Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)
By the time I throw my door open and step out, paramedics are rushing into the building, and I run after them, my heart in my throat. Their boots pound up the stairs, and I hurry to keep up. Maybe it’s not for Zane, I think vaguely, even as I put in another burst of speed. Maybe it’s someone else in the building. Doesn’t have to be for Zane.
But then I find his door bashed in, wide open, and voices drift through. Ash, I think. Tyler. Erin and Audrey.
Swallowing my fear, I rush inside, only to be stopped by a scene of post-apocalyptic disaster. Broken furniture, the window smashed open, shards of glass everywhere. Zane’s drawings, torn and ruined.
And then I see him, lying on his side on the floor—limp, his eyes closed. I barely recognize him. His Mohawk is mostly gone, cut unevenly, close to the scalp. He has an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, and he looks deathly pale.
No.
The paramedics lift him onto a stretcher and roll him on his side. He doesn?
??t open his eyes, doesn’t move.
My knees turn to water, and I grip the doorjamb not to fall. The air is heavy with the sharp stench of vomit and alcohol.
“Hey, girl.” Audrey appears at my side and puts an arm around me. “You made it.”
“What happened?” I can’t see any blood, and oh God, I’m so thankful for that.
“Not sure.” Audrey’s voice is faint. “He’s not breathing so well. They think it may be alcohol poisoning.” She shivers. “We had to break down the door. Took a while.”
I watch numbly as the paramedics take Zane’s pulse, their faces drawn into masks of worry, and I start to shake. My eyes burn like fire.
“He’ll be okay,” Audrey says and pulls me in closer. “He could have choked on his vomit. He was lucky.”
Lucky. I tear myself free of Audrey’s hold and stumble toward the stretcher. “How is he?”
The paramedic shrugs. “Dehydration, low sugar levels.” He nods at his colleague, who’s inserting a needle into Zane’s hand. “We’re working on that.”
Quickly and efficiently, they attach a tube to the needle, and one of them holds up a clear bag with fluid. “Let’s go.”
They lift the stretcher, and Ash steps in to hold up the bag. Together, they take Zane out and down the stairs. Audrey tugs me along with Erin and Tyler, and we follow them to the ambulance, watch as they load him in.
“He’s not even conscious,” I choke out.
“Come on,” Tyler says, “let’s follow them to the hospital.”
Audrey tugs on my hand, and I nod, my throat so tight I can’t speak.
“He’s a strong guy,” she says. “He’ll pull through.”
Was there a chance he wouldn’t? Crap. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. She curls an arm around me as my breath hitches. I sob on her shoulder, trying to be quiet—as if it matters. She leads me toward her car and bundles me inside, then Ash slides into the driver’s seat and we’re off.
Through my tears, I watch the buildings and cars streak by. How did this happen? He almost drank himself to death.
‘I don’t need it when you’re here.’
His sister died, and I wasn’t there.
The buildings turn into weeping faces, the cars into snapping jaws, and I curl on the backseat, wishing this nightmare was over. That I’d never gotten the call about Aunt Carolina, that I’d never left town.
That time would turn back to yesterday morning and just stop.
***
Zane won’t wake up. It’s been four days since he was brought to the hospital and placed in the intensive care unit. He won’t react to anything. The doctors talk of hypoglycemia, dangerously low blood sugar, caused by the vomiting. They’ve been pumping glucose into his veins, along with fluids and antibiotics. At least it doesn’t look as though he’s banged his head, or has any internal injury.
He’s just… not responding. It’s so strange, seeing him on the narrow hospital bed, white sheets tucked up to his armpits, white walls and white tables, while he’s a riot of color with his tattooed chest and arms and the blue of what remains of his Mohawk.