Page 38 of Twisted Debt (The Debt Tales 1)

Tomas’s announcement wraps around the harshly pounding muscle in my chest.

“Bad.”

Its first attempt at constriction causes me to quietly counter, “Really?”

“So…” the drawing of the sentence out adds additional squeezing, “so bad, sis.”

The audible agony dismantles not only the perfectly laid plan I just created for the man I’m madly in love with but the small resolve I had managed to hold onto regarding this situation with my brother.

Hastily heading towards my walk-in closet, I inquire, “How? Where?”

“A fucking bullet in… oh…fuck… oh shit.” He pauses to hiss out his pant. “Fuck, it’s in my stomach, Zel! I thought I’d stopped some of the bleeding but-” another wheeze sound hits my ears as I swiftly grab my silk, yellow robe “Fuck, this shit hurts!”

“The nearest hosp-“

“Fuck the hospital! My baby sister is a damn nurse-”

“Not yet, Tomas,” I chide while tying the article closed. “And I’m not exactly training to be an ER nurse or trauma nurse or a surgical nurse! I mean yeah, we cover all that shit, and I kinda sorta know what to do but the hospital-”

“No hospital!”

“Why?!”

“They’ll ask too many fucking questions. And then they gotta report this shit to the cops. And I gotta talk to cops. Fuck, I basically just got outta jail. I can’t go back. I fucking can’t, Zel.”

“But-”

“I’m standing outside of this asshole’s building right…bleeding to death.” He takes in a deep, shaky breath. “I just need the overnight entrance code, the elevator code up, and your magic fingers to stitch this shit up. Bing. Bang. Boom. I’m out before the dickhead’s up.”

“Tomas-”

“Do you really want mom to bury one of her own children?”

Just the idea is enough to knock the air out of me.

“Do you really wanna watch…,” his voice trembles out of control, “Abuela cry at my funeral? Throw herself on top of my casket?”

“No…” I sniffle the building tears at the same time I rapidly shake my head. “No! I’m not gonna let you die!”

The passcodes are promptly hissed, followed by me scampering through the hall so quickly I’m not even sure if my toes kiss the marble during the process.

I flip on the downstairs lights, just as the elevator doors ding open. My eyes instantly trace over my brother, assessing his injuries, zoning in on where the blood should be gushing from a hole in his abdomen, draining him of his life, yet see something so, so much worse.

Nothing.

“You’re not…” A spike of nausea brutally burns up the back of my throat. “You’re not…” Inability to finish the sentence has me simply glaring up at my brother, whose tall, lanky tattooed frame isn’t sporting a single wound, in his tight, black t-shirt, jacket and dark wash jeans. “You lied to me.”

He kicks his shoulder up unapologetically. “I was improvising.”

My mouth twitches in objection.

“The shit you said didn’t sound like the shit that my own flesh and blood would ever say to me, so I acted accordingly.”

An enraged finger jets around a strand of hair, twisting and twisting and twisting, wringing it like I wish I could my brother’s neck. “You. Fucking. Lied.”

“Eh, only a little.”

My argumentative squeak is barely heard.

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