The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) (16 page)

I slowly and very carefully and calmly put my hands out in front of me, palms facing out. I keep my face carefully blank, but inside I’m flipping out, mind racing a mile a minute, panicking. Definitely not what I’d had in mind when I wanted to be distracted tonight, although facing the barrel of a gun is distracting indeed.

“What is this, Cameron?” I ask, striving to keep my voice level.

The gun isn’t shaking, and Cameron’s voice is calm as he replies, “You’re going to join us, Quain. You spend every day at the Parkers, I’m not about to have you run off and then tell the Parkers who took the car. So you’re coming along for the ride. As a safety precaution.”

“Cameron,” I say, slowly and distinctly. I’ve started to sweat, a film over my forehead and upper lip, a droplet rolling down my spine as I try to maintain contact with Cameron’s dark eyes, not the cold empty eye of the gun. “You already got arrested once for having an unregistered gun. I’m not going to tell anyone. Take the car. I just don’t want to get caught. I’m not going to say anything. Just put down the gun and let me walk away. That’s all I want.”

“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, and the gun quivers just a little bit and a bolt of fear goes through me, electrifying me and sending every nerve on end, calling every hair on my body to attention. “Come on, Zeke. Let’s go.”

“I’m not-” I begin, and all of the sudden we hear a voice from inside the building.

As one, we turn in fear and shock to look at the door. I can hear the voice clearly now, coming closer, and I recognize it as Dr. Parker’s. “-pick me up? I know, I’m sorry. But it’s not that late and we’ll save a lot of time if you swing by now.”

There’s the sound of a door latch being pressed down and I see the big, steel door of the building being pushed open and I’m gone and running before I even consciously register what’s happened. Kendal, Cameron, and Tyler are right behind me, feet pounding against the brick alleyway as we all flee.

We burst out of the alley and the three of them take off back down the main street and toward the car, while I go the opposite direction, not wanting to be with them if worse comes to worst. I keep on running, down the dark street, down the sidewalk until it ends and I’m running along the side of road. I don’t stop until I’m well back in Grandview, pounding up the steps to my front porch and gasping for air.

All I can think as I unlock the door to my apartment is fuck Cameron Fuller.

Evangeline

39

Spending my night at the club is the last thing I want right now. Going to the club and riding with Clarissa and Hunter is probably akin to enough pain to keep me from ever floating away ever again. I reflect, shocking myself with the new coldness of this dark nature of mine, that next time I feel myself trying to escape, I’ll just go and listen to them bicker or berate me, and I’ll be fine, no problem.

Luckily, we’re in the car outside my dad’s Dublin clinic, waiting for him to come out after closing up. He had to go in today to check some of the books and appointments, because the issue with Uncle Greg the other day culminated in firing the new receptionist, as they had discovered she’d been stealing from them. Dad ended up staying later than planned, leading us to just pick him up on the way to the club to save time. It’s dark outside already and we’re on a main street in downtown Dublin, and everyone is out enjoying the warm evening—except me.

Clarissa and Hunter are talking about people at the club, dissecting the clothes, actions, and words of all their friends; who committed the faux pas of wearing a tie that didn’t really match their shirt, who is having an affair with whom, who called who a bitch behind their back and then smiled to their face.

I try not to bang my head against the window, focusing instead on the nighttime sounds of the busy street. The rushing sound of the cars, the chatter of people going about their Friday night adventures, jazz music spilling from a café. I concentrate on it all so hard that I jump at the loud
crack
of a tire popping nearby. Finally, Clarissa and Hunter’s conversation dies down as they realize we’ve been waiting for almost fifteen minutes.

“Really, what could be taking him so long?” Clarissa frets.

I roll my eyes and bite back a smart retort. “I’ll go check on him,” I volunteer, mainly just to escape the car.

“Hurry back,” Hunter says snidely as I push my way out of the car.

I stick my tongue out at him, but so Clarissa can’t see and yell at me. I make my way slowly into the office, letting myself in with my key. I walk through the waiting room and down the hallway, trying not to look at the pictures of the happy mothers and children on the wall. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never smile again, and theirs just seem fake.

“Dad?”

There’s no answer. Now that I stop to listen, I realize that the office is eerily silent. I walk onward, checking into the exam rooms as I go, but he isn’t in any of them. I head for the offices at the back of the building, frowning.

“Dad! Clarissa’s getting anxious!”

Still no answer. I walk through one more time, just to double check, and then stick my head out the back door, just in case. I see him then, recognize him instantly, and mostly from the warm feeling of ease and safety that washes through me. Dad is leaning partly against the building, one hand outstretched to brace himself against the brick wall, the other pressed to his chest. It’s dark in the alley and his head is drooping as though he’s exhausted. His Porsche is a few yards behind him, parked in his usual spot so he can enter and exit the clinic quickly. The driver’s side door is wide open, as though he was about to get in.

I cluck my tongue in annoyance and start forward, the heavy metal door slamming behind me. “Dad! What are you doing out here? Did they forget to empty the trash again? You could have—
Dad
!”

I shriek as he falls forward, his hand dropping away to reveal a dark, spreading stain against the whiteness of his shirt. I rush forward, too late to catch him and fall hard to my knees next to him. My kneecaps slam onto the pavement and explode in pain, but I don’t even notice as I struggle to turn him over.

“Dad! Daddy? What’s wrong? What happened, answer me, please!”

Everything seems blurry, I can’t see, when had fog come into the alley? Then I feel a drop on my hands and realize the fog is in my eyes because I’m looking at him through a screen of tears. I blink hard and feel more tears
plink
down, but I can’t seem to clear my vision, the tears are coming on too fast and too hard. All that comes to me, all that breaks through my shocked mind is that my dad isn’t
moving
, he isn’t even groaning in pain.

