Head Above Water (Nightshade MC Book 4) (31 page)

“Well, I'll just have to kill him too,” Frankie said after a pause.

“If you were going to kill me, Frankie, you wouldn't be talking. You'd just fucking do it.” Drea knew that she was going to kill him the first chance that presented itself. The weight of the gun in her hand, and the other tucked into the back of her waistband, centered her,reminded her that she was no longer that scared little girl.

If Drea had been asked to bet on the fact that Frankie was bluffing, she'd have wagered everything that he couldn't pull the trigger. When he did, it was a shock. The bullet that hit her arm was an equal shock; the white hot pain roared through her and tore a scream from her lips. It was a lucky thing that his aim was as bad as she remembered.

Three more shots hit the spot where she'd been only a second before. Drea fought the pain, struggled to get her mind to work as she heard him come clambering down the stairs. She turned, fired blindly, and saw a chunk of wall fly. Shit. She'd missed.

He returned fire, two more shots. She'd counted six shots. If he only had one clip, all she had to do was get him to waste a few more and he'd be left with a gun that would be useful only as a paperweight. “Don't run, Andrea. You're just making it worse.”

Drea took cover behind the couch as he took another shot. It missed her by inches. She stood up, fired two shots at him and ducked back down.

He roared out a howl of pain. He was hit. They were even, both with bullets in them. Drea left the safety of the couch, headed up the stairs and to the small second-floor bedroom. Once she had the door locked, she second-guessed her choice. She should have run for the front door instead. Fuck.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone; she needed to call Monroe. The horror that her phone wasn't in her pocket, or bra, washed over her. Of all the times for her to forget it. Only it wasn't forgotten. She could see it sitting on the kitchen counter, where she'd hooked it to the charger.

A bullet came through the door, missed her by a mile because Frankie was shooting blind. Drea stood her ground, widened her stance, braced her legs and used one hand to support her wrist. When he stepped through the door, she was going to fire the kill shot. Multiple rounds into his chest, there was no need to get fancy with a head shot. Dead was dead.

Seconds ticked by at an insanely slow pace as she waited for the door to fly open or for the sounds of footsteps that indicated Frankie was coming. Neither thing happened. She realized that he was waiting her out; eventually she'd have to go for the door.

At the last possible second, she remembered the ladder and went for it. Drea's heart pounded hard, she wasn't a fan of heights or ladders, but the only other choice was a shootout in a small hallway. She'd take her chances with a broken ankle or whatever if she happened to fall.

It was hard to make her way down the ladder in the dark, even harder because of the gun still in her hand, but she continued her descent down step by step. She was close to the bottom when she felt the ladder shift.

Before she fell the remaining feet to the ground, she realized that Frankie had pushed the ladder away from the window.

It had been a dry few weeks, the ground was hard packed, so even the grass didn't give much of a relief. Pain spiraled through her, the worst coming from the bullet wound to her arm. Drea reached to touch the pulsating spot and her fingers came away coated with blood. Still dazed, she managed to pull herself to her feet.

She managed only a few steps before she heard Frankie laugh. “You just don't know when to give up, bitch.”

Drea turned as quickly as she could, fired at him as he fired at her. Her shot went wild but his was true. The impact of the bullet to her side sent her down to the ground. There was no pain, which couldn't have been a good thing. Panic built and spiraled inside of her. This couldn't be it, not the way that she went out. There was no way in hell she was going to die in her own back yard while Frankie escaped scot-free.

He came to stand over her, that stupid smile firmly in place on his face. “Told you, you were just making it work.”

He was so busy mocking her, as she lay possibly dying, that he didn't notice she still had her gun. Drea used the last of her strength to raise the barrel and pull the trigger. At this distance, she couldn't miss, and there was no way that Frankie could have survived.

She'd shot him in the chest. The hole was surprisingly small, the blood that poured out of it was exceptionally dark. He sputtered blood, trying to say something, but in the end, he fell without making another snarky comment.

