CHAPTER THREE
ALLISON
Repetitive beeping tickles the edge of my consciousness. What is that? Someone's alarm? I fight to focus enough to decipher its source, but a cloud of fuzziness obscures the sound.
I should turn it off.
It's probably annoying Bailey.
A whimper of fear lodges in my throat when my arm refuses to move, and my leg lies anchored to the bed like leadened weight.
Did I sleep wrong? Cut off the blood supply to my limbs? Will I be able to walk around Paris?
Wait… Paris .
Rainy, cold.
My coworkers wanted coffee after a morning of meetings.
I'd gasp if I was fully awake. Instead, I'm stuck hovering between sleep and wakefulness as the memory of the crazy van and shooter plays like a high-octane movie in my head. There was a man. He stood in the line of fire. And, oh my god , I jumped in front of a bullet.
The roar of my pounding heart fills my ears. What was I thinking? I’m not an action hero. Or indestructible. Or a person who seeks out pain.
I avoid it at all costs.
To my own detriment.
Swallowing past the anxious lump in my throat, I swim through the brain fog and open my eyes to an unfamiliar room potent with that metallic smell of sterile medical supplies.
Blurry shapes surround me. The blinds are closed. No lights except for colorful beams from the medical monitors. Neon green. Bright flashing red.
Machines, not people.
I thought my coworkers might be here, but I'm alone. Always alone.
Tears form a hazy film over my vision. I shouldn't be shocked by their absence. We’re friendly, but we don’t hang out together after work. We go on to live our separate lives. So, why would they show up at my hospital room?
And maybe they don't know what happened. They were inside the café when everything went down.
The possibility offers a modicum of comfort when something shifts in my periphery. I tilt my head to the side, straining to figure out if it was real or imaginary.
There’s more rustling.
I'm not alone.
Someone sits in the chair next to me, but the back is pushed against the wall, leaving the stranger wrapped in shadows. No wonder I missed them on my first pass around the room.
“Hello,” I croak, desperate for a drink of water to get rid of this scratchy feeling in my mouth.
“You're awake.” His gravelly voice erects warning signs in my head. Why is there a man in my room? Was he watching me sleep? A passing conversation floats in from the hallway, and that's when I realize he spoke English instead of French.
“A-Are… you… a doctor?” Each word scrapes against my raw vocal cords. It's a miracle I can even speak with nerves threatening to clog my throat.
“You don't recognize the man you rescued?”
My fingers dig into the thin blanket covering my lap as a chill works its way down my spine. Perhaps his presence shouldn’t make me wary, but if he was the intended target of those shooters, then I can only imagine what kind of trouble he’s in to warrant an assassination attempt.
And now he’s in my room.
He was waiting for me to wake up. But for what purpose? Because I don't get the impression he's overcome by gratitude.
“No… S-Sorry… I’m glad you’re okay, though.”
“Thanks to you.” He remains in the shadows, so I can't see his face. Maybe there’s a reason he’s hiding. Maybe it’s one of those scenarios where if I can identify him, then he’ll have to kill me.
Unless he already thinks you can identify him after saving him from a drive-by…
Fear spikes in my blood at what that could mean for me, and the numbers jump on the screen monitoring my pulse.
“Where am I?” I ask, frantic for information. I need to let someone know where I am. I need to not be alone. Alway alone.
Silence hangs in the air before he grunts in displeasure.
“St. Martin's Hospital. You had emergency surgery to remove a bullet. One grazed your arm, but the other landed in your thigh. According to the doctors, you were extremely lucky in the placement. They managed to avoid hitting any major nerves or arteries.”
“That's a relief.” My shaky attempt at a smile fails miserably. “Did the doctors mention how long I have to stay here?”
“For a few days. Until you're safe from infection,” he drawls.
Another pregnant pause falls over us, punctuated by the constant beeping that woke me earlier. It's unnerving—a foghorn in misty waters warning of danger.
“Why are you here?” Please don’t say to tie up loose ends. To kill me for getting involved in some sort of street war. All of those true crime documentaries I’ve watched come back to bite me in the ass as the dangerous possibilities pile high and skyrocket my anxiety with it.
“That's the crux of it, isn't it?” He finally stands and steps forward, a shadowy behemoth rising from the underworld like Hades himself. Bracing one hand on the hospital bed, his large body dominates the small space, and I gasp at his size. “We're strangers. Or, at least, I have no idea who you are.”
“I-I don't know you either.”
“Yet you threw yourself on top of me. Blocked the spray of bullets headed my way. A brave thing to do for a mere stranger ,” he stresses the word again, the white of his teeth snarling from the shadows.
“I wasn't thinking about that.”
I acted on instinct—a stupid one, too, not courageous. Most people might pat themselves on the back for being brave or heroic. Might be proud to know that when push comes to shove, they do the right thing; they run toward danger if it means saving a life.
But I don’t feel pride in my actions. I don’t feel brave. I feel sick to my stomach.
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, but it’s far from amused. It’s the ominous roar before a tiger pounces.
“You didn't think becoming my savior might ingratiate yourself to me? Might make me lower my guard enough for you to steal whatever you're after?”
“No! I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There’s an obvious plea in my voice as that song from Wicked plays in my mind.
No good deed goes unpunished.
But what will my punishment be?
“You're going to play innocent?” he scoffs, a sneer twisting his lips.
“I'm not playing at anything. Please, you have to believe me. All I know is I saw the gun, I saw you, and my body reacted. There wasn't much thinking going on at all.”
His fingers tighten on the blanket near my hips, strapping me to the bed like a cocooned butterfly. Or a spider's doomed prey.
“So, you lack the universal instinct of self-preservation?” Disbelief tinges his voice as he lowers his head to mine. This close the silver sparks in his eyes blend to onyx, and my breath freezes at the hostile suspicion.
“Apparently,” I whisper. A coughing fit bursts free, and I use it as an opportunity to hide, turning my face away from his.
He has no idea the suicidal thoughts I've dealt with in the past. How sometimes I wonder if death would be better than the life I'm currently living. One that's full of stress and trouble.
Did that subconsciously control my actions?
Was saving him some twisted way of ending my misery?
Only you could twist a selfless act into one of unconscious selfishness.
The man retreats long enough to pour water into a plastic cup. He lowers it to my mouth but doesn’t allow me to take control of it. Instead, he directs the straw between my lips, waits a few seconds, then pulls it out, quietly deciding when I’ve had enough.
It’s high-handed, but the only emotion I can muster is gratitude as the water soothes my dry mouth and throat.
“You were willing to trade your life for mine.” He places the cup on the tray by my bed. “For no other reason than the kindness of your heart. Danger strikes, and instead of running away from it, your body tells you to run towards it.”
“I guess so,” I say wearily. I'm not going to voice the other possibility: that I subconsciously did it on purpose.
I don't think he'd believe me anyway.
Fatigue weighs on my eyelids. All I really want is to fade back into sleep where I don’t have to worry about thoughts of hurting myself, and I don’t have to deal with this man who may or may not want me dead. Or silenced. Or whatever else men who get shot at and have distrust radiating from them in waves want.
“We'll see if that's true or not, won't we?” He studies my inert form in one long sweep, as if willing my secrets to reveal themselves under his powerful gaze, before he turns on his heel and heads for the door.
“Wait!” What are you doing? Let him go! But my messed-up brain has other ideas, curiosity and dread refusing to let go until I know one thing.
He pauses but keeps his back to me.
“Who are you?”
“If you're as innocent as you say, it’s best you don’t know, mon ange .”
Then he's gone, and I'm left to spiral over what the hell just happened.