A Breath of Life (Shadowy Solutions Book 4), page 37
The police came and went in the early dawn, disturbing our slumber, much to Diem’s displeasure. If either constable thought it strange or offensive to find two men cuddled together, they didn’t vocalize it.
I gave them a brief statement with more holes than Swiss cheese, and they informed me that they would be back later when I was more rested and clearheaded, prompting me to think about the details of the events while I recovered. In other words, your story is bullshit, and we know it.
News flash. I wouldn’t give up my secret band of musketeers for anything.
The officers had requested a private chat with Diem, but I suspected it hadn’t gone well since my surly boyfriend had spent less than five minutes with them before returning. When I asked about it, he dismissed me with a shake of his head.
Kitty showed up after breakfast and delivered Echo. It was the first time I’d seen anything resembling relief in Diem’s eyes. He sank to his knees right there on the hospital floor and buried his face in the canine’s fur. When his shoulders bounced with restrained sobs, Kitty and I pretended not to notice.
I’d never seen Diem like that. He’d always been a bit broken and troubled, but the events of the previous night had stripped his armor and dissolved the glue that held all the carefully mended parts of him together. I was afraid for him more than I was for myself. His limits had been tested and tested and tested. Enough was enough. The man deserved a break.
Kitty and I had chatted quietly while Diem shared a heartfelt reunion with Echo. I learned more about the investigation and cringed when she shared that Costa’s involvement hadn’t gone unnoticed as we’d hoped. He’d been in an interrogation room for the past six hours, and even my witchy co-worker had no updates.
Diem sat vigil beside the bed as doctors and nurses came and went, checking my heart monitor and performing tests. Every time they left, he slid the plastic chair closer and held my hand, never letting go. When a brave nurse suggested he head home and let me rest, the animalistic growl he unleashed made her scamper away. No one made that suggestion again.
“Use your words,” I reminded him.
But Diem had no words. Since arriving at the hospital, he’d been completely mute, staring with a concentration that might have caused discomfort in anyone who didn’t know him. All I could do was stroke his unshaven cheek and reassure him I was okay.
Family and friends arrived after lunch, hence my currently bustling room. It had taken that long for the hospital to make phone calls.
As they visited, Diem hovered. Diem supervised. Diem noted every cringe of discomfort or shallow breath I took. He registered each time I readjusted my position or absently massaged my sternum.
He also kept one hand on Echo, no doubt leeching her strength. The dog knew her daddy wasn’t okay, and she did what she was trained to do. She kept him calm.
The afternoon sun bathed the room in a pool of yellow light. Summer clung to Toronto, refusing to give way to autumn. My mother mentioned it was a balmy twenty-seven degrees. Good. I hated the cold. The warm weather could stick around for as long as it liked.
My stepfather joked and called me Iron Man because I possessed the supernatural ability to reflect bullets. My mother didn’t like the joke and smacked his shoulder admonishingly.
Memphis and Joshua stuck close to each other, chatting quietly at the foot of the bed, allowing my parents to monopolize the visit. Their intimacy did not go unnoticed, and a secret part of me hoped that this experience would bond them. My friend needed to settle down, and Joshua seemed like a decent guy.
My heart monitor blipped a few times, alerting the nurses and tensing Diem’s shoulders, but it was usually nothing. They silenced the noise, reset the machine, checked me head to toe, and told me all was fine.
Due to a moderate myocardial contusion, I was closely observed to be sure my heart continued to function properly. Apparently, the impact of the bullet initially offset its natural rhythm, causing concerning skips in the middle of the night. The skips hadn’t happened since the early morning hours, so the doctor was confident the interruptions were temporary and would cease on their own without intervention.
One or two more days of observation, they said, then I could go home with a story to tell the grandkids.
Joshua didn’t say much. He struggled to meet my eyes, waves of guilt pouring off him and stinking up the room. I didn’t know what he felt guilty over. I was the one who had dragged him into this mess.
I wanted to ask what had happened after I’d sucked the Jackal’s fingers and headed to the little boys’ room, but not in front of my parents. Parts of the story did not need to be recounted in detail. It was bad enough to admit that I’d willingly taken drugs to perpetuate a ruse. Perhaps another day.
Bloodwork confirmed I’d been given MDMA. It accounted for my lack of impulse control and was the perfect excuse for the vague detailing of events I’d given the police, not that any of it mattered if Costa was being interrogated. The truth would come out.
My parents stayed for an hour. Memphis and Joshua left soon after my best friend gave me an earful for my stupidity, told me he loved me, and then hugged me hard enough that I winced. He was not impressed with my war wound, no matter how many times I flaunted it.
Alone again, I glanced at Diem. He slid the chair next to the bed and took my hand, silent as ever. A sentinel watching his charge. A sailboat adrift on a stormy ocean.
“You’re not talking, D.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. Strain appeared at the corners of his shiny, red-rimmed eyes. Tension rippled along his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He shook his head.
I didn’t push. He wasn’t ready.
