Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) (38 page)

The harder I thought, and the deeper I delved into my memories, the more likely it seemed it was a point a few months later. I’d been struggling to come to terms with my new disability. I’d gotten through much of the grief and anger and heartache that comes with such a drastic change in life. And then one day, I was able to stand up.

Which gave me hope.

False hope, much like any I might have harbored about Wade overcoming his PTSD and being able to live a normal, happy life.

False hope. No wonder it was enough to crush me.

But was any hope I might hold out for Dima also of the false variety? Or was I just scared because of so many things in my own past?

I watched him on the TV, stirring my ice cream until it was smooth and silky like soft-serve, trying to get out of my own head long enough that I could see the truth of the situation with him.

He’d been having a good game, but the team as a whole was struggling just like they had been on the rest of the trip. But Dima managed to knock the puck off the stick of a Sharks defenseman and push it out into the neutral zone. It was the end of a long shift, so I expected him to shoot it into the other end of the rink and head off for a change, but he surprised me, chasing after it and skating in on the San Jose goaltender.

He deked a couple of times and shot the puck high, glove-side. It just barely went in.

The camera switched over to a shot of the guys’ mothers up in one of the suites, all of them on their feet and cheering. They zoomed in on one who was so overjoyed that she had tears in her eyes.

“That’s Svetlana Mironov,” the commentator said. “She’s the mother of Nazarenko’s good friend and former teammate, Sergei Mironov, and she tells me she might as well be Nazarenko’s mother, too. And I can tell you from personal experience, she makes excellent bread.”

I chuckled to myself and took another bite of my ice cream, but my doorbell rang before play could start up again.

I glanced up at the clock. It was almost eleven o’clock. Who would be coming over to my house at this time of night?

Then they pounded on my door, so I gave up any thought of pretending I wasn’t home and hoping they’d go away.

I set my bowl on the coffee table and transferred myself into my wheelchair. The bell rang a few more times before I got there and could peek through the peephole. Wade Miller was standing on my stoop, looking like hell.

This couldn’t be good.

At all.

I opened the door, and the scent of whiskey on him nearly drowned me.

“What…” I shook my head, trying to get my brain to catch up to the present. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you. Had to try one more time.” His words were slurred. Thick. Full of so much pain they brought tears to my eyes.

“Wade, you’re drunk and you’re not thinking straight.”

“I haven’t thought straight since I met you.” He came through the door, stumbling over the threshold but somehow managing to stay upright.

I backed up so I wouldn’t be in his way if—or maybe
when
would be more accurate in this situation—he fell. The whole time, my mind was racing a mile a minute. With him being in this condition, I couldn’t let him stay, but I couldn’t let him drive, either. If I tried to take his keys from him, though…

“London,” he said, his voice rough and ragged. His eyes were red, bloodshot.

“How much have you had to drink?” I asked, trying to redirect him from whatever line of thinking had brought him here.

“Enough.” He shrugged. “Lost count after about a dozen shots.”

“Please tell me you did that at home and not at a bar, because if any bartender sold you—”

“They’ll sell me whatever I want. I’m a fucking hero, remember?”

I nodded, trying to figure out what pocket he had his keys in. Probably on the right. “I remember,” I said cautiously, trying to inch my way closer to him at the same time as I knew, without a doubt, that I couldn’t possibly get away with what I was thinking. Not safely. But I had to try, even if it meant getting hurt, because the alternative was Wade getting himself
dead
, or someone else getting hurt or killed, or God only knew what else could happen, but it wouldn’t be good.

The pocket on his left side looked heavier, though. More weighed down. Like something bigger than his keys was in it.

He wouldn’t be stupid enough to have a handgun sitting in his pocket, would he? Probably not if he were sober. But considering the circumstances, anything was possible.

“I still love you, you know that?” he drawled, trying to lean back against the wall, but he was farther away than he’d realized, and he crashed back into it instead.

I flinched at the racket but did my best to stay in the moment. “I know you do, Wade. I’ve never doubted that.”

“I could be a good father for your baby. Better than that son of a bitch who knocked you up and left you to deal with it on your own, that’s for sure.”

“No one doubts you’d be a good father,” I said, creeping closer. Could I possibly get close enough to remove everything in both his pockets? And even if I could manage it, what the heck was I going to do after that? He might be drunk beyond belief, but he was still stronger and faster than me.

The crowd at the game erupted, and Wade turned his head toward the TV.

“You can’t fucking let him go, can you? You can’t admit that he’s no fucking good for you.”

“There are a lot of things I apparently can’t let go of,” I said. I was close enough I could reach for his pockets. But there was no chance I could empty them both before he stopped me. None at all. I had to make a decision. Keys or gun? Right or left?

“I can’t let go, either,” he said. “Of you. Of the idea of us. You’re good for me, London.”

But he wasn’t good for me, a fact that had never been clearer in my mind than at this very moment. I took my chance and lunged for him, digging my hand into his pocket and curling it around the warm metal barrel. He was too stunned and too drunk to react right away, so I was able to come away with it in my hand before falling out of my chair from leaning too far.

“The fuck are you doing?” he shouted, reaching for me like he was going to either hit me or grab me, I wasn’t sure which.

