Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

I forced my eyes open, wanting to tell the unfamiliar voice that someone had set fire to my shoulder and could they please do something about that. But the words couldn’t make it past the pain. Michael’s face appeared again. Closer.

Something squeezed my hand.

Michael?

He leaned over me. “I’m here, dahlin’. Don’t let go, okay? Don’t ever let go.”

I wanted to mumble “okay,” but the darkness pulled me back under before I could get the word out.

There was that beeping noise again. Jesus Christ, it was irritating. This time as I swam up out of unconsciousness, the pain in my shoulder wasn’t so bad. Not at all.

My eyelids were heavy, and it took me a couple of tries, blinking against fluorescent lights, to get them to stay open.

When they did, the first person I saw was Michael. He sat sprawled in a seat beside me, his eyes closed, his face pale beneath his natural tan. I wondered what he was doing in my bedroom. Then I processed how high my bed was.

And the beeping.

Christ, the beeping.

Without moving my head, I took in the room around me and realized I was in a hospital bed.

A needle with a drip was stuck in my hand.

The beeping was from the monitors above my head.

What …

A loud bang ricocheted in my ears, and I winced.

It was a memory. Just a memory.

Freddie Jackson shot me!

Indignation caused movement, and pain blasted down my arm from my right shoulder. Son of a bitch!

Michael jerked awake. His eyes were wide and haunted as he looked at me.

“Hey,” I whispered.

Then something happened I’d never witnessed before.

Michael Sullivan bowed his head over my lap and started to cry.

Distress flooded me. I reached out with my good arm and sank my fingers into his hair to soothe him. “Baby,” I hushed, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

He shuddered beneath my touch, and I felt him fight to control his emotions. Then he sat up, rubbed his hands hard down his face as he gazed at me with dark eyes still shiny with tears. Then he stood, braced himself over me, and kissed me.

I could taste the salt from his tears on my tongue.

When he broke the kiss, he sounded haggard. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

I reached for his face, cupping it in my hand. “I love you.”

Watching as he struggled to hold back more emotion, I fell even deeper in love. How that was possible, I had no idea.

“I love you too,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “So fuckin’ much, I swear it’s going to kill me.”

I laughed and then winced as pain flared up my neck. “I got shot,” I said, sounding as indignant as I felt.