Getting shot was a lot for him to process. The fact that I’d literally been in his arms when it happened didn’t help.
“Can you lower the rail?” I asked.
He did so without objection.
I was still too high. “Bed, too. Please.”
Questions swam in his stormy eyes, but he complied with the request, holding the button that brought me closer to the floor. Closer to his level.
I inched my ass to the edge of the mattress, wincing and earning a scowl. Threading my fingers through his thick hair, I urged him to rest his head on my lap. He did, reluctantly at first, but once he settled, I massaged his scalp, revisiting the lump that hadn’t healed and the old scars where hair didn’t grow.
He peered at me the whole time, expression tortured, drenched in longing and regret and a mountain of pain I might never be able to soothe. We remained like that until shift change, when the nurses did their rotation and checked my vitals.
He stayed again that night, refusing to leave when visiting hours ended. No one made him. Echo slept on the floor, and Diem squeezed his oversized body on the bed beside me. Since I’d napped that afternoon, I wasn’t tired.
We stared at one another. Our noses brushed and breaths mingled. Searching, seeking, and silent. So many unspoken words passed between us.
I stroked Diem’s cheek and reached for his lost soul, trying desperately to connect with it. He was so far away. So guarded.
“Talk to me, Diem.”
He shook his head.
“Please. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you’re okay. I’m worried.”
Pain crawled over his face, emotional, not physical, but I would have bet it hurt more than any blow. His tongue traveled languidly along the seam of his lips like he was seeking the right words or trying to remember how to make his voice box function.
When he spoke, it came out raw and rough. “I thought I lost you.”
I kept my hand cupped over his jaw. “You didn’t.”
Eyes shining, throat working, he pressed his hand over mine. “I couldn’t survive without you, Tallus. You’re such a vital part of me. If I lost you…”
“You didn’t.”
“It was too close.”
“But I’m still here.”
He nodded, gazing over every inch of my face. “We aren’t allowed to fight anymore.”
I pffed. “Don’t take the fun out of our relationship, Guns. Disagreeing from time to time is healthy. My mother said so, and she knows everything.”
A faint impression of a smile touched his mouth.
“Let it out. I won’t tell anyone.”
He did, but ducked his chin as though embarrassed. “You bring me so much happiness.”
“And a buttload of anxiety.”
“That too.”
“It was the drugs. It gave me delusions of grandeur.”
Another smile. That one came easier. “It made you stupid.”
“It made me brave.”
“Stupid.”
“Brave.”
The smile became something more. “Fuck, Tallus. No one makes me laugh like you do.” Quieter, he added, “You made me whole again, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“I love you, Diem.”
“I love you.”
I kissed him softly and gently.
He broke the kiss on a sob and clung to me. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing so great.”
“I know.”
“I called Dr. Peterson, but I can’t get in until next week.”
“It’s okay. We’ll get through this.”
“I’m smoking and drinking, and I can barely find stable ground right now. My head is a mess. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I’m an overprotective asshole, and I’m afraid I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to ruin this. The last time we spoke, I locked you in a bathroom and yelled at you to stay there.”
“D—”
“No. I shouldn’t have left. It was my fault you got shot.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m fumbling and failing. This whole relationship thing is so fucking hard for me.”
“D.” I pressed a finger to his lips because now that he was talking, he was unraveling. “Listen. Our arguments are not all your fault. Have you met me? Hello? The sassy, petulant, hotheaded brat you live with who never listens and who goes off half-cocked all the time. Trust me, Guns. I own equal shares in our arguments.”
He gritted his teeth. “No. You don’t. Your sass is my favorite thing in the world. You aren’t petulant or bratty, and I never should have said that.”
“Except I am.”
“I love your determination and confidence, but it scares me so fucking much because one day, you’ll fly off on your own and forget I exist. You don’t need me, Tallus. I’m too much work.”
“I do need you, Diem, but also, I want you, and that’s more important.” I rubbed my thumb over the crease between his brows, then kissed his forehead.
“But why?”
“Not a lot of people can handle a guy like me. Someone needs to put me in my place from time to time. I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad you’ve found your voice with me and aren’t afraid to use it.”
He didn’t seem to understand, and I wasn’t sure I could explain. We lay quietly for a while. Diem studied me, his fingers trailing cautiously up my arm before visiting the bruise on my chest. He drew the hospital gown aside so he could examine it. Fresh pain radiated from his eyes.
“I’m okay,” I reminded him.
Diem moved the gown back, covering the injury, but continued to reverently touch me. At one point, he stopped at the hickey on my neck. The one he’d reluctantly put on me what felt like a century ago.
Even now, the look on his face told me he hated it. “Why?” he asked.
“I like carrying your mark. It screams to the world that I belong to you.”
“You don’t need bruises for that.”
I couldn’t explain it. “Close your eyes and sleep, D. You look tired.”
“I am.” He tucked his face against my chest, kissing my injured heart through the hospital gown, and let me cradle his head as he fell asleep.
I stroked his cheek, and if they were damp with tears, neither of us drew attention to it.
