Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“Jeremy was the man he was shooting at,” I tell her, sitting up and smoothing my hand over the huge rip in my hose exposed by my hiked-up skirt. “He was the one who came down on top of me.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t here when everything took place. I was told the shooter was targeting you. If you’ll lie down, I’ll see if I can get a police officer to find this Jeremy for you.”
“I have to find him,” I say, pushing to my feet, unwilling to sit here while Jeremy escapes.
“Ms. Thorne,” the EMT chides with a steel tone. “You probably have a concussion, and the shooter is in custody. Whoever this Jeremy is, he isn’t in any further danger.”
“You don’t understand,” I murmur, pressing a hand to the wall and fighting the nausea rolling over me, which is far more about whatever happened with me and Jeremy than my head that feels fine. I have to get out of this truck.
“Ember!” Oliver exclaims, appearing at the open door, looking all James Bond-sleek in his black suit and pressed white dress shirt. He’s tall, broad, and strong, and relief washes over me at the sight of him. I so need strong right now.
I rush to the doors, and ignoring the EMT’s protests, fling myself into his arms, inhaling his earthy, familiar scent, and he drags me off the vehicle and against him, holding me with my feet dangling in the air. “God, Ember, I was worried sick. I can’t believe this happened.” He leans back to look at me, letting my feet settle onto the ground, still holding me close. I don’t want him to let me go. I desperately need a friend right now, even if I don’t dare make him a confidant for fear I’ll sound insane.
“Emily is handling the press,” he says of my assistant, who’s part-time but worthy of full-time, as this moment clearly indicates. “And of course, your parents are freaking out,” he adds.
“My parents are not your parents, and you know it. They’re on their annual holiday vacation. Emily knows I don’t want them bothered.”
“I called them, Ember. They deserve to know.”
They won’t care, I think, not sure how he remains oblivious to that fact after witnessing such behavior on rewind, but Oliver is forever trying to fix things for me, my relationships, or lack thereof, with my parents included. As my grandfather often said on many a topic, sometimes you have to accept what you cannot change and charge onward anyway.
“They’re trying to get a flight out of Europe,” he adds earnestly, and I know this is about more than an attack that’s over now. He hates with all his being the way they leave me for the holiday, but it’s always been that way. For most of my life, I celebrated with my grandfather. And now that he’s gone, I celebrate with him in spirit. I’m strong enough. He raised me that way.
I don’t burst Oliver’s bubble and tell him he’s being played.
They won’t come home. I don’t know if they’d come home if I’d actually been shot, but he’s trying to do a good thing, and I love him for it.
“Sir,” the EMT says to Oliver from behind me. “I really must insist Ms. Thorne sit down. She hit her head.”
Oliver curses under his breath. “Sorry,” he mumbles and sets me down on the ledge of the truck, his hands sliding down my hair, his winter green eyes inspecting my injury. “Your head. Ouch. Sorry.”
“I’m fine.”
As if he doesn’t believe me, he glances at the EMT. “How bad is it?”
“It’s not,” I insist before the EMT says otherwise, and I expected she would. I focus on Oliver and what’s important right now, which is not my busted-up skull. “I have to find Jeremy.” I try to get up, and Oliver catches my waist, halting my progress.
“Jeremy’s fine,” he insists. “The shooter’s in custody, and he wasn’t after Jeremy anyway. That lunatic was all about killing you. And you can bet your pretty little backside I won’t be letting him out on bail. You have nothing to worry about.”
My brow furrows. “Me?” I ask, recalling the EMT’s similar statement with an icy chill of dread that paralyzes my breathing for a sliver of a moment and makes speaking difficult. “He…he was trying to shoot me?” I swallow hard with the realization that I was indeed being followed this morning before adding flatly, “Because I’m Jeremy’s attorney. Because the shooter thinks that I’m to blame for setting him free.”
“Because the guy’s a nutjob,” he grinds out. “He was screaming about you being a monster or a demon of some sort. You know the type. Like that damn fortune teller. Completely out of touch with reality.”
I think of the shooter, of the hatred in the vicious glare he’d aimed at Jeremy. Only he’d not been looking at Jeremy at all. I am the shooter’s “monster.” It feels far too accurate an assessment right about now.