Page 116 of Hendrix

“We won’t get through there,” Gopher called out. He drove as close as he could get and skidded to a halt.

“Thanks, brother,” I called as I jumped from the car and flagged one of my boys down.

Picasso pulled up next to me, his back tire kicking up dirt and grass. “Get on!” he yelled over the pop of the engine.

I jumped on the back and held on for dear life. Cass turned the throttle, and we shot off into the trees toward the area where we saw the flashes.

Clouds covered the moon, and the light faded until all that guided us was the headlamp of Picasso’s motorcycle.

My fingers tightened on the back of his leather jacket, and I tried to brace myself. I took deep breaths through my nose in an attempt to slow the adrenaline pumping through my veins. After seeing the blood back at the house, my gut filled with so much fury and disgust that I struggled to contain my emotions.

Anna had been hurt, and I didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. I hadn’t allowed my thoughts to go there for fear of losing my shit and not being able to focus on getting her back. Since we left the house, I could only feel and react, and it made my brain feel like it was about to explode.

I sucked in more air, trying to regulate my heartbeat, when the clouds moved across the moonlight, and its light beamed down again.

That was when I saw them.

Two figures.

Picasso must’ve spotted them, too, because he changed his direction slightly and headed straight for them. The roar of bikes went up behind us. Everyone began laying on their horns, sending up an almighty din.

One of the figures attempted to stand and wave, but quickly fell back down onto their knees. I could tell it wasn’t Anna. For a start, they were too tall and built to be my woman. My stare dipped to the other figure who was lying on the ground, and I knew by the extended baby bump that it was my ol’ lady.

What appeared to be a dude was crouched over her, and her head was in one of his arms as he waved at us frantically.

As the bike pulled closer, I felt a stab of recognition, and my face twisted in disbelief.

Charlie?

Picasso’s bike began to slow, which allowed me to jump off and sprint toward my woman. On my approach, I skidded across the ground on my knees until she was there, in my arms. “Baby,” I murmured, smoothing her hair back from her ghostly white face.

“She needs help,” Charlie cried. “She’s losing blood.”

My eyes swept down her body and zeroed in on the area between her legs where the dark liquid was oozing into her jeans.

My body locked, and my heart shattered into tiny pieces.

The baby.

–––––

An hour later, I stared out the window into the midnight sky, and I did something I hadn’t done since I was a six-year-old boy.

I prayed.

Back then, my prayers were to bring my mom home, to make her turn up at the door full of tears and apologies for leaving me behind, and to make her love me enough to stay.

Now, my prayers were to ask, beg, and plead for Anna to stay, too. If she left this world, there’d be nothing left of me. I’d be an empty vessel, a bag of bones and blood.

A ghost.

You feel like mine.

I closed my eyes, the words floating through my mind. The same words I whispered to her the night I first had her. And she did; she did feel like mine from the first moment I looked into her kaleidoscope eyes and saw the beauty in her soul.

My ears pricked up as I heard the door to the medical room open and close with a soft click. I craned my neck to see Bones, dressed in scrubs, walking toward me.

Within seconds, Dad, who hadn’t left my side since they’d taken Anna into surgery, was up on his feet to take my six. His hand clasped my shoulder, and the one word he spoke was loaded with grief.

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