A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,137
of her vision.
“Vicram?” he said, growing wary.
“Yes.” She snapped out of it the best she could. “I, um, I have to get to the hospital. I told Auri I’d be there hours ago.” She hurried and gathered her clothes, throwing on the blouse braless when she couldn’t locate the damned thing.
He looked around confused, as though trying to figure out what had triggered the change in her behavior. She didn’t give him time to ask. She ran out of there so fast, she left a cloud of dust in her wake. At least it felt that way.
Once she was safely ensconced inside her cruiser, she threw it into reverse, peeled out, and called her lifeline.
She remembered heavy breathing, but not hers. Hers was shallow. Barely enough to form a wisp of smoke on the frigid air. She remembered a heartbeat racing in her ear, but not hers. Hers was weak. Barely enough to push the blood to and from her heart. She remembered a warmth around her, but not hers. She was ice and the warmth was doing its darnedest to keep her from freezing to death. She curled into it, begging for more.
He stumbled again, jostling her against him as he lifted her into the vehicle. Then he stepped back. Tried to catch his breath. Dropped to one knee and clutched his side, doubling over. But she wanted him closer because she was falling again. She didn’t want to lose him.
“Quincy,” she said into the phone as she tore down Levi’s long drive. “Where are you?”
A hand held the back of her head while another pushed a water bottle against her lips. A soft whisper encouraged her to drink. Water flooded her mouth, causing her to choke. She coughed, her stomach muscles writhing and constricting until she vomited.
She remembered the clear liquid soaking into his jacket, onto her pants, and running over the seat of a truck. Mortified, she tried to wipe it off but her limbs were filled with cement. Impossible to lift. And again she fell.
“I’m at the hospital,” Quincy said. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
The overhead lights blinded her. She felt his warmth again. Heard the heartbeats in his chest. He called out. “Nurse!” But she couldn’t figure out why he was calling for a nurse in his truck.
No, not his truck. Too sterile. Too bright.
His warmth evaporated and the blinding lights overhead rushed past her. People’s faces popped in and out of her vision, all of them talking to her, but she was falling again. She reached out for him.
“Did you get a name?” someone asked.
“No. He took off. He looked hurt.”
He was gone.
Sun pressed the phone to her ear with a shoulder as she took the turn out of Levi’s drive too fast. Her tires spun and dirt billowed in her headlights. “I’ll be there in an hour,” she said, then hung up as her world spun in circles around her.
Auri and Cruz were asleep when she got to the hospital. Her parents had gone back to the hotel, and Quincy sat in the room scrolling through his phone. He