* * * * *
Cher
“You’re breaking all my shit,” I bit out.
He was also near to dislocating my shoulder, jerking me around while he shoved the gun in my shelves in my media center and knocked shit off, not to mention tore pictures off the wall.
“Ratted on him. Got him caught. Weasel fucker,” he muttered.
Things had turned.
He had turned.
It was like I wasn’t there. He was so focused on finding cameras that didn’t exist, I was an afterthought.
And I was fucked.
There was nothing I could do. My hands were still zip-tied behind my back.
I couldn’t run and get shot dead, making my son fatherless and motherless.
I couldn’t fight to try and get the gun away from him.
I couldn’t think of Ryker on my floor, hopefully still breathing.
I couldn’t think of Ryan at all.
I couldn’t do anything but get extremely pissed off that my life sucked so fucking bad.
I should have known.
Never hope.
Never want.
Certainly never dream.
Never.
If this guy made me dead, he’d set my kid on a path where he could learn that.
And I wouldn’t be there to set him straight.
Fucker.
Fucking fucker.
“Please let me go,” I whispered.
He didn’t let me go.
His head came up and he jerked me around so quickly, my head snapped on my neck.
I saw him stare at the door.
My eyes shot to the door.
Was someone there?
Should I cry out?
“You ratted too.”
His words in that weird whisper made me look to him.
He was looking at me.
“I wanted to make a video for them. A nice video they’d like. A video of you on his camera. A video of me cleaning up Denny’s business.”
Oh God.
Please let someone be out there.
“You,” he kept whispering, “the slut-stripper whore and the weasel. You got him caught.”
“He was murdering people,” I replied.
“In the name of love.”
I stared at him.
Fucking fuck this guy was whacked.
And there it was. Just my luck. Just the suckage of my life.
I missed it.
Again.
“It’s time,” he said.
Oh no.
Shit.
Fuck.
“Time for what?” I asked.
“Time for it to end.”
He jerked me to the door. He opened the door. He kicked the storm and the glass shattered.
He put the gun to my head and walked me out, our feet crunching on glass.
He held me in front of him like a shield.
I could feel the cold metal against my temple.
But all I could see was Merry standing in my yard.
His gun was up, his eyes on me.
He was there.
Of course he was there.
He took care of me.
“Lower your weapon!” I heard Mike shout.
It was just a flicker of movement, but I knew Merry’s eyes were now on Jones.
“Lower your weapon and step away from Ms. Rivers!” I heard Sully yell.
“Her first,” Jones shouted to Merry. “Then you.”
Gun still up, Merry’s eyes stayed locked to Jones.
“You got a bead?” I heard Tanner ask.
I swallowed.
He’d take care of me. He was there. Right there. In my yard.
He loved me.
We’d finally found happy.
He’d take care of me.
I had to believe.
He was Merry, my Merry.
I had to believe.
I stayed focused on Merry.
Merry stayed focused on Jones.
His head barely moved, but it did.
In an affirmative.
I braced.
“Hold on,” Merry said.
That was for me.
And I did what I was told.
I held on and believed.
Jones shifted minutely.
“Take the shot!” Colt roared.
Merry’s gun exploded.
I screamed when the blood spatter hit my face.
Jones fell.
Chapter Twenty-Six
People Like Us
Cher
Marksmanship trophies.
Oh yeah, my man was badass.
“I love you,” I called, standing on my stoop, a dead man at my feet.
Merry lowered his gun.
“No shit?”
I pressed my lips together because that was the least romantic thing a man could say in this situation (or any situation), just as it had been the last time he’d said it.
But still, I was this close to crying.
Because I was alive to hear him say it.
(Not to mention, he’d just shot a man in the head for me.)
I controlled the tears.
Then I turned and raced into the house.
“Cher!” Colt called.
“Ryker! He’s been shot!” I shouted back while I sprinted through my living room.
I hit my knees on a slide right through a puddle of blood toward Ryker in my kitchen. When I stopped, I twisted, doing it awkwardly to get my hands, which still were tied behind me, on Ryker to see if I could find a pulse.
“Please have a pulse. Please, badass motherfucker, have a goddamned pulse,” I begged, searching for it.
“Man down. Send paramedics to our position. GSW,” Merry said.
I looked to him to see him moving swiftly into my kitchen, his phone to his ear.
“Three,” I told him. “Three of them.”
Merry’s eyes flared.
“He’s been hit three times,” he said into his phone. “Unconscious. Significant loss of blood.”