Page 294 of Mangled Memory
Shots ring out. They ricochet off the concrete and zip near the men I love. Dad topples backward, knocking me over like a pin in a bowling alley.
I don’t have a moment to see if he’s hit. The moment I’m down, hands lift me. This has happened before. Like hell, I’ll let it happen again. I thrash and fight, biting down where I’m able at the rough hands that manhandle me. “Let me go.”
“Ayla-girl, settle.” Those are the only words I could hear right now that would zap the fight right out of me. I sag into my brother, sobbing and mumbling words that have no meaning, but are everything.
“I love you. I love Ci. I’d never?—”
“Hush. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Christian—” I start.
“Later.You first.”
The man who could shoot someone without a second thought holds me tightly to his chest and runs with me to safety. He deposits me in Christian’s SUV parked right out front, checks me over clinically, rubbing hands over me looking for bruises or cuts, and then slams the door and runs back into the fray.
I have news for him. It’s not my body that’s the problem. The abrasions on my mind will be worse. The brutal memory ofholding a gun to Dad’s head and seeing him question whether I would do it to save Cian. The anger and resignation in his face when he realized I would. We both know that if I’d had to, I would have.
And that was why… at least one reason. Because of his anger. No man worth his salt would allow his son to be killed in his place. No father would allow a child to be sacrificed for his comfort. And knowing that Dad not just wanted it—but expected it—was the moment I knew.
I knew he’d always be Seamus first and Seamus second, and everyone else somewhere down the list.
Cian telling me to allow his death so I didn’t have to live with the guilt of Dad’s murder on my hands was icing on the cake. The difference in the two men couldn’t be more stark. One day when Cian has kids, he’ll know that his kind heart, not his choices, will be the thing that allowed them to exist. His bravery made a maniacal choice easy.
Though, I’m so glad I didn’t have to see it through to its logical end.
Ambulances and police cruisers screech to a halt in front of the building. Cops in full riot gear with guns drawn approach the building slowly and methodically. Fire trucks bring up the rear moments later. The sweep of different lights swirling over and over bathes the car, bounces off the mirrors, and nauseates me. It’s a red and white rave that I never want to attend again. Hell, I didn’t want to attend in the first place.
If I hadn’t refused Fitz when he insisted on that damn safe room, I could’ve skipped this fucked-up party. I didn’t see him after they shot him and dragged me away. I hope he’s alive and the EMTs can save him. I don’t know how I’ll live with myself with any other outcome.
A figure runs from the shadows, crouched low to avoid being seen, and yanks on the locked door handle. Are they stupid? I’m not letting them in.
“Ayla.” My name is a whisper shout from the driver’s side.
Liam?
I unlock the doors, and he dives into the car, starting it and tearing away from the scene.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Everyone not in need of medical attention is being arrested. I’m trying to avoid any questions as to why I was there.”
“But Christian?—”
“Christian isn’t being arrested.”
Fuck. No. No. No. I drop my head back to the seat.
I can’t take anymore. “Take me back, Li. If my husband needs an ambulance I need to be there!” There’s no authority in my voice, no argument I can make to dissuade him.
He says nothing but doesn’t turn around. He drives us to his place. It’s a new townhome development just inside the limits of Ken Caryl, nestled right in the foothill. My brusque, tatted brother with both of his ears pierced lives in an end-unit townhome in Ken Caryl. My snicker turns into an out-and-out laugh.
“Something you want to share?”
I shake my head and wave my hand at the same time, but don’t add to the conversation.
He parks out front and escorts me into his home. If I’ve been here before, I don’t know it. I don’t make a fuss about that and neither does he, but he points out the half bath downstairs which I avail myself of immediately.
I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My cruel day and the ruthless choices I was forced to make are written all over my face. The red splotches, the puffy eyes, the swollen red nose—all are evidence of heart wrenching moments served up one after another.
