Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
For now.
“Saint,” I say, but there’s no reply in my ear.
“You’ll get to see him soon,” Decaf says above me. Somewhere along the way, they’ve strapped me to a spine board, but Decaf hasn’t left my side. Not even for a cup of coffee.
I didn’t realize he loved me so much.
The ride gets bumpy as we go to land, and even though the Hawk’s equipped with first aid and I’ve had a shot of morphine, any small movement makes stabbing jolts of pain radiate through me.
I grit my teeth so hard I think I crack a tooth.
There’s a hard thunk, and my vision goes black.
But then, somewhere in the darkness, I find my light. The most gorgeous face in the world appears, and though his eyes look sad, he cracks a smile.
“You’re still here,” Saint whispers.
“It hurts,” I complain.
“Wow, the man gets shot with one bullet, and all I hear is whining.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk to the love of your life.”
His gaze quickly flits away, and his Captain America face falls. “You heard that?”
“I might be dying, but I’m not dead yet.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not dying. You can’t. Once upon a time, you told me to hold on for you. That you were my excuse for living. Well, now it’s your turn to hold on for me.”
My lips quirk. “To be fair, I didn’t know it was you when I told you to live for me. You’re really one to follow orders, huh? Typical Saint. Always doing what he’s told.”
“You’re mighty chatty for someone who’s trying not to bleed to death.”
“He won’t bleed out,” Scout says from somewhere. “From what I can tell, the bullet is probably still in there, and we have to keep him steady until they can get it out, but it didn’t hit his femoral artery.”
“Oops?” Decaf squeaks.
“Oops is fucking right,” I grumble. “Don’t tell a man he’s definitely gonna die, dude.”
“Femoral artery or not, you kept him alive out there,” Saint says. “So, thank you.”
“Wait,” I say. “You’re supposed to yell at him for being so dramatic. I thought I was dying.”
“I wasn’t going to let that happen. No way.”
“Oh, so you only said I was the love of your life because you thought I was dying?”
Warm fingers link through mine. “No, I meant every word. You mean the world to me, and you’ve been such a big part of my recovery, so now I get to be here for yours.”
“I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” I say but don’t actually feel that way.
There’s a real fear of losing my leg, and then where would I be?
Mike Bravo isn’t just my job. It’s my life.
Maybe I could beg Trav to pay some tech guy to build me a robotic leg. I’d be unstoppable then. Well, until my leg inevitably gains a conscience through artificial intelligence and ruins the world.
Yeah, losing my leg wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to me.
When Saint looks into my eyes, I realize I could lose everything—my job, my house, my passion—but if I still had him, I’d be a happy man.
My lips part to tell him that, but Trav’s voice booms over us.
“Are we ready to move him?”
Scout stands. “Is the surgical area ready? Too much movement could make the bullet shift, and the position it’s in is too close to his artery for comfort.” Scout’s time as a trauma medic in the Marines comes in useful sometimes. “We need to keep him as steady as possible until we can get him into surgery,” he says to a team of medics who arrive.
Surgery at a military base and not at a hospital—always fun.
As they move me from the helo onto a stretcher with wheels and then take me into the converted airplane hangar that’s the makeshift base hospital, I realize my ordeal isn’t over yet.
I could go into surgery and never come back out. I might go in with two legs and come out with one. I need Saint to know how I feel before my life gets turned upside down. I want him to know that I love him now and I’ll love him then.
I will love him until my dying breath leaves my body.
“Wait,” I say, my voice raspy. “I need Saint.”
“I’m still here.” He squeezes my hand and leans over me as they keep wheeling through to the trauma area.
“I need you to be here when I get out,” I say.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”
I can’t find all the words I want to say. How much weight does a promise of forever hold when forever might end today?
The words aren’t there, and as the military doctors tell us they need to keep moving, the fear of losing my chance to say anything at all has me blurting it all over him.