***
A soft rap sounded at my hospital room door the next morning as I picked at the disgustingly soupy oatmeal I’d been served for breakfast. Diem had stepped out to take Echo to the bathroom, and I’d begged and pleaded for him to find me a latte before I tore my leads off and ran down the streets of Toronto with my ass flapping in an unsightly gown to get one myself.
He’d agreed more readily than I expected, and I figured he was probably out of cigarettes. He’d been fidgeting excessively since we woke up, an agitation I recognized as symptoms of withdrawal.
I glanced up to greet my visitor, glad for the distraction, and found a haggard version of my cousin at the door. A more put-together Quaid Valor stood at his side.
“Hey,” Costa said. “Can I come in?”
“Please.”
“I’ll be down the hall,” Quaid said to my cousin, who nodded. Quaid squeezed his shoulder and offered me a small wave before vanishing.
Costa entered, clothing wrinkled, hair in disarray, and dark smudges under his eyes that suggested he hadn’t slept in years. He looked like shit. I figured he would collapse on Diem’s chair or hover awkwardly at the end of the bed, but he did not.
Instead, he approached and hugged me with affection I’d never known from my cousin.
I winced at the pressure but hugged him back.
“I’m so fucking glad you’re okay,” he said without releasing me. “When I heard what happened, I thought I was going to be sick. I thought I got you killed.”
“I’m okay.” I had been saying that a lot lately. “Not dead, thanks to you.” The statement only made him squeeze me tighter.
It was Costa who had insisted Joshua and I wear vests under our costumes. We didn’t know what to expect, but it was a simple precaution that had saved my life. I would have been a corpse on a steel table in the morgue right now without Costa’s forward thinking.
My cousin pulled back, but not before planting a surprising kiss on my temple and ruffling my hair like I was twelve. We had come a long way from the rivals we’d been growing up.
The troubled expression never left him as he sized me up and down, so I roguishly grinned. “Wanna see a wicked bruise?” I was trying to lighten the mood, but nobody seemed as impressed with my injury as I was.
Costa winced and sucked air between his teeth when I drew the collar of the gown low enough to display the dark imprint that covered half my chest. “Fuck, that looks awful.”
He diverted his attention to the heart monitor. “What’s all this for?”
“The blow knocked the ticker out of whack, but we’re back on track again. I guess there’s bruising on the heart muscle too. Cool war wound aside, I don’t recommend getting shot at point-blank range in the chest. It hurts like a motherfucker. Even with the vest, I thought I was going to die.”
Costa lost three shades of color, so I added, “I might go home today if the doctor gives me the okay, so there’s that.”
“That’s good.” He shifted his feet and stared at the ground. Why did everyone look guilty?
“I heard they interrogated you.”
Costa nodded, still not meeting my eyes. “Yeah. It was rough. Now I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the table. I don’t recommend it.”
“Want to catch me up?”
He blew out his cheeks and nodded again, stuffing his hands into his pockets and drawing his shoulders to his ears.
I wanted to blurt, Do you still have a job? Did they fire you? Are you being charged? Did helping me ruin your whole career?
If it had, how was I ever going to make it up to him?
Instead, I waited for Costa to find the words to tell me himself.
It seemed our plan ran smoothly until it didn’t. Joshua and I had made it inside. We’d planted the fancy James Bond device Costa had given us on the statue. When Joshua activated it, an electric pulse caused the glass to explode. Patrons and syndicate members alike responded as expected; shock, fear, confusion, and eventual chaos when someone suggested shots had been fired, but from whom and where, they didn’t know.
At the moment of the explosion, I signaled Costa, who signaled Kitty, who disrupted the internet and cell reception in the building. The power interruption was a result of a planned power surge meant to screw up cameras and any other electronics throughout the building. On the off chance that it didn’t work, the outage would at least cause a system-wide reboot. Costa had called it a fail-safe method of temporarily disrupting their security. First, by distracting their men with the exploding glass. Second, by frying their computers or at least fizzling them for a time. Fail-safe but not failproof. It was the best we could manage with our timeframe.
By the time the power was interrupted, I was in the hallway, intent on connecting with my cousin at the rear exit so we could locate the basement together and get Diem out.
“But when I came through the back door and rounded the corner—”
“The Bishop had a gun on me.”
Of course, that was when my boyfriend returned with my latte. Until then, he had probably forgotten that the bullet I’d taken in the church wasn’t the first time I’d had a gun aimed at me that night. Based on the expression on his face, he was not pleased to hear the reminder from my cousin’s mouth. In my defense, with all that had happened, I’d forgotten about it too.
“Hey, D.” I encouraged him into the room.
He delivered my latte along with a paper bag from the bakery.
“Peanut butter cookie?” I asked with a hopeful grin.
He grunted and muttered, “Your favorite. Just baked.”
I drew him down for a kiss, which he tried to resist. It might have been the audience, but I didn’t let him get away with it.
My cousin diverted his attention elsewhere, but for once, I didn’t think it was from disgust but a desire to give us a private moment.
