Hidden Scars (27 page)

       The gun went off. His right shoulder felt warm and numb at the same time, dampness spreading. Patrick lost his blank look for a second time, surprise drawing his features tight. He glanced over Taylor’s shoulder and shifted to the right.

       
Move. You need to move. The door’s still open.

       He shot out his good arm, catching Patrick across the chest as Sara came out of nowhere to land on his back. Knees locked onto his hips, one arm banded around his neck, she was trying to get grip on his hair when Taylor focused on her hand. It was swollen and dotted with scrapes. Exactly like it’d been when she’d punched the wall of her office.

       Fury raced through him, a fiery, burning pain taking over the numbness. This close, the angle was shit, but he lifted his foot and kicked the side of Patrick’s knee. Patrick danced to the side, still upright, Sara still clinging to him despite the tears streaming down her face. He kicked out again, connecting with a satisfying
crack
.

       Patrick went down, Sara rolling clear of his back. She scuttled away as the gun came up. “Move again, girlie, and I won’t care how much noise this makes.”

       Her choked sobs hurt worse than his arm. He’d done this to her. Years of successfully avoiding deep, complex entanglements because he
knew
it could lead to this. He’d walked Sara right back into her nightmare.

       “Taylor. Help me up.”

       He stayed where he was, hand curling into an impotent fist.

       “It wasn’t a request. Help me up, or I will shoot her.” As if to prove his point, he pushed himself up with his free hand and readjusted his aim, the gun level with her chest.

       There was still a chance. Her damaged hand wouldn’t hamper her too much if she scrambled sideways. Patrick was counting on his love and need to see Sara safe to save him from another attack from behind. But this was Sara’s call, Sara’s
life
, because Taylor had no doubt Patrick’s orders were to kill one or both of them if they didn’t cooperate. Which meant he’d driven across the country, to avoid airport security. Patrick was the security guru for the bank heists. He could plan a getaway in his sleep.

       Taylor looked at Sara. Her tear-stained cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and wet, on her hands and knees. She met his gaze, and he nodded to Patrick, lifting one foot slightly, hoping she understood what he wanted.

       No second guesses. He lurched forward, landing hard on Patrick’s back as the gun went off for a second time. Patrick’s arm gave out from under him and the force knocked the gun from his hand. Taylor went down on his knees and sprawled across him, ripping the gun from Patrick’s feeble grip.

       Sara. Where was Sara? Huddled against the wall, knees to her chest. He could see her shaking from here. Patrick groaned beneath him, his head hitting the floor with a soft
thud.
Shouts and footsteps drifted in from the hallway. He could see her shaking from here. “Sara.” He shifted his weight, tried to lever himself off Patrick, hesitating when she shook her head.

       Heart in his throat, he pushed up. “Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Please don’t move.”

       
No
. Every cell in his body yelled at him to get up and go to her, hold her close, make sure she was okay. “Don’t,” she repeated. Limbs turning to lead, he nodded, lowering his full weight on top of Patrick.

       She unwound herself and inched toward them. “We can’t let him get away.” She reached out, brushed her fingers along his jaw. “I’m okay. Are you?”

       A police officer burst through the door, gun drawn, and Taylor had the strangest urge to laugh. Christ. What a homecoming. “I will be.”

       “Where were you when Taylor came in?”

       Sara looked over at the back of the ambulance, her impatience with Detective Fallon growing. She understood the man needed to do his job, and quickly, but she needed to be with Taylor. “Against the far wall. I couldn’t see around Patrick, though.”

       Patrick Reilly. He hadn’t said much beyond the occasional grunt or hiss of pain. He might never say anything. She might never find out if Patrick was behind the mysterious hang up calls she’d received or the unwelcome visits to her house. They may never confirm he was in Portland on Tony’s orders. But the damage he’d done was enough, she hoped, to keep him in prison for a while, and send a message right back to Tony — Taylor was off-limits.

       Though if Tony was stupid enough to think sending someone across the country to intimidate Taylor into taking on whatever job he had for him, maybe they weren’t in the clear.

       “Ms. Andrews?”

