“Where did the shooter go?” Paxton demanded.
Nick swallowed hard. “Back door.” His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body shook.
“Nick! Hang on, please,” I cried. Putting my hands over his wound, I attempted to stem the blood flow.
Sirens blared down the street, but they were going to be too late.
Growling, Paxton dashed toward the back door. “I’m going after the fucker.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched Nick’s life slowly slip away. Gabriella rummaged through my house and came back with a towel. I took it from her and placed it over the wound.
“Nick, stay with us,” Gabriella commanded, as I applied pressure to the wound. It seemed to help, but what did I know.
He turned to me, his sea green eyes glassy and full of tears. His body stopped convulsing, and was replaced with a sense of calm. “I wanted . . . to protect you.”
“Did you see who it was?” Gabriella asked softly.
He closed his eyes, his grip on my arm loosening.
“Nick? Nick. Don’t you dare die on me,” I shouted.
The police and paramedics burst into the room and rushed over. Gabriella put her arm around me and everything moved in slow motion. I subconsciously noted how Nick and Scott’s blood had soaked through my jeans, but I didn’t care. All I could do was sit there, realization staring me in the face. Scott was dead and Nick laid in a pool of his own blood . . . because of me. It was all my fault.