and give March a chance against the knife.
Buzzcut turned toward me and snarled, then lunged.
I backed up as fast as I could.
March tackled him from behind, and the two men went down in a cloud of dust. March was big and strong, but Buzzcut was huge and had weight working for him. They struggled for advantage, each one grunting.
I searched for a weapon to use to protect my man. I raced for a small board a dozen feet away. As I returned with it, Shorty moaned. I kicked him hard in the gut to keep him out of the fight.
The two men rolled, and Buzzcut ended up on top.
I wound up and swung.
Just as I did, they rolled again. The board hit March with a sickening slap.
He fell back off Buzzcut.
Buzzcut struggled to his knees, and I swung again. This time I hit the right man, and he spat blood.
March rose up like a phoenix, twisted the knife out of Buzzcut’s hand, and got the big man in a chokehold from behind.
Buzzcut clawed at March’s arm.
“Zip ties in the door,” March choked out, his face turning as red from the strain.
I ran for the car and found the ties in the door pocket.
Buzzcut finally slumped to the ground as I returned.
I handed the ties to March. Looking around, I noticed a few faces in windows, but not a single person had come out to help during the fight. From the lack of sirens I guessed that none had called 9-1-1 either.
A minute later, both of my attackers were trussed up, and March was on his phone. “Two to pick up,” he said loudly.
“Three,” I corrected and pointed down the street. “The old lady was in on it.”
“Sree,” March repeated into his phone. “Swone woman and stew sassholes,” he slurred. He touched the side of his head where I’d hit him. “I gots my bell srung pretty.” He wobbled, and then fell over.
I rushed over and grabbed the phone. “Call an ambulance. He just collapsed.” I shouldered the phone and sobbed as I cradled his head. My God, I’d caused this.
“We’re on the way and getting an ambulance,” Terry said in my ear. “What happened?”
“He got hit in the head. Please hurry.”
“Call Wellbourne, too,” Terry commanded. “With an ambulance call, the cops will join in. Hold on, Peyton. We’re on the way.” Then the line went silent.
I dropped the phone. This was all my fault. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t. “March, wake up.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “March, come on, talk to me.”
“He fucking deserves it,” Shorty said.
A siren finally sounded in the distance, coming our way.
“I hope he dies,” Buzzcut added, spitting blood into the dirt.
I knew March always wore his gun and felt around for it. It took some effort to pull it out of his holster. “You assholes better hope he’s okay, you hear me?” I waved the gun at them.
They both cowered in silence.
“Didn’t you hear me?” I repeated, aiming at one and then the other. “I want to hear it.”
“Yeah, I hope he’s okay,” Buzzcut said meekly.
“Me too,” Shorty mumbled.
Point made, I laid the gun on the dirt. I wanted my hand free to hold my man and stroke his head. There was no blood, so the injury was internal, and I knew full well that those could be the worst. Holding him was all I could do. That and hope the ambulance got here in time.
The sirens got closer. There were two or three now.
I leaned close. “You better be okay, dammit, so I can kiss you again.” I’d heard trauma victims needed a reason to fight, and even though it was against my better judgment, I desperately wanted to kiss this gorgeous, courageous man again.
His eyes fluttered, and then one opened slightly. “Swhat dids you say?”
“That’s it. Stay with me. Hang on. You have to be okay, March. You’re a SEAL, and you have to complete the mission. You can’t give up.”
March’s eyes fluttered closed.
“He’s a SEAL,” Buzzcut said to Shorty. “I told you no normal guy could beat me.” He laughed.
I leaned over close to my man’s mouth. “Copy that,” I said in my best military imitation. I gave Buzzcut the death stare, picked up the gun, and aimed squarely at his chest. “He gave me permission to shoot you if you say one more word.”
Buzzcut’s eyes went wide, and then a wet spot grew around his crotch as he squirmed farther away. “I really, really hope he’s okay.”
I lowered the heavy gun and whispered into March’s ear. “You hang in there, big guy. We need to kiss again.”
His eyes didn’t open.