       She blinked and pulled her attention back to the interview. “I’m sorry, did you ask a question?”

       Fallon gave her a patient smile. “So they fought. How did Taylor get shot?”

       She chewed on her lower lip. “Taylor had his elbow up and aimed at Patrick’s face. I didn’t have a clear look at how it happened. Taylor stumbled backward, and then they started fighting again.”

       “Until Taylor managed to lay on him.”

       “Yeah.”

       “Interesting maneuver.” Fallon closed his notebook and tucked it away inside his jacket. “That’s all for now. I’ll have one of the officers take you to the hospital to get your hand looked at.” One of the paramedics had wrapped it loosely and given her an ice pack, but it had throbbed its way to the point of numbness, the pains migrating up her arm.

       She glanced at the ambulance again. “Do you think they’ll let me ride in the back?”

       Fallon followed her gaze, then jerked his head toward the ambulance. “We can always ask.”

       The parking lot was littered with patrol cars and gawkers, building tenants standing around with their cell phones out. Some tried to take surreptitious photos as Sara and the detective crossed the lot to the paramedics preparing Taylor for transport. She understood how car wreck victims felt now — exposed and somehow embarrassed and ashamed.

       She moved to Taylor’s side while Fallon spoke with one of the medics. “Hey.”

       He reached for her, and she met him halfway, the familiar warmth of his hand curving around hers draining the last of her fear. They’d made it. Together. He had cotton wadding packed onto his shoulder and a line had dug itself between his brows, but he was alive and
home
. “You’re okay?”

       She shrugged. “Mostly. I’ll have bruises and I’m not sure about my hand.” She inched closer. “It’s not like it was with Sam,” she said quietly. Sam had broken her down and dug a hole for the bone-deep terror to burrow into well before he’d pushed through the door of her apartment and held a knife to her throat. She didn’t know how to explain that Patrick was different. He was bigger and deadlier than Sam, all cool efficiency and ruthlessness. But therapy, self-defense classes, and months of learning to trust Taylor had given her a solid foundation to stand on. With Sam, she’d felt horribly alone. With Patrick, she hadn’t yet lost the confidence she could get away when Taylor burst through the door.

       “If it hadn’t—”

       She placed a finger over his lips. “Don’t. I don’t want to play the ‘what if’ game. I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come in when you did. I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I’d made it out the back door. Because if I start thinking about all the ‘what ifs,’ I
will
fall apart.” And she couldn’t right then. Later, when it was the two of them and they’d assessed the damage, she could, and likely would.

       “Ma’am? We need to get him inside.” One of the paramedics, the blond one, took up position on the other side of the gurney. She stepped back, the medics lifting the gurney and sliding it inside the ambulance. One jumped down and helped her climb inside, and she picked up Taylor’s hand, the two of them quiet as the doors closed and the ambulance rolled out of the parking lot.

       The hospital wasn’t as chaotic as TV shows made it appear. Taylor was rolled into a room in the ER while she was lead to a curtained off area. She sat on the edge of the bed, struggling against the dueling temptations to go stand outside Taylor’s room or lie down on the bed and sleep for a week.

       Metal rattled as the curtain was drawn aside, a scrub-clad woman standing in the opening. “Sara Andrews?”

       She yawned. “That’s me.”

       The woman gave her a small, kind smile. “Adrenaline crash. Let’s get you checked out so you can get some sleep.” She rolled a stool over and sat, reaching for Sara’s wrapped hand. “What happened?”

       Pain rushed through her fingers as the bandage came off. “He slammed the butt of the gun into my knuckles, and every time I tried to pull free, he’d knock my hand into the wall.”

       Much like Taylor had done the day she’d punched the wall, the woman ran cool, gentle fingers over her hand, manipulating it and asking her to rate the pain on a scale of one to ten. A few minutes later, she was walking down the hall to x-ray.

       “Hairline fracture to your wrist and your middle finger.” The woman, who Sara decided must be a doctor, motioned for another scrub-wearing woman to come forward. “Kath will get you fixed up. Cast will come off in about six weeks as long as the bones heal right.”

