Hawk (Sex and Bullets 2)

To my huge relief, Dorothy slides down to the floor and hugs her knees, gulping air. She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive.

Another guy walks in, then, tall and dark-haired, his gaze sweeping the apartment. I know him well, and the tears slide into my voice, roughening it when I speak his name.

“Rook!”

“Layla. Oh fuck, Hawk…” He drops to his knees beside us and pulls Hawk off me. I try to resist—I don’t want to let go—but I am no match for Rook’s strength. He rolls Hawk over and starts unbuttoning his thick shirt.

“It’s too late,” I try to tell him. “He got shot, in the back.”

Rook says nothing, throwing the shirt open, and I blink, at first not understanding what I’m seeing.

A light gray vest that seems packed with rigid plates.

A bulletproof vest?

Rook undoes the straps and pushes it off Hawk’s shoulders, then rolls him on his stomach. Where I expected to see bloody holes, there are dark bruises.

“Devil is in the details,” Rook mutters grimly and sits back. He taps something in his ear. “Send up the paramedics.”

Oh God. I put both hands over my mouth as I watch Hawk’s back rise and fall, rise and fall, a subtle, graceful movement.

He’s alive.

***

A chopper flies us to a private hospital. Dorothy is clutching my hand as we fly over the city in silence, uniformed SWAT cops sitting on either side of us, their guns held loosely in their laps.

Rook is sitting beside Hawk who’s lying on his stomach, a blanket thrown over his bruised back, his face slack and white. His lids look bruised in contrast, and there’s blood on his pale lashes.

Swallowing hard, I look away.

When I asked Rook earlier if Hawk was going to be okay, he gave me a vague reply, and what I gathered was that, yes, he will be—if the bullets haven’t hit his spine. Even through the plates of the bulletproof vest, the impact is serious, and if the spine is badly hit, then…

Paralysis. Even death.

And I should stop thinking the worst. We made it this far. I’m not giving up hope now. On him. On us.

No way.

“You okay?” Dorothy asks, and I realize my hand has drifted down to my belly, an unconscious gesture I find myself doing more and more.

I nod, unable to lie out loud. I’m not okay. Not until I know Hawk is fine. This hellish week, and my whacked hormones, have stripped me bare.

I can’t hide anymore—from my feelings, from others. From myself and the truth.

If I lose him…

No. Not now, Layla. Have to have hope.

That’s my new mantra, and I repeat it in my head as we land on the roof of the hospital and the paramedics come running with a stretcher to get Hawk. As I watch them handle him, as he lolls in their hold like a rag doll, hair falling in his face, his lips bloodless.

Like he’s already gone.

He’s not. He’s not gone. I swallow a sob as Rook reaches for me and pulls me to my feet. I sway, then, my knees too weak to hold me, and he swings me up in his arms to lower me to the ground and another team of paramedics waiting there.

“She’s pregnant,” he tells them, and his arms feel all wrong, his scent unfamiliar. Not Hawk’s. “Here you go.”

Everyone is gentle and careful, and Dorothy is walking by my side, refusing to be carried. I’m grateful for her presence, but it’s not enough.