Zane
I was being bumped when I woke up again. My arms were tied down. I was strapped to a gurney. Then I saw the inside of an ambulance. I had a foggy memory of lying on the ground, looking up at Peyton, with the sun backlighting her hair the way it had that first morning I’d called her Angel.
Blinking my eyes open, the first thing I saw was Peyton’s smile.
“You’re going to be okay.” She squeezed my hand.
“I’m fine, Angel.” I had a splitting headache, but I’d been hit worse than this before. I tried to sit up. The straps didn’t allow that.
“Don’t try to move,” the young paramedic said.
“Listen to her.” The voice was familiar.
I turned my head. Those words had come from the bossman, Lucas. Damn, it was crowded in here.
“You two have to get out,” the paramedic said.
“I’m his bodyguard,” my angel said. “He got hurt. That’s not happening again. Where he goes, I go.” She waved a gun—my gun.
“We have rules,” the paramedic argued.
“I’m her backup,” Lucas said. “We need to leave right now. You do not want to see either of us angry.”
The paramedic gave up. “You heard the man, Harry. Let’s go.”
After a minute, the driver spoke. “We’re fourteen minutes out to Centinela.”
“No. We’re going to UCLA,” Lucas demanded.
“Can’t. That’s out of our area,” the driver argued.
“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Lucas swore in that tone that made grown men lose their shit. “Either you drive us to UCLA, or get the hell out and I’ll do the driving.”
“But,” the driver argued.
“I’d do what he wants,” Peyton said. “Or you’ll be the one needing medical care.”
“He’s stable enough,” the paramedic assured the driver.
“Okay, already,” the driver relented. “UCLA here we come.” He laid on the horn and turned left.
It sucked being rolled into the damned hospital on a gurney when I could and should be walking under my own power. I heard Peyton mention Dr. Holland.
As soon as Lucas invoked Bill Covington’s name, two nurses and a doctor wheeled me right to the CAT-scan room, no waiting.
I’d never had anything at a hospital happen this fast.
“Stay absolutely still,” the technician kept saying as the machine thumped around me.
With my head cradled on both sides by foam of some sort, what the hell else was I going to do? I closed my eyes, and when the noise stopped, sleep came quickly.
I winced when a bright light hit my eye.
When she moved the flashlight away, I made out the same doctor who’d checked out Peyton two days ago. Dr. Holland, I remembered.
“So she had so much fun banging her head, you thought you’d try it?” the doctor asked.
“Peyton?”
“Right here,” she answered from the opposite side of the bed.
I turned my head and smiled. She was here, along with Lucas. We were in one of the curtained-off emergency room exam spaces.
“Miss,” the doctor intoned. “Our rules are family only, so if you’re not here for a pap smear, the waiting room is where waiting is done. You too, sir.”
“We’re staying,” Lucas insisted. “Check with Dr. Dalton, if you want.”
“Chief Dalton?” she asked incredulously. “How long was he unconscious?” she asked, clearly giving up the battle.
“Twice,” Peyton answered. “A minute or two the first time, longer the second time.”
The doctor put her finger against my palm. “Squeeze my finger.” She winced when I tightened my grip. “That one’s good. Now the other.”
I did, and by her expression, I’d clearly passed. “Wiggle your toes.”
That was followed by a series of predictable questions about what I remembered, who was president, what day it was, and a command to recite numbers forward and backward.
“So far, so good. Now we need to wait for the CT results,” Dr. Holland said. “They take some time.”
Peyton let out a sigh.
“They’ll be ready,” Lucas said confidently.
Dr. Holland raised a brow and moved to her screen. Typing and clicking her mouse, her eyes widened, and she turned to Lucas. “How the hell? I’ve never gotten a radiology report this quickly.”
Lucas didn’t tell her it was because the Covington name was on a wing of this hospital.
After scanning the report, the doctor gave me the good news.
“Mr. March, based on the CT results and your responses, I’m classifying this as a mild concussion.
I’m recommending you have someone responsible around you for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours to note whether any symptoms arise. And—”
“I know the drill,” I said.
Peyton raised her hand. “I’ll be with him and testing him three times a day.”
The doctor raised a brow, then gave me the usual admonitions about aspirin, blood thinners, alcohol, and reading the discharge paperwork thoroughly.