Page 86 of Forty

Mad panic swells behind my eyes again, and then there’s a crunch of tires on asphalt. A car door slams, and boots are pounding toward me. A distraction. I can run.

I lunge, but at the same instant, Carlo seizes me, spins me, and oh no. Oh shit. It’s Forty. I’m facing him with Carlo’s hand clamped around my neck and a gun jammed into the small of my back.

Forty skitters to a halt twenty feet away. He’s aiming a gun at my head, both arms straight, one hand cupping the other.

“Let her go.”

No. He’s not aiming at me. He’s aiming at Carlo.

I start to shake, shivers coursing all down my body, and I move to hug my arms around my waist, but Carlo yanks up on my throat, tilting my chin in the air as he burrows the gun so deep I’m forced to arch my spine.

From where he stands, Forty can’t see the gun at my back. He can only see the hand around my throat.

That’s where his eyes are trained. Carlo’s head. My throat. They’re scanning steadily between Carlo’s forehead and where his hand squeezes my neck.

Forty’s stance is sure. He’s a soldier. He’s calculating, lining up his target. He’s not going to see the gun at waist level in time. Carlo isn’t going to wait for him to choose his shot. He’s going to swing his arm from behind me and shoot. I’m his shield.

“Last time. Let her go.” Forty’s hair is mussed. He’s wearing his cut and a white T-shirt stained by drops of blood scattered down the front. He has grass stains on his jeans. He’s been fighting.

His square jaw is tensed, but his lips are slightly parted. His chest rises and falls. He’s breathing deeply, exactly like he taught me to do. So he’s totally oxygenated when he exhales and pulls the trigger.

He’s so beautiful.

I’d go for him again, any day. I was right when I was fourteen, and I was right last month. He’s the one.

I was made untethered, like a bird or a butterfly or a balloon that slipped its string. He was made steady and firm, like solid earth or a strong hand.

Made for me in the same way I was made for him.

I smile. I want him to see me smile.

“Baby?”

“I love you.” I inhale the rich, early morning air. “He has a gun at my back,” I say, and I fling my arms wide, throwing all my weight backwards as I wrench my torso, twisting into the metal digging right above my hip.

Bang.

Bang.

Carlo collapses, and I crash on top of him, pain ripping through my side. The silence echoes.

“Nevaeh!”

Shouts come from the clubhouse, feet pound. I’m sprawled on my back, and my hip feels wet. The bone burns. I whimper. It hurts.

Carlo is lumpy underneath me. He’s not moving.

“Baby.” Forty’s there, kneeling over me, shirtless, pressing hard on my hip. It hurts. “What did you do?”

I mean to say stop, that hurts, but my tongue’s not working right.

Why is he not wearing a shirt? Every time my eye catches on his tattoos or his scars, my gaze slides away.

I can’t focus.

I’m lying on something awkward and cold. Carlo. It’s Carlo.

“Is he dead?”

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