Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

His blue eyes stare at me in shock.

“Sweetheart, I think someone stabbed me,” he gasps.

“Rudd! Rudd!” I scramble over to him, moving my hands helplessly over his frame.

Another pair of hands pulls me out of the way.

“You’re just fine, Rudd. If you wanted more attention, though, you should’ve said something. I would’ve written you a solo,” Adam jokes. He shoots a fierce glare in Ian’s direction. “Call 9-1-1.”

“Already on it, bro,” Ian says with a phone in his hand. Davis drops down next to Rudd, pressing a t-shirt onto the wound.

I’m not needed here. Not that I can do anything. I raise my head and spot Marrow pushing through the crowd, and a fierce anger wells up inside of me.

For far too long, I’ve been afraid. Well, I’m done with that shit. A flash of silver catches my eye. I grab it and lunge forward. Damn, these mic stands are heavy. But adrenaline is driving me.

“Marrow!” I yell.

He hesitates and then turns around. The crowd pushes him toward me. I don’t give him time to talk, to explain, to spout his poison. I heave up that stupid mic stand and swing it. The heavy base’s momentum carries it all the way around, faster than I anticipated, faster than Marrow can react.

A loud, awful crack fills the air. His head jerks back as the base catches him across the cheek. He staggers, careening sideways. Blood lust surges through me. I charge forward, grabbing the next thing I can get my hands on, and bring that down on his head. Splinters of wood spray to the side. A discordant chord plays.

“Dammit, that’s my fucking guitar!” someone screams.

I turn feral teeth on the complainer. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Whatever he sees on my face scares the shit out of him, because he backs off. I bring the broken guitar back down on Marrow’s bloody face again and again and—

“That’s enough, slugger.”

I’m suddenly hauled backwards, courtesy of Adam.

I glance at my hand to see that I’m holding only the neck and the guitar strings. The drum broke away and I didn’t even notice. I rub a palm across my face and look down to find that it’s speckled in blood.

“Shit,” Adam curses. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

His face is as white as flour.

“It’s not mine,” I inform him.

He lifts the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe my face. His hands are trembling slightly. “I didn’t think it was. The ambulance is here.”

“Already?” It seems like only seconds have passed. I start to shake myself. We’re both in a state. His fingers flex around the shirt. One hand bites into my upper arm as he holds me steady. I’ve never seen his jaw tighter.

“They have one on-site for a gig as big as this one. They’re loading Rudd into it. You ready?”

I nod and let the last of the guitar drop from my hand.

“Is Rudd okay?”

“He will be.”

“I owe that guy a new guitar,” I say absently.

“I’ll send him one of my dad’s.”

“Okay.” I finally allow myself to lean into him.