I turned the Beretta around in my hand until it was pointed directly at him. “Why did you have a gun in your pocket?” I demanded. “Why did you come to my house, drunk off your ass, with a damned
gun
in your pocket?” Hands shaking and nerves flying through the roof, I checked the chamber. “It’s fucking loaded, Wade. You brought a loaded gun and had it sitting in your pocket. Have you lost your mind?”

“Apparently.” He reached for me again, like he was going to try to wrestle the gun from my hands.

If I let him do that, we were both screwed. Tears burning behind my eyes, I disengaged the safety. “Don’t. I swear, I’ll shoot you.”

He laughed. He actually
laughed
, like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, before the laughter turned to tears. Probably because he knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I could ever follow through with that threat. But then he shocked me.

“Do it. Please.” He spread his arms out to the side, giving me a huge target.

“Give me your keys,” I choked out through my own tears. “Give them to me, and we’ll get you some help—”

“There is no help. That’s just it.”

“There is, if you’ll let there be. Come on. Give me your keys.”

“Are you going to shoot me or not?” he shouted.

I blinked back more tears, praying he would toss the keys my way so I could call…someone. I didn’t know who. One of the other vets from the Para-Pythons, probably. Those guys had a much better idea of what Wade was going through than any of the rest of us. And maybe the cops, too. But I had to get those keys from him.

He pushed himself away from the wall, somehow standing upright. “Just shows where I stand with you if you won’t even help me end it when I fucking beg you to.” Then he stepped over me and left.

I turned the safety on again and dropped the Beretta like it was on fire, sobs exploding out of me. The tires of his pickup squealed outside as he drove off, reminding me that he still wasn’t safe, even if he didn’t have his stupid gun. I pulled myself together enough that I could right my chair and climb back into it. Then I wheeled over to my phone and called nine-one-one, praying that the cops could get to him before he hurt himself or someone else.

I WAS STILL
shaking when, hours later, my phone rang. I hoped it was Dima. This was the time of night he would call me if he were going to, and hearing his voice right now would soothe me more than anything else I could think of.

Instead, it was the officer who’d come to take a statement from me after Wade had left.

“I’ve got good news and bad news for you, ma’am,” he said.

“I was afraid it would all be bad news.”

“You and me both. The good news is that we found your friend and he’s alive.”

Alive. Which meant he was probably hurt, or else the officer would have said something like
he’s fine
. “And the bad?”

“He’s in the emergency room right now. Wrecked his pickup about two miles outside of town. Wrapped himself around a tree. No one else was involved.”

I pressed my eyes closed as more tears silently fell. “Is he okay?” I asked, but my voice was so soft I could barely hear myself.

“Too soon to know. It was ugly, ma’am. I won’t lie to you about that. He’s lucky to be alive based on the look of that pickup. They had to use the Jaws of Life to pry him out of there. Is there any family we should contact? His parents or a girlfriend?”

“No, I… I’ll take care of it. At this time of night, it should come from someone they know.”

“If you’re sure,” he said. He spent a few more minutes giving me all the information he could, and we hung up.

I called Wade’s parents and filled them in with as many details as I had. They lived in Alabama, though, and wouldn’t be able to get out to see him until tomorrow at the soonest. I assured them it would be fine, that I’d make sure he wasn’t alone.

But I’d already changed into my pj’s, even though I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be getting to sleep very soon after that, so I had to put my clothes on again. Then I drove up to the hospital and parked outside the emergency room entrance.

When I wheeled in, the woman at the desk directed me to the waiting room. “He’s in surgery right now,” she explained. “I’ll have one of the doctors come out to talk to you as soon as possible so they can explain everything.”

I nodded and fixed myself a cup of coffee before settling in to wait. I wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight, anyway, so I might as well load up on caffeine.

Over the next hour, I texted the rest of the Para-Pythons team to fill them in. A text wouldn’t wake them up if they weren’t already awake like a phone call might, but it would get word to them as soon as they were up in the morning. Not an ideal solution, but it was the best I could come up with at the moment. Then I called Wade’s boss and left him a voice mail. No matter what happened, I didn’t imagine Wade would be going in for work tomorrow morning.

I was still keeping myself busy by letting people know what had happened when the doctor came in and took a seat across from me.

“You’re London?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Before we put him under, Mr. Miller gave me permission to talk to you. He said you’d be here. Probably not anyone else, but he thought you would come.”

Again, I nodded. Anything more than that, and I would probably fall apart. The only thing keeping me together to this point was having something to do.

“He’s out of surgery and in recovery. We’ll let you go in to see him in just a bit, but he’s not in the clear yet. He’s got one heck of a gash on his head, and a concussion from that, but he also had some internal bleeding in his abdomen and around his lungs. We had to go in to make a few repairs. We’ll keep him here for a few days to be sure everything starts healing all right, and he might need some help at home once he’s discharged.”

“His parents are coming from Alabama,” I said. “I’m sure at least one of them will stay.” His mother had been with him for months after he’d come home from Iraq, staying by his side to help him learn to face his new life, even when he’d screamed at her and thrown things across the room in his anger and grief.