18. Jet
JET
I’ve been both shot and stabbed before. Hell, I’ve been through worse. It hurts but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Amal, though, is in shock. At least she’s not hurt.
“Take my phone out of my pocket,” I tell her. I need to keep her busy.
She nods, and, her hands shaking, reaches into my jacket pocket to pull out the phone. She looks at it, then at me, waiting for further instruction.
“Code is 1852. Unlock it.”
She has to wipe sweat and blood off her hands before she gets the code in and the phone unlocks.
“Good girl. Now call Malcom.”
She scrolls through my contacts, finds his name and puts the call on speaker. Malcom answers on the first ring.
“All good?” he asks.
“We’re alive. I’m going to need a suturing kit. Can you get me that?”
“Again?”
“Yeah. Again. Good to keep in practice.”
“We should take you to the ER,” Amal says.
I turn to her. “That’s sweet but I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine, Jet."
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
“How far out are you and are you being followed?” Malcom cuts in.
I glance in the rear-view mirror. “No, but I don’t expect a drive by. They’ll have plenty of time to dish out their punishment. We’re about fifteen minutes from the hotel.”
“Come to the staff entrance. I’ll head down. Make sure it’s clear.”
“See you in a few.” We disconnect.
“Tuck the phone back into my pocket, sweetheart.”
“Do we need to call Cassian?”
“Why?”
“If these men are after us…”
“This has nothing to do with Trevino business and we’re going to keep it that way. Christ, this driving on the wrong side of the road is a bitch.”
Amal spends the rest of the ride worried when any vehicle gets too close.
When we get to the staff entrance, Malcom meets us.
He holds out the old-fashioned brass room key.
I reach for it, but Amal snatches it away.
When he sees the state of me, he also strips off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders.
“Bleeding in the kitchen has got to be against code, but what can you do?”
“He’s in no state for this. We should take him to the ER.”
“I’ve seen him dig a bullet out of his thigh,” Malcom tells her, and while she processes, turns back to me. “Through the kitchen there’s an elevator. I’ll see you upstairs as soon as I park the SUV. One of the boys is on his way back with a suturing kit.”
I wrap an arm around Amal, and she puts hers around my waist. I’m leaning some of my weight on her because each step is fucking excruciating, but the wound is low and more of an inconvenience than anything else.
We move swiftly through the kitchen, getting a few glances. Luck is on our side, and a man is just returning after room service deliveries. He stops, his cart half-out, when he gets a look at us.
“Um…”
“Get out,” Amal says, standing taller and moving slightly in front of me.
“The guest elevator is—”
“I said get the fuck out,” she tells him and gives his cart a shove.
I chuckle because it’s funny but pay for it immediately and press my hand harder to my hip. Amal pushes the button and the service elevator groans, climbing to the seventh floor. I press my shoulder against the wall, leaning my weight into it. I’m going to need to sit down pretty soon.
“Is this why you always wear black?” she asks. I raise my eyebrows, not wanting to show how foggy I’m getting. “Hides the blood I guess.”
I take in the cuts on her face, the smears of blood from the glass. It could have been so much worse.
“Jet, I really think we should go to the ER.” She pulls the coat back. “You’re bleeding through your hand.”
“It’s a flesh wound,” I say, looking down at the mess on the elevator floor. At least it’ll be easy to wipe up. No carpet here. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
The lights flicker just as the elevator reaches the seventh floor and the doors slide open.
When we step out, I almost go down, but a soldier is waiting for us, and he comes to my other side.
“Jesus, Jet! Please!” Amal cries out.
I grit my teeth. We head toward the suite. Amal fumbles with the lock just as the door to the stairs flies open. I have my hand on my weapon in an instant, fresh adrenaline coursing through my veins. But it’s one of my men. He’s new and young.
“Christ! You have a fucking death wish?” I bark.
He puts his hands up. He’s holding a bag from a pharmacy. “I ran back,” he says, which explains why he’s soaked through.
Amal opens the suite door and we move inside, one man standing guard outside.
“Get on the bed,” Amal tells me, walking me to the bedroom.
“Bathroom may be better, considering.”
“I said bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a salute.
She peels Malcom’s coat off and I remember mine is back at the shop. I liked that coat. I drop onto the bed wincing. The holster comes off next. She sets it on the bed beside us. “We need to get this off,” she says, tugging at my sweater.
I groan as the fabric pulls, stuck to the bloody wound. “Scissors.”
She nods, looks around at the soldier who is turning a little green. He empties out the contents of the bag which contains a suturing kit, extra bandages, alcohol pads, scissors. Amal grabs the scissors and begins to cut away my sweater.
“Too bad about that sweater. It was new,” I try to keep it light, the metal cool against my skin. “Careful now,” I tell her as she begins to peel the fabric away.
The knife wound is low on my hip and on my right side.
“Go get him a whiskey,” Amal tells the soldier who is staring open mouthed at the wound. Once he’s gone, she turns to me. “He looks like he’s going to pass out.”
“How are you not?” I ask.
She shrugs a shoulder.
The man returns with the whiskey and a glass but I take the bottle from him and swallow three gulps before lying down.
“Better,” I say. Amal fumbles with my belt. “Sweetheart, now’s not the time.”
“Shut up and lay back. Jesus. Why did you toss your gun away? You should have killed him,” she says.
Her eyes fill with tears at the sight of the mess.
“It looks worse than it is,” I tell her, trying to reassure her as she cuts away my jeans.
Once they’re off, she starts on my boxers, but I capture her hand to stop her.
“Too close.” I peel the boxers down a little, just enough to expose the wound fully.
It’s bad, but it could have been worse. If I hadn’t shifted my weight when I had, things would be very different right now.
“You idiot,” she says, wiping tears with the backs of her hands. “You could have died.”
“Shh, honey.” I reach up to touch her face. “I didn’t die. I’m right here. Hand me the suturing kit. We’ll need to disinfect it first. I need you to do that part. I’ll walk you through.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Jet?”
“Look at me. You think this is the first time someone’s tried to kill me?”
Her eyes widen but she knows this because last time, it was her father.
Amal stands up straighter, taking a deep breath in.
“I’ll go wash my hands.” She hurries into the bathroom and returns a moment later carrying a damp towel.
She gently cleans around the wound, and I drink another swig of whiskey.
She reaches for the holster and takes the gun out.
I place my hand over hers. “What are you going to do, put me out of my misery?”
“This isn’t a joke. If they come back—”
“First of all, you’re not going to have blood on your hands. Ever,” I tell her, sliding the gun from her and setting it back down. “Second, they won’t come back. Not tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Let’s get this done.”
“If they do, I will kill them.”
“Fine,” I agree only because I know for a fact IVI men will not be showing up at the door tonight. They’ll wait. They have time. They’ll want to think through my punishment for having killed their soldiers. For having nearly exposed them yet again.
But now isn’t the time to think about that. I focus on Amal as she tears open one of the disinfecting cloths and meets my eyes.
“This is going to hurt I think.”
“Oh, I know it is. Do it anyway. It’ll hurt less than an infection.”
She looks at the wound, then back at me, swallows, and sits on the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath in, she wipes gently at first, then presses the pad to my skin.
I grit my teeth, biting back a groan of pain, and when she goes to pull her hand away, I capture her wrist to keep it there.
“It’s okay,” I say when she tries to pull back. “Look at me, Amal. Eyes on me.”
She nods and I see what it’s taking for her to hold back her tears. “This is my fault,” she says. “You almost got killed trying to protect me when this is all my fault.”
I grip her chin in my hand, the other still around her wrist. I make her look at me. “I will never let anyone hurt you. That was my vow the day I married you. I plan on keeping it.”
Her eyes search mine. Confusion, fear and exhaustion all mingle in the softest, most beautiful shade of blue I’ve ever seen. I’ve never thought about eyes being windows into the soul. Just thought what a bunch of bull. Now though, looking into her eyes, I get it.
An unfamiliar sensation bubbles up inside my gut, making its way to my chest. That sensation, strange as it is, is about the only thing that doesn’t hurt right now.
“I’m not sure I’m worth it, Jet. If you knew me—”
“You think I don’t know you? You think I haven’t always known you? In here?” I say, letting go of her chin to lay my bloody hand over her heart.
Her eyes widen like she can’t fucking believe what I’m saying when all along, it’s me who is unworthy. When, if she knew the extent of the blood on my hands, the ugliness of my soul, she’d go running. Because she’s my redemption. The one good, clean, guiltless thing in my life. She’s it.
The sound of the suite door opening has me reaching for my gun.
“It’s me,” Malcom calls out as he heads into the bedroom. “How bad?” he asks, coming to take a look, wincing when he sees the damage.
“Amal, go wait in the other room. Malcom can take it from here.”
“No. I’m staying. I’ll help you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m staying,” she says firmly.
“Suit yourself.” I turn to Malcom. “I’ll holler if we need anything.”
“Sure thing, boss.”