Drea watched him die, saw the moment that the light went out of his eyes. Maybe she should have felt regret, or pity, but all she felt was relief. It was over, finally over. She needed to get in the house, get to her phone and call Monroe to tell him.

Getting up was harder than she expected, the pain in her arm was back, and her side was singing along. Drea managed to sit up nearly all the way, but the shift in position sent a fresh wave of agony through her. She brought her hand to her side, felt the ooze of blood and gave up on trying to get up. She did laugh then, a high-pitched, nearly hysterical sound.

She'd done the impossible, slayed the dragon, but she was going to end up bleeding out in her own back yard while Monroe was with Claire.

Drea gave it one last attempt at getting up, desperate to see Monroe one more time, but she couldn't make it to her feet. The gun fell from her hand, but she barely noticed as blackness swallowed her whole.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Monroe paced the room. Caesar needed to hurry up. His phone needed to ring, and someone needed to tell him that Drea was alright.

“Monroe?” Claire said, her voice low.

“Shut up,” he replied. “I don't want to hear anything that you have to say.”

“You can't do this, Monroe. You can't lead the police right to me. I'm carrying your child! You want me in jail and pregnant? Do you know what happens to women like me in jail?”

“Told you, you'll have protection,” he said with no empathy.

“I'll kill myself,” she threatened. “First chance I get, I'll hang myself. I swear I will.”

If she didn't love herself so much, he might have taken her seriously. There was no way in hell that she'd take her life. “What part of shut up didn't you understand?” Claire got no chance to answer. Someone knocked at the door. “It's about time.”

Caesar was on the other side of the door. He came in, and Claire made herself smaller on the bed. She didn't like Caesar, none of the pass-arounds really did, because he had no patience for them unless it was in the bedroom. “You hear anything yet?”

“No. I'm heading over there.” Monroe had barely finished speaking the words when he heard his phone start to ring. He grabbed it, saw that it was Casey calling. “Hello?”

“Monroe? It's Casey. You need to come here, to Drea's, like right fucking now.”

“I'm on my way, so is Nightshade. What's going on?”

“I'm not sure. I just got here, the door was wide open and there are bullet holes in the wall. Drea's phone is still on the charger. I don't know where she is.”

“Casey, you need to stay calm.” He could hear the hysteria in her voice. “Frankie might be in the house, or around, so I want you to get out of there. Get back in your car and stay there.”

“What's going on?” Caesar interrupted.

“Casey's at the house. Drea's not there, no one is.” Anger rushed through Monroe. Why had no one arrived yet? “Casey, I'll be there in ten minutes. Okay?”

“Hurry,” she said before ending the call.

“Go,” Caesar told him. “Someone should be there by the time that you get there.”

Monroe left the room without another glance at Claire. Fuck Claire. As he made his way down to his bike, memories of the last time he'd felt so frantic to get somewhere flooded his mind. It had been a normal night after a normal shift at work when he got a frantic phone call from Amelia. She'd been hysterical; it had taken almost ten minutes for him to understand what she was saying. At first, he'd thought that she was overreacting to the fact that Fiona wasn't answering her phone calls, but then she'd told him how long it had been, and he'd realized he hadn't spoken to her in days as well. He'd used his flashing lights to ease the journey then. Tonight, he had no such aid, so he just rode faster and harder than he ever had before, splitting lanes and running through red lights as he remembered how things had ended up for Fiona. There was nothing that he could have done for her and Taylor. He'd lost them. He would not lose Drea.

Finally, he pulled up in front of her house and saw that the cavalry had arrived ahead of him. In his haste to get off of the bike, he nearly dropped it. At that point, he'd have left it on the ground like a tipped-over turtle. He ran for the door, a feeling of doom firmly in place inside of him. “Drea!”

Casey came out of the kitchen, her face pale and a smear of blood on her forehead. “She's in here, Monroe.”

