Christ, there was so much blood.
“Yeah, baby, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” I looked at the paramedic. Please, save her. Please, save my wife. I squeezed Wendy’s fingers. They were stone cold. “You’re going to be alright.”
“I feel okay…” she said, sleepily. “I was going to get wine… he came out of nowhere… I want to go home.”
“I know, sweetheart. They’ll have you out of here soon, okay?”
“I’m cold…”
“It’s raining.”
“It is?” She looked around her, dazed.
“Don’t move, baby.”
Her eyes suddenly widened with terror, as if she only now realized what was happening. Panicking, she started to struggle.
“You’re going to have to calm down, darlin’,” the paramedic said as he tried to inject some kind of medication into her IV.
Wendy stared at me, her eyes round with fear.
“It’s going to be okay, baby, I promise. But you need to let them work on you so they can get you out of here.”
She started to cry but took a deep breath to fight back her tears. “The baby…”
My eyes dropped to her lap. There was so much blood.
I soothed her damp brow with my fingers, pushing back her wet and bloody hair. “You and our baby are coming home with me, do you hear me? You’re both coming home with me.”
She searched my face for reassurance. When she found it, she relaxed and her eyes softened. She’s going to be fine. But when I glanced at the paramedic, the look on his face told me a completely different story.
“I’m so tired,” Wendy said. Her lids were heavy. “Is our baby okay?”
“Our baby is fine. You’re fine.”
A small, weak smile softened her lips.
“I was so excited when I found out I was having your baby… I love you so much…”
“And I love you…”
“I wanted us to have a big family…”
Oh God, she’s talking like it’s not going to happen.
“And we will…”
“Promise?”
I nodded. I was crying. Because somewhere deep inside, I already knew things weren’t going to work out that way.
“Michael….”
“Yeah, baby…?”
But she didn’t answer.
She became very still.
I gently shook her, but she was like stone. And in that moment of pure agony, I watched the light go out of her eyes.
“No, no, no, no…!” Fear roared through me and my body started to shake. “Wendy…baby!” I turned to the paramedic. “Do something!”
But he just shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing we can do.”
I turned back to my wife. Rain poured from the sky, hitting her soft white skin and mingling with her blood.
She was gone.
No!
A primal scream ripped from my body.
Wendy.
My life.
Gone.
I collapsed against the wreckage and my body heaved with the sudden grief, my brain tilting with the sheer agony of it all.
Someone pulled me away.
“I’m sorry, son.” It was Deputy Buckman. I fought him and tried to get back to Wendy. I turned and tried to shake him free, but his grip on me was tight. And somehow, through the fog of panic, my mind was able to register the meaning of the blanket being draped over the window, and the agony that followed was excruciating.
My wife.
My knees weakened.
My baby.
I fell to the ground.
How was this possible?
Rain battered my skin as I fell back and screamed into the stormy sky.
And in that moment, I prayed for the heavens to erupt with lightning and take me out with one violent bolt.
Instead, strong hands pulled me to my feet, and through my pain I realized it was Garrett, the club’s president. Where had he come from? Had Deputy Buckman called him? I fought him but I was numb, weakened by my devastation, and no match against his strength. He hauled me to his chest and held me there, his strong hand pressing into the nape of my neck.
“I’ve got you, brother. I’ve got you.”
I shook against him as the shock sank into my bones. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t breathe.
All I could see were Wendy’s vacant eyes.
All I could feel were her fingers going limp against mine.
All I could hear was the fall of the rain as the life I knew slipped away from me.
Seventeen Years Ago
Rain soaked the green grass of the cemetery as I stumbled my way down the muddy slope toward my wife’s tombstone. Bourbon sloshed on my boots and fogged my brain.
I was a mess.
A fucking shell of a man.
I put the bottle of whiskey to my lips and bit back the burn as it made its way through my chest. I took another swig, hoping it would wash away the never-ending pain, and ran the back of my hand across my mouth.
I was in hell.
And I was done.
I stared at the gun in my hand.
I had tried. No one could say that I hadn’t. For twelve fucking months I had dragged myself out of bed every single fucking day, existing only to put one foot in front of the other. I ate. I worked. I pushed my body to the extreme at the gym. And sometimes I even fucked just so I could feel something—anything but the pain of losing Wendy—hating myself more and more with every passing day without her. Because no matter how hard I tried to keep her alive, the love of my life was dead, and every day I could feel the memory of her pulling further and further away from me.