Page 59 of Keeping Winter

Wyatt pales at the ominous unspoken threat.

“And if she doesn’t?” Rico asks as he follows me to the door.

“Then I will kill them slowly, taking apart their bodies inch by inch so they might know a fraction of the pain they will have caused me.” I pause, turning to look into Wyatt’s fearful eyes. “And I’ll save you for last so you can watch the fate that awaits you.”

My shoulder is throbbing as I make my way to the front of the clubhouse, where my bike awaits me.

“Let me drive you in a car, cuz,” Rico insists, stepping up beside me. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and it won’t help Winter any if you pass out on your way to the hospital and crash.”

I consider arguing. My bike would be faster, but now that he’s pointed it out, I do feel a bit light-headed, and I don’t want to delay seeing Winter in any way. Nodding curtly, we head to Winter’s car. My gut twists at the sight of the Just Married paint streaked across the back window and the cans dangling from the bumper.

I try to ignore their clatter on the drive to the hospital, instead closing my eyes and focusing on the pain in my shoulder as I try to block out all the horrible possibilities racing through my head. What if Winter doesn’t make it? What if Tiffany killed the baby? What if I lose them both? Clenching my teeth, I reach up to the bullet wound and explore it, determined to focus on something more trivial that won’t make me completely go insane. It feels as though there’s an entry point just below my clavicle on the outside of my pec and an exit wound coming out from my back. That’s good. Hopefully, that means the bullet went straight through, and all I’ll need are a few stitches to stop the bleeding.

But when we reach the hospital, that becomes a secondary concern. I make Rico drop me at the front door, and I burst into the entry, making a beeline for the front desk.

“Winter Romero,” I demand, skipping all formalities. “She was brought here about an hour ago with a stab wound to the torso. Where is she? How is she? Can I see her?”

“I-I,” the receptionist stutters, her mouth hanging open for a moment as she takes in the bloody sight of me. “Let me look.” Her eyes shift down to the computer, and she taps away frantically for a moment. “It looks like she’s been rushed to the ER for emergency surgery. I’m sorry, I-I can’t tell you anymore.” Her eyes grow round with terror at being unable to give me all the information I require, and I slam my fist onto the counter.

Looking around wildly, I spot Starla racing toward me, and in three long strides, I cover the distance to meet her.

“She’s alive,” Starla reassures me, her hands gripping my forearms. “The EMTs were able to stabilize her in the ambulance, and at the time, they were even fairly confident the baby still had a heartbeat. They haven’t been able to tell me much more than that because the internal bleeding was so severe, as soon as we reached the hospital, they needed to take her back to surgery. I’m still waiting to hear.”

“Fuck!” I howl. I can’t stand the agony of not knowing whether she’s going to live or die, whether we’ve lost our baby or not. It’s a small consolation to know they were both still alive when they arrived. But that was nearly an hour ago, and she was losing so much blood.

“Gabriel, you need to see a doctor. You’ve been shot,” Starla insists gently, her eyes moving to my shoulder.

“It can wait,” I growl through clenched teeth.

She plants her hands on her hips, taking on the best mom pose I think I’ve ever seen. “It won’t do Winter any good if you bleed out on the hospital floor just because you’re too stubborn to be treated before we hear. I’ll have them come to your room immediately with any news.”

I know she’s right, but I can’t help but scowl. Instead, I let her guide me mutely back to the front counter, where the poor receptionist looks like she’s about to faint with fear at seeing me approach once more.

“My friend here needs to see a doctor urgently. He’s been shot,” Starla says, her tone clearly taking into account the receptionist’s fear as she speaks calmly.

“Yes, of course,” the young blonde squeaks and busies herself on the computer as Starla gives her my information.

24

Winter

I’m standing nextto a cold metal table, looking down at the lifeless body of someone I loved more than anything. It’s the first body I’ve ever seen, and I feel like my heart has been ripped from my chest. Deep, ugly scars mar my mother’s beautiful wrists like angry monsters with no teeth. All the blood has drained from her body, leaving her as white as chalk, except for the purple of her sunken eye sockets. Her red hair, the same color as mine, is the only shock of color in the cold, dreary place. It smells of formaldehyde and death, which only makes my devastation more revolting.

My stomach starts to heave as I think about what she did to herself. Did it hurt? How much pain could she have suffered in life to choose such an angry death? I hadn’t known she was hurting. Does that make me a terrible daughter? Sure, I knew she was sad sometimes. But it always seemed like a night at the movies or a shopping spree would bring her right back up. I had no idea she would be capable of something as gruesome as this, and mingled with my overwhelming sense of loss is a feeling of betrayal.

“Stop crying,” my father growls, and my brother’s sniffling dissipates to muffled hiccups.

He’s too young to understand.

“Your mother left us. She chose to end her life. I don’t want to hear you speak about her. As far as I’m concerned, she abandoned us. If we didn’t have a reputation to uphold, I would toss her in an unmarked grave and be done with it. But seeing as we’re a respectable family, she will get the memorial a woman of her status would deserve if she had died of a terminal disease. And if anyone should ask you, that’s exactly what happened. You hear? Your mother didn’t take her life like a coward. She died of cancer she had been fighting in silence and finally lost the battle.”

The growl in my father’s tone brooks no argument, and I study my mother’s stone-cold face, so peaceful in sleep, even after such a violent end.

“Answer me!” my father demands, and my brother and I jump at the anger in his voice.

“Yes, Daddy,” I say, my brother echoing me.

“Good.” My father stalks from the room, gripping my brother’s shoulder and steering him along.

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