Page 50 of Vodka And Virtue

“Rory!”

Carlisle. I sagged with relief.

“Help! Call 911! Hurry!”

He rolled my body, my head bouncing on the asphalt, and I looked up into his panicked face, my vision slowly returning. He peeled my jacket aside, his hands covering my ribs.

“I can’t see with all this black—this shirt is too dark to see.” He lifted the hem of my shirt. “Rory,” he cried brokenly. “What did he do to you?” Carlisle pushed my shirt back down and pressed his hands against my wound.

I’d been stabbed. I was positive of it. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt this burning pain. In my line of work, I collected scars like some people collected pens.

“Kelley,” I rasped.

“He’s okay. Ryan and Carson helped him inside.”

Shannon kneeled over me. His face was a mask of calm. “Try not to move, big guy. The ambulance is on its way.” He peeled off his T-shirt and pressed it against my wound with considerable pressure, making my eyes practically cross from the sharp pain.

“I don’t…need no…ambulance,” I wheezed, struggling to sit up. My belly was on fire.

“Don’t tell me what you need. I’m running this show now,” he smirked.

“Carly.”

“I’m here, Rory. Right here.” He held onto my hand as if it were a rope and he was drowning.

“Go inside. Don’t…want you to see…me—like this.”

“Nice try, but I’m not going anywhere without you,” he said fiercely.

That sounded perfect. I didn’t want to go anywhere without him either. I looked down at my shirt, covered in my blood. I doubt he nicked an artery or I would have passed out already from the amount of blood loss, but it hurt like a bitch. His knife had definitely pierced through the muscle of my abdomen. As much as I hated to admit it, I definitely needed the ambulance. I was going to need a lot of stitches to close this hole.

Weirdly, and probably because no one was in immediate danger, I felt detached from the situation, like I was watching the events unfold from above. I felt a false sense of calmness, and I tried to equate the pain to a surface burn. At the moment, I was more worried about Carlisle than myself. He was beside himself with worry and panic, and I hated to be the cause of either. But his fierce protectiveness and loyalty to me was like a balm on my open wound.

I sat quiet while everyone fussed over me, focused on my breathing and slowing my frantic heartbeat, and it wasn’t long before I heard the wailing sirens coming down the street. They pulled up in front of us and transferred me to a stretcher before loading me in the back of the truck.

“I have to come with him,” Carlisle insisted.

The paramedic, a young man with dark hair, nodded. “Sure, we have room for one more.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Shannon assured us.

I grimaced as the paramedic started an IV on my arm. “Don’t bother. Just take care of Kelley.”

And then they closed the doors and turned the sirens back on, and we were off.

Carlisle squeezed my hand the entire ride to the hospital. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked the paramedic. “How bad does it hurt, Rory?”

“Have you ever been stabbed with a hot fire poker?”

“No,” he said, looking bewildered.

I shrugged, and then winced because it hurt to move. “I’m gonna be fine, sweetness. After a lot of stitches and a shot of morphine, I’m going to be just dandy.”

I felt like an ass trying to make light of the situation for his benefit when he broke down, and tears started to run down his cheeks. It was the release of adrenaline. I was very familiar with the effects of it. Carlisle was crashing. All of his worry and panic that kept his feelings at bay until now, were surfacing, running down his face like a leaky faucet.

“Don’t cry, Carly. I promise I’m not gonna die on you yet. Not when I just got you.”Especially not when I haven’t even made love to him yet.

He nodded, wiping away his tears, and tried to get control of his emotions, sniffling and coughing to clear his throat. We were a mess; me soaked in blood and him soaked in snot.

---