       Sara yawned again. “Fine.” She just wanted to get out of there and find Taylor.

* * *

       He woke in the dark. A mechanical-sounding voice squawked in the distance, and the blankets felt inconsequential on his skin. He recognized this place. Not this one in particular, but what it was. A hospital room.

       Someone was holding his hand. A warm, soft weight covered it, spreading out along his right forearm. Lifting his head from the pillow was a struggle, one he fought with at the sight of brown hair spread over worn and faded blue.
Sara
. His hand twitched, aching to run through those soft locks.

       She jerked, breath wuffling softly, and her head came up. Big brown eyes blinked and squinted. Yellow and purple marred her skin in a sunburst of anger, spreading out from a small cut on her left temple. “Taylor?” Another blink, and her eyes widened, the sleep haze clearing away. She was out of the chair and next to his head in a blur of movement. “You’re awake,” she whispered, her hand trembling as it stroked through his hair. “You’re awake.” Warm lips pressed to his forehead, followed by hot liquid hitting his skin. Above him, she sniffled. Crying. A fragment of memory came out of nowhere, tears streaking down Sara’s face as she huddled next to a wall, her hand swollen to twice its size.

       He’d been shot. By Patrick.

       Fury surged. He’d done everything he could think of to protect her and she still hadn’t been safe. Had Tony seen through his lie?

       “Taylor?” He glanced up to see her wiping away tears. “I’ve been worried about you.” She twisted around and located the chair, dragging it closer to the bed. She sat, clasping his hand, and he zeroed in on the cast on her right hand. It went halfway up her forearm and extended around her two middle fingers, the tips of them barely visible above the plaster.

       “He broke your hand?”

       “Fractured my wrist and middle finger. I have to wear this for six weeks.”

       Guilt slid over the shame, a thick, oily black. “I’m sorry.” Christ, was he sorry. She’d had to relive her nightmare because of him.

       “Sorry for what? You didn’t break my hand. Patrick did.”

       Taylor fumbled with the buttons on the side of the bed and finally found the one that raised it into a sitting position. “Which never should have happened.
We
never should have happened. You would have been safer without me in your life.”

       “Shut up.” She shot out of her chair and leaned in, got right in his face. “Shut up. It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for someone else’s crazy.”

       “Sara—”

       “I mean it. You want to tell me you want to take back the last few months? Erase it?” He glared at her. “Fuck that. Everything changed in that hotel room that night. And I don’t regret a minute of it.”

       It struck him as she said it, the truth of it. That night of chastity, trapped in a hotel room with a woman he barely knew, one who wouldn’t let her fear make her weak, had been the catalyst. Tony could wreak as much havoc as he wanted with their lives. The bottom line hadn’t changed. Sara was his, and his alone.        

       But he wouldn’t leave her blind to the coming dangers. “The case against Tony isn’t as strong as they want. It could be months or years before it makes it to trial. He may send someone to replace Patrick.”

       Fear flickered over her face, chased away by determination, her eyes snapping with it. “Then let him. He’s not going to run me off.”

       He shut his eyes. “He’s not.”

       “No. He can try, but he’ll fail. Miserably.”

       He opened his eyes; her face was inches from his. “Have I told you lately you’re amazing?”

       Her gaze flitted to his mouth and back. “Not lately. Maybe you should remind me.” Her lips sealed to his, and the heat of the kiss healed something inside him modern medicine couldn’t.

* * *

       “I can walk, you know.” He felt like a ninety pound weakling, but he was able to put one foot in front of the other, and he’d continue to do so as long as there was breath in his lungs.

       “And? This is my caring face.” Sara pointed to her perfectly bland expression. “Get in the chair. Or I’ll track down someone down who can wrestle you into it.”

       The doctor had cleared him to go home, so he was perched on the side of the bed, dressed in his own clothes and trying to convince Sara he could walk out of the hospital under his own power. She wasn’t going for it. “Your choice is me or a nurse.”

       Grumbling, he eased himself into the chair, and it rolled forward as soon as his ass touched the seat. “In a hurry?”

       “Shut up,” she muttered. “The sooner you get home, the better.”