Page 160 of Naughty Dreams
Despite the startled looks from the EMTs, Roy laughed. A tense-faced G and relieved-looking Warren gave him a hand up to clear the area around DJ for the EMTs.
Too much was starting to crowd in on DJ. The edges of his vision were getting fuzzy. When G looked toward him, his weak gesture brought her closer. “Take care of him,” he whispered.
“I will, DJ.” She gripped his shoulder. Then she and Warren helped Roy move down the hall. DJ saw another EMT closing in on Roy to get the vest off and make sure there was no other damage, so that was good.
Roy’s attention stayed on DJ the same way, following everything the EMTs were doing. They verified he didn’t need a C-collar and could be moved. He was put on the gurney, and his hand was stabilized with tape and a brace.
Moss had arrived. His wide eyes landed on Paul’s body before they snapped to DJ. DJ gave him a weak thumbs up with his good hand.
But when they rolled the gurney past everyone, suddenly DJ couldn’t see Roy. He knew he needed to go to the hospital, but irrational panic grabbed his throbbing gut, making things all kind of intolerable. As he twisted on the gurney, ignoring the EMTs admonitions, he caught a glimpse of Roy, and Roy saw his face.
His bodyguard got up, pushing his own protesting first responder aside. They’d gotten the vest off and opened his shirt. DJ saw the bruising from the bullets, but they hadn’t penetrated his beautiful chest.
G was telling the EMT something to calm him down, to give Roy a minute with DJ. Roy came to him and clasped DJ’s hand.
“Moss is going to go with you to the hospital.” He nodded to the manager, standing behind the EMT on the other side of the gurney. “I have to handle things here, DJ. Then I’ll come.”
“Promise…” DJ struggled to hold onto consciousness. “Don’t disappear because the job is done.”
“I promise. If you behave, I’ll bring you a stuffed toy and coloring book from the hospital gift shop.”
“Don’t forget…crayons.”
“I’m bringing the book. Buy your own fucking crayons.”
DJ managed a half smile, and then they rolled him away.
There was so much pain in the kid’s face, so many other things happening, that Roy’s heart, already hammering against his chest too hard, twisted like it had been stabbed. DJ’s hand slipped away, and the gurney rolled around the corner. Just in time, because Roy’s knees buckled.
“Boss.” Warren grabbed him, helped him drop to one knee. Two EMTs started to pounce on him again and Roy recoiled, groping for his gun. Fortunately, G stepped between them.
“He’s fine,” she said. “Back off and give him room.”
When G spoke like that, few men disobeyed her. She squatted next to Roy, not touching him. Warren had also let him go. They knew when not to make him feel hemmed in.
He closed his eyes, riding it, because that was the only way past it. It had been so damn close to the worst-case scenario. He had raced through the lower levels, searching the maze of hallways. He’d sent his team members on other tracks, trying to cover every possibility, knowing if they’d missed him, DJ was already gone, beyond his reach. After that, the chances of finding him before he was harmed or killed would plummet.
He'd found out from a cop that a maintenance man had gone by with a cart of equipment. Then, another dozen hallways, and he’d heard the choking sound of someone vomiting. Roy hadextended his flexible scope around the corner to get more data, and Paul had seen the movement. He had the vision of a hunting cat.
Not anymore. But despite the victory, Roy knew it had been as much luck as skill that had helped him to locate DJ. Plus a huge helping of divine providence. Like running into the cop and asking the right question at the right moment.
“He’s okay,” Warren said. “You earned your Wheaties, boss.”
“He broke his fingers. His guitar hand.”
G placed a light hand on his bent knee as his breathing evened out. “They’ll heal. His singing and songwriting are his major talents. His music, maybe not so much, but that’s me.”
Roy’s laugh revealed how bruised his ribs were. “Fuck.”
G looked at Warren. “We need a less stressful job.”
“We’d die of boredom.”
“You’re old enough to go ahead and die anyway,” she said crisply. “You just hang around to annoy me.”
“She still has the hots for me. It pisses her off,” Warren informed Roy.
The banter helped. It kept the roaring at bay. He knew how to manage post-trauma effects, but this time, it was going to be rougher, the true downside of getting involved with one’s client. But Roy wouldn’t change it. Even if it was over.