It felt like walking through water as he made his way to the kitchen. The expression and blood on Casey's face made him sure that Drea was gone. Once again, he was going to be too late to do any good. He stepped through the kitchen door and didn't see her right away, but she had to be on the kitchen table because that was where everyone was gathered around. Monroe shoved Bones and Einstein aside, looked down and saw her. His first thought was that she'd hate being nearly naked in front of everyone. His second was that she might be too far gone to ever find out. He'd never seen her so pale and still before. She didn't react, even with Ace holding down gauze to a wound on her side. There was also gauze on her arm.

“It looks worse than it is, brother,” Ace said softly. “She's lost some blood, but he only grazed her both times. She was lucky. He wasn't.”

“He's here?” Monroe was torn between staying with Drea and going to tear Frankie apart.

“His body is,” Ace said bluntly. “Manuel and Shawn are out back getting rid of it. Buster rode ahead to get the site ready for us to get rid of him.”

“How much blood has she lost?” Monroe asked as he took in just how pale she really was.

“I don't know for sure. I can't tell.”

“Where's Jillian?”

“She's on her way. She won't be able to tell you either, Monroe. She's not a doctor,” Ace said. “I'd say that we call an ambulance but then we'd have to explain the gunshot wounds and the body in the back yard.”

“Why isn't she awake?” Monroe laid his hand on her uninjured arm. “She should be awake.”

“She was,” Casey spoke up. “She was awake and in a lot of pain when I got here, so I gave her something for it.”

“What?”

“Oxy,” Casey replied. “I had some in my car.”

“You keep Oxy in your car?” Monroe demanded.

“I keep everything in my car, at least right now. I was supposed to move in here tonight. Long story. I figured that it was better for her to be zoned out during all of this.”

“How much did you fucking give her?” Monroe realized he was yelling when she recoiled from him as if he'd smacked her.

“Two pills, enough to put her out, but not enough to hurt her. I wouldn't hurt her. She's my friend,” Casey's voice shook.

“No one thinks that you'd want to hurt her, Casey.” Ace spoke in a soothing tone he normally reserved for Jillian. “Monroe, hold down on this gauze, apply constant pressure. The bleeding is almost stopped, I don't want it to start again. Everyone else, out. Give them a few minutes.”

Monroe reached to hold the gauze when Ace released it. He pressed down, and Drea stirred. “Drea?” Her eyes didn't open, but they fluttered. “Come on, hon. I know that it's hard, but I need you to look at me. Just open up your eyes and look at me.” He reached his free hand up to stroke the side of her face. “It's over, baby.”

Her eyes moved again and then opened. “Monroe?”

“That's right, I'm right here.”

“I'm not dead?”

“No, you're not dead. You're going to be just fine. Ace took real good care of you. Jillian's on her way, and we're going to get your home.” He continued to stroke the side of her face. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I've been shot,” she said with a weak smile. “Don't worry.”

“Worry? Who's worrying? I'm not.”

“Liar,” she met his eyes. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

“The only thing that's scary about you is the way your hair looks when you wake up in the morning,” he told her. “Actually, it's looking sort of scary right now.” He winced as Drea chuckled and then hissed in pain. “Sorry.”

“I forgive you,” she said on a yawn.

“Shut your eyes, Drea. Rest.”

“Don't leave?”

“I won't, I promise. Jillian will be here soon, and once she says that it's okay, we'll get you home and into our bed.”

“That sounds good,” she said, eyes already half closed. Before too long her breathing was deep and even.

Monroe sat there, just watching her, for a while before Jillian came through the door. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I should check on her.”

“Yeah, of course. Should I keep holding the gauze?”

“You can ease up on the pressure. I need to see if it's stopped.” Jillian might not have been a doctor, but she knew her shit, so Monroe stood back.

“Has it?”

“It has. She's lucky, it's essentially a graze, a few inches over she'd have been beyond what I can do. I'll check her arm, but Ace said that's a graze too. Frankie must have been a really shitty shot.”

“Glad that he was,” Monroe said. “How long until she's up and about?”

“Hard to say. Most likely a couple of weeks until she's one hundred percent, but even at that point she'll still be healing. Our biggest concern is going to be infection. She's going to need antibiotics. I brought along what I had at the house, but I think we might need something else, stronger and more broad spectrum.”

