Page 67 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
The alley is empty.
My cheek is against hot asphalt. I roll to my back and the sky wheels. I catalog. Jaw: manageable. Ribs: two, maybe three, not happy. Gut: raging hot. Shoulder: a different kind of anger. Mythroat feels raw, like I swallowed the wordnoand it scraped all the way down.
I angle my head and spot the little Velcro tab where I left it under the running board. It looks ridiculous and heroic in equal measure. I smile, which hurts, and then I don’t smile.
Brick. Jasmine.
I get to hands and knees. The world pulses black at the edges and comes back. I plant a palm against the cruiser, leave a bloody print that looks, for a stupid second, like a handprint in wet cement. History. Proof. I make myself stand.
The radio is still off. My gun is gone. My phone is gone. I breathe. The breathing hurts. I turn the radio back on and press the transmit.
“Dispatch… ” I manage. The words slur like I’m wearing someone else’s mouth. “10-33. Officer needs assistance. Alley off—” I crane my head. The street sign is half-painted over. “Off Calhoun and 3rd. Three male suspects, armed. Fled on foot. I’m—” I don’t say fine. “I’m upright.”
Marla’s voice snaps back fast and tight. “Copy. Units en route. Stay with me.”
I let the mic fall against my shoulder and lean on the door. The alley rears and settles.
I am allowed to be happy, Brick said.
Right now, I will settle for allowed to make it home. Allowed to keep the people I love breathing.
I stare down the mouth of the alley and make myself stand up straighter. Backup is coming. There will be reports, ice packs, and a lecture from Ruiz about going in solo that I absolutely deserve. There will be a conversation I owe Jasmine, and one she owes me.
There will be another round with Harold Swanson, because men like him don’t stop. Neither do men like me.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, breathe through the sting, and wait for the cavalry.
Chapter twenty
Jasmine
I'm not a fan of hospitals. They're the last place I'll ever decide to go, and if I do, it'll be because I've exhausted every possible option available to me.
My feet hurry across the tiled hospital floor, the smell of disinfectants and pills invading my nostrils. I don't care about that now. I only care about Asher.
And if he is alive or not.
After throwing slight tantrums around, the ER nurse leads me to the room holding him. When I lay my eyes on him, I feel a gaping hole open in my stomach, and I feel color and life disappear from my face.
“Oh God.” I whisper, covering my hands with my mouth. It's a good thing Brick is in school, because I wouldn't even begin to know how to explain all of this to him. I move closer to his bed to properly inspect his beaten face. He's unconscious and even while asleep, his features manage to remain handsome.
“As you can see, ma'am, he's still unconscious,” the nurse says, shuffling her feet beside me.
I turn to look at her, utter inquisition written on my face. “When is he going to wake up?”
“It depends. Could be a few hours. Could be more. Now if you can please go wait outside.”
“I'll wait here.” I say, interrupting and turning to look back at Asher.
“Ma'am, he needs his rest—”
“Like I said, I'm going to wait here.”
There's a brief exchange of willpower between us but she gives up a while later. A loud exhale escapes her mouth, and she turns away from me. I watch her walk past the curtains and straight into the Emergency Room’s center station. I make my way to Asher and take a seat on one of the empty chairs beside his bed.
I sink fully into the seat and begin to take in the extent of his injuries. There's a cast around his left hand and strapping over his shoulder. His eyes are deeply shut but I can see them continue to quiver ever so slightly. It's almost like he's repeatedly having a terrible dream.
I think of the actual last conversation we had and feel a pang of regret swim up my cheeks. He said he was in love with me and I never gave him a reply—a solid one. All of that seems pretty mundane in hindsight now that I'm staring at the bruises on his face and exposed body. My heart grates at the sheer fact that this was caused because I refuse to sell to Harold Swanson.