I force my trembling hands to cooperate, to listen, to
listen and obey
my brain, dammit! My fingers are stiff and frozen, clumsy as I finally manage to rip his shirt open and tear the white t-shirt underneath as well.

“No.
No
!” I gasp, finally understanding, my stupid, slow mind finally getting it. I can see the hole. It’s small, but it’s gaping and ugly and I know it’s bad,
bad bad bad
, because every other second, as if with his heartbeat, blood spurts out of it. Blood. It’s trickling out, leaking, just
pouring
out of the hole.

My hair falls in my face, trailing over the bullet hole, and I feverishly try to push it out of the way, only to find that there’s blood on my hands now, too. I can feel it on my face, a few smears on my temples as I fight my hair back. I raise my hands up in front of my face, watching my fingers tremble. I can barely feel them, don’t recognize them as part of my own body.
Blood.
Suddenly, all I can see are those trickles of my own blood on my thighs, the way the liquid seeped into my body and is still with me, making me feel dirty from the inside out. Now it’s reflected on the outside, blood coating me, covering me.

Liquid tickles down my face and I give a strangled sob, jerking as I claw at it, thinking it’s blood leaking from my eyes, and then I’m finally able to focus, just a little bit, and realize it’s just my tears. There’s just so much blood. It’s everywhere, all over, I’m drowning in it, and so is my dad. Do something.
Do something, Evie!

“Help!” I scream it, so hard and loud I feel my throat rip. “Help me! Somebody, help! Clarissa!
Help me
!”

Pressure, pressure on the wound, that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? The thought comes frantically to me, but I can’t seem to respond, can’t
do
anything. I’m fully frozen, why can’t I
act
?

There is only the blood. I look down and see blood. It’s dark red and everywhere. It’s on my clothes, staining my carefully pressed pants and white shirt. It’s so head-spinningly red against the white. I feel my eyes roll just a bit, my vision blur, and I use sheer force of will to get myself back to reality. I can’t let go, not now. My fingers are tingling, my mind wants to fly away, but I don’t let it.
Not fucking right now, Evie. You hold your shit together, do you understand
? There’s a sound at the back door and I look up to see Hunter staring at me, eyes wide in shock.

“Help!” I scream at him. “Don’t just stand there, help me! Call an ambulance! He’s bleeding, Hunter. Can’t you see he’s bleeding?” My voice cracks on the last word, my words raw and hoarse from screaming. I’m not even sure how much of it Hunter understands, but he fumbles in his pocket for his cell phone and makes the call.

“You need to get cleaned up.”

I don’t look up, don’t even acknowledge Clarissa standing in front of me. I stay as I am, sitting in the waiting room chair, staring at my hands. Things still feel a little fuzzy, but I know, intellectually, rationally, I need to wash the blood off my hands and face. But I can’t. I can’t do anything. What if I go to the bathroom and there’s news about my dad, and they can’t find me? No, I can’t do it. I have to stay right here. I have to stay and wait.

“Evie. Get up and go home and get yourself cleaned up.”

This time, I at least manage to shake my head. “Can’t,” I mumble.

Clarissa reaches down and grabs my wrist, yanking me up from the chair. The instant she touches me, survival instinct, my fight or flight reflex takes over and I’m fighting wildly to get away from her. Panic, raw and real, floods through me, irrational fear and disgust taking over my mind. Clarissa is taken so by surprise that when I give a strong, adrenaline fueled yank, she lets go and I tumble back into the hard waiting room chair.

She stares at me in disgust and surprise. “What will people think if they see Ian Parker’s daughter sitting here, covered in blood? You need to think about our image, Evie. This is inappropriate, not to mention repulsive. Go home and clean up. Then come back.”

My lips curl back, and any control, any thin thread that might have been holding my sanity in check snaps in that instant. “I don’t give a damn about what people will think! I will stay right here until I hear that he is going to
live
, and until I can go in and see him!”

Clarissa’s eyes narrow, and she advances on me again, and I hate myself for shrinking away from her, not wanting to be touched, pressing myself against the back of the chair.

“You are a spoiled little girl who thinks-”

“Mrs. Parker?”

We both look up to the entry doors of the ER, where a doctor in blood splashed scrubs stands, pulling the mask down from his face and removing his gloves. I feel my vision go white at the edges with the sight of more blood, fresher than what covers my own hands and clothes. I curl my fingers and dig my nails into my palms, keeping myself grounded.

Clarissa runs her hands down over her gray pencil skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, that’s me,” she says pleasantly.

The look on the doctor’s face is grim, and all of the sudden, I know. I begin to tremble uncontrollably, and I’m glad I’m sitting down or I know I would fall. From very far away, I hear the doctor’s voice begin, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker, we tried our best, but…”

My torso falls forward and I’m gone, out of my body before I even realize my mind has fled.

Ezekiel

40

Sunday morning, I’m jolted awake by my cell phone instead of a nightmare. I jerk upright in bed, startled by the loud noise, and finally recognize it as my cell phone and lean over the bed, searching in the pockets of last night’s pants to find the stupid thing.

“Hello?” I finally manage to mumble, flopping down again on my back.

“Zeke!” It’s Uncle Alex, and I instantly sit up once again, startled into wakefulness by his urgent tone. “I need you here at the club, right now!”

“It’s my day off,” I lament, because I really don’t feel like working right now. We were at the club late last night, till almost two AM, and I glance at my cell phone to see that it’s only nine. Usually Alex tries not to call in people who closed the night before.