“Whatever she needs, I'll get it. I promise.” Monroe watched as Jillian began to take things out of her bag.

“I'm going to clean and dress the wound now.”

“Will that hurt her?”

Jillian looked over at him and smiled. “I'll be careful with her, Monroe. Don't worry.”

“She said that, too.”

“She's smart. You should listen to her. I need a shirt for her, a button-up would be the best thing. Is there anything here?”

“I'll find something,” he said. “I'll be right back.” He thought that there might be some clothes left upstairs. If there weren't, Casey had said she'd planned on moving in. She should have something. Monroe took the stairs two at a time, opened the closet and found several boxes of things Drea had brought from Love and Lace after she closed it. Inside one of the boxes were several pairs of silky pajamas with long-sleeved button-down tops, which would probably work.

Drea's eyes were open again when he came back into the kitchen. “I thought I told you to rest,” he said in a mock stern tone before going over to lean down and kiss her forehead. “I got you some clothes.”

“Jillian said that when she's done, we can go home.”

“I did. Not on the bike, obviously. My car will work, and then I'll ride home with Ace. Just a few more minutes. I think that the guys are just getting ready to leave to take care of things.”

“You gonna be okay if I go outside for a minute?” Monroe suddenly realized he wanted to see Frankie's body for himself. To look at the man who'd tried to take his wife and had taken so much more from all of them. He'd hit Nightshade hard financially, just when they'd been in a good place, a better place than they'd ever been before. Now, the construction company had more money than Nightshade did. If Frankie still had the money somewhere, it would buy them time. If they were unable to find it, the quiet times were going to be over for Nightshade.

Everyone was grim when he came into the backyard. The body was wrapped in clear painters' tarp. Several garbage bags were next to it. Monroe could see where blood stained the grass. He walked forward, looked down to the spot where Frankie had fallen. “We good out here?”

“We are,” Ace confirmed. “Jillian says Drea's doing well. She'll do even better once you've got her home. Don't worry, brother. We've got this.”

“Found a hotel key in his pocket,” Buster added. “I'm going to take Bones and check it out, see what we can find. You get your woman home, take care of her. Tomorrow, we'll meet at ten.”

<#<#<#<#

Monroe took out one of the painkillers Jillian had given them and grabbed a bottle of water. Drea was in their bed, and she was staying there. The car ride had been almost as painful for him as it was for her, the way that she hissed with pain at every bump and jolt, but when he asked, she said that she was fine. She didn't want him to worry, but there was no way he could help it.

She was dozing when he got back into the bedroom, propped up against pillows. The television was playing, some cooking show, but she didn't seem to be too interested in it. “Hon, wake up and take this. It'll make you feel better and should help you sleep. I can get you something else besides water if you want.”

“The water is fine.” She winced as she sat up.

“Lay back down; I'll get you a straw. You shouldn't be sitting up if it hurts.”

“Monroe, relax. Give me the water and the pills. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. You've been shot, twice!”

“And I'm still breathing and still whole, just with a few extra holes.” She smiled at her own joke as she took the bottle and pill from him. “Come on, that was   supposed to be funny.”

“Sorry, I can't find the humor in you getting shot, hon.” Monroe took the bottle of water from her and placed it on the table next to the bed. “You need anything else?”

“I just need you to get in bed.”

“I'm going to sleep in the chair,” he said, motioning to the recliner in the corner.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows rose in a way that was an indicator of a fight on the horizon.

Monroe evaded the question. Instead, he moved over to shift the recliner, a new addition to the bedroom, closer to the bed. “I'm not exactly a calm sleeper, hon. I don't want to accidentally knock into you, hurt you.” The thought of it made him irrationally angry, even though it hadn't even happened.

“Put my recliner back where it was, Monroe, and get your ass in this bed, our bed, because I don't have the energy to get up and kick you in the ass.”

“You're hurt, Drea,” he told her. A pained look crossed her face; since she hadn't moved at all, it wasn't physical pain. He'd hurt her feelings, and that hadn't been the intention.

“Stop worrying, Monroe.”