The guards took their opening. One grabbed Donald’s arm while the other wrapped himself around Donald from behind like a boa constrictor.
He screamed and flailed, crying pityingly for help. The guards were as gentle as they could be, bringing him down to his belly on the ground.
Miles spun around to face all of us and wiped his forehead. “Fuck. I was nervous there for a second.”
Weston shoved forward, shaking his head at his brother. “You could have gotten yourself killed. What were you thinking?”
His mouth hitched. “I was thinking I’d distract that old guy so no one would get hurt. Seems like I did a pretty good job, huh?”
He held his arms out to show he was unscathed, and Weston reached out for him like he was going to pull him into a hug.
“You’re an idiot,” Weston gruffed, one hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Without warning, a singular firework went off so close it rattled my bones. One sharp pop cut through the night sky.
Miles went still, except for his eyes, which rounded in panic. Or maybe it was pain.
In the background, the guards were yelling and scuffling on the sidewalk, but it was muffled by the roar of blood in my ears as Miles fell, one knee at a time, onto his side.
“That wasn’t a firework,” I uttered.
Elise, Saoirse, Luca, and Catherine all rushed forward, dropping down beside Miles. Weston stood above his brother, and our eyes met.
“A shot. Miles was shot.”
The world turned to chaos.
Chapter Forty-four
Catherine
Weston walked out of Miles’s hospital room looking like he’d aged ten years.
“He’s high as a kite.” He rubbed his face and groaned. “They’re taking him in for surgery to remove the bullet, but he told them not to stitch it up too neatly because, and I quote, ‘Chicks dig scars.’ My brother, he—”
He broke off, and Elliot didn’t hesitate to pull his oldest friend into a tight hug. Elise stationed herself to the side, rubbing them both up and down their backs.
Miles was going to live. He’d be fine. A gunshot to the ass wouldn’t stop him for long. But there had been long, harrowing minutes where none of us had known where he’d been hit. All we saw was blood. So much blood.
Miles had passed out from the pain and blood loss, and I’d watched Weston crumble. He’d fallen to his knees and cried over his brother’s body. Luca and Elliot had been right there, on their knees with him, but what could they have said? Done?
It wasn’t until we’d gotten him to the hospital that it was determined the bullet had hit him in the meatiest part of his butt and lodged there.
The thing left unsaid was how lucky Miles had been. Donald Rockford had made a wild shot. A few inches higher, it could have lodged in his spine or a vital organ instead of his ass.
I was certain that weighed heavily on all of us. I knew it did me.
I was only grateful my father hadn’t stuck around once he’d weaseled my phone number from me. Dealing with him would have been a bridge too far. A part of me hoped he’d just stay gone, but a microscopic sliver was still curious to hear him out.
I’d once been curious to find out what would happen when I stuck my finger in a flame, though, and that resulted in a pus-filled blister.
Assuaging my curiosity wasn’t always worth it.
Miles’s room door swung open, and his bed was pushed out by a nurse. He lay on his side, attached to tubes and monitors, a blanket tucked around his waist.
I kissed my hand and blew it at him. “Good luck, Miles.”
He gave me a lazy thumbs-up. “Thanks, Kit. Take care of all the babies. You’re good at that, you know.”
He pointed to his brother and Elliot to make sure I knew which babies he was referring to.
“You got it. The babies are in good hands,” I promised.
We stayed until one a.m. after Miles woke up from surgery. He was groggy and pissy, but the prognosis was good, and the doctor assured him he’d always have a scar, so he fell back to sleep with a smile.
At home, we took a shower together. Neither of us had much energy left, so all we did was hold each other under the hot water and do a cursory scrub.
Wrapped in my robe, I started toward our bedroom, but Elliot pulled me into the study with him. He stopped next to the couch, me in front of him, running his hands over my damp hair and down my shoulders. Tears glistened in his eyes as he checked me over, squeezing my arms and sides, running his fingers along my spine and over my hips. His movements became more frantic, opening my robe to see my bare skin.