Page 91 of His Last Shot
That’s why Dexter and Drew were at the restaurant that night. He intercepted our private messages.
I want to vomit.
As I flip to the last photo, a wave of nausea washes over me, and I grip my stomach. It’s from yesterday. Us kissing on his front porch. And written across the picture are five ominous words:
You know what to do.
A dizzying sensation overcomes me as the room spins, blurring my vision. I blink once, then twice. And even though I know the answer to the question I’m about to ask, I muster enough courage anyway. “Johnny, how did you get these?”
With a sigh, he stops pacing, and the tension builds on his shoulders as he approaches. “Your uncle and a few of his buddies paid me a visit as soon as I got home. They handed me those.” He runs his hands through his hair and tugs at it in frustration, then lets out a huff. “He gave me a warning with instructions.” I’ve never heard Johnny’s voice so raw and full of pain.
My stomach bottoms out.
I rub my elbow. “What kind of warning?” I’m having a hard time focusing as my world collapses around me.
His eyes meet mine, brimmed with fear, sadness, and unease. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again, the words stopping on his tongue. Words he can’t say. “I have to end things with you. Never see or speak to you again, or he will come after my family.”
I stand motionless as the revelation floats in the air, weightless yet heavy with its meaning. And when it falls, the ground beneath me crumbles with its weight. Taking me and my new promising life with it.
This can’t be happening.
My brain short-circuits and my throat tightens, making it hard to breathe. The question I want to ask remains cramped, unable to escape. It breaks free. “What did you say?”
“I lunged for him, but before I could act, one of his guys took a baseball bat to my stomach.” He lifts his shirt, wincing. The skin on his perfect abs is red and welted.
“Oh, God!” I rush over, my hand hovering before my fingertips graze the burning, red skin; he hisses in pain, pulling away. He grabs onto my upper armwith purpose, his fingers digging in with surprising strength. Hot tears brim, blurring my vision.
With agonizing slowness, he pivots, his back stiff and tense, revealing another long welt running across his back. “They started the conversation with this.”
The tears that were threatening to flow spill over my cheeks. Gingerly, I run my fingertips over his red, inflamed flesh. I shake my head as the denial of our situation takes over. “No. I’ll talk to him. He wouldn’t go that far. There is no way—”
“Rachel,” Johnny pleads as he turns. His hand, calloused yet tender as it always is, cups my face. I search his expression, desperate for any flicker of hope or a silent understanding in his downcast eyes that we can make it through this. Any sign, no matter how subtle, that this isn’t our reality.
But there’s none.
Only defeat.
And sorrow.
“He’s been stalking my family for months. And us … since we met.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. The anguish on his face is so profound that it physically touches me as our gazes remain locked. “He had Mallory followed. Sweet, innocent Mallory.” With a sharp twist, I pull away, turning my back and stepping away, needing space. If anything happened to that amazing little human, well, the thought makes my insides queasy. Hot tears brim in his eyes as he continues, his breaths hitches. “Do you really want to take that chance?”
His footsteps, distinct against the quiet, grow closer as Johnny approaches, the rhythm pounding in my ears. He wraps his arms around my waist, his grasp firm. My fingers trace the lines of his forearms while my head falls back on his chest. He sighs in my ear. “I didn’t bring it, but he also gave me a flash drive. It’s full of falsified documents implementing me in his little gambling ring and tax fraud.”
Stop! Just stop talking! Why does it keep getting worse?
The words are soft, but the meaning is hard and life-ending. “It would ruin me and everything Scott and I built together. I would lose my family, you, andmy life would be destroyed.” More tears, silent, unending tears. “I don’t care about me,” he confesses. “But I do care about Mallory, my family. And you.”
I spin around, my arms flying around his neck, and bury my head in his chest, the rhythm of his heart somehow comforting. His chin rests on my head as we stand in the middle of the dance floor, in an empty bar, clinging to each other and the life we imagined. A life that’s slipping away, second by second, the chilling awareness heavy in the air. A sense of time running out.
“How long would we have to be apart?” I choke out through strangled sobs.
“I don’t know, my love,” he whispers. Muted sniffles follow his uncertain words.
He’s crying.
“I can’t do it. I can’t live without you.”
Suddenly, my reality, once full of promise, is now full of dread.
