Out of Love by

When she died and I watched him mourn her to the point of wondering if he would survive, I realized it wasn’t gross. Their love was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. If I could find a love that felt even remotely close to what they had, I knew I would be the luckiest woman in the world.

My mom was the luckiest woman in the world.

“Gah!” Missy turned up the music on the chorus. “I need to find a man who loves me with the same passion as James Arthur sings this song. You think he’s married? I’d marry him in a heartbeat. And he’d sing to me every night.”

We laughed.

We sang the words.

We replayed the song the whole way home.

“Whoa … does he think you’re home alone?” Kara nodded to the German shepherd barking at our front door.

I hopped out and rushed toward Jericho. Something wasn’t right. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.

“Hey, baby. What’s wrong?” I hunched down, my wet suit half off and a sweatshirt covering my swim top.

He took off toward the firehouse. When I didn’t follow, he turned and barked at me.

“I think he wants you to follow him.” Missy brushed past me and opened the front door. “I’d stay here. He’s probably luring you to the murder dungeon.”

Jericho barked again.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to see what the deal is.”

“Want us to come?” Kara asked.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll call if something is off when I get there,” I called as I followed Jericho.

He led me to the back door that was ajar about three inches. I paused. Something was definitely off. I pulled my phone out of the front pocket of my sweatshirt, contemplating calling someone like I said I would do.

“Hello?” I said with a jittery voice as I slowly opened the door.

Jericho rushed inside and up the stairs.

“Oh god …” I whispered, halting halfway through the kitchen when I saw the trail of blood.

The tiny part of my conscience that spoke complete reason told me to get the hell out of there and call the police. Not too shockingly, I ignored that tiny, but very smart voice of reason. Instead, I followed Jericho and the trail of blood to the last bedroom at the top of the stairs.

A small lamp on the bedside table dimly lit the bedroom. When my eyes adjusted to the light, a bloodied Slade came into focus.

Jericho hopped onto the bed next to him, licking his face and neck.

“Oh god … what happened?” I took quick steps to the bed. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“N-no …” Slade’s hand grabbed my wrist as I started to dial 9-1-1. “Go home.”

Shirt off.

Blood on the bedsheets and pillowcase.

Crimson-saturated gauze bandages on his shoulder.

I jerked my hand away as panic sank its claws into my murky conscience. “You’re bleeding. A lot. Slade …” The torn open suture kit and empty bottle of vodka on his nightstand snagged my attention. “Did you stitch yourself up?” My head inched side to side as I backed away, eyes unblinking at his bloodied hand. “Are you in danger? Did you do something? Is this about the drugs?” The fear flowed freely.

“Livy …”

My name.

He said my name for the first time.

Stopping at the threshold to his bedroom, I swallowed hard. “Am I in danger?”

“Livy …”

“Y-you need a doctor, something I can’t—”

“I stitched it. Go home.” His words slurred as he surrendered to his heavy eyelids.

“Are you drunk? Did someone stab you? Is that a gunshot wound?”

“Go … the … fuck … home.” Exasperation mixed with pain and exhaustion punctuated each word.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. I should—”

“Fucking hell!” He reached over, grabbed the empty vodka bottle, and threw it at the wall beside me.

I jumped, my hand flying to my mouth to contain my gasp as I gawked at the shattered pieces on the floor. Was he aiming for me or the wall?

Jericho whined a few times, perched next to Slade. He hadn’t asked his dog to come get me. It broke my heart.

Not for Slade. For Jericho. He was genuinely worried about his owner.

From hundreds of miles away, my dad whispered in my ear to get the hell out of there. Per my usual, I didn’t listen.

Instead, I cleaned up the glass in spite of Slade’s weak mumbling telling me to go. Eventually, he fell silent—passed out or asleep—and I peeled off the soaked gauze, taking a closer inspection of his half-assed stitched wound. It looked pretty mangled. More like a gunshot wound than a stab wound. Did he have a bullet inside his shoulder? If so … he would likely not survive long.

Who shot him and why?

“I should go,” I whispered to myself … to that overly curious part in my head that overstepped a boundary with Slade Wylder that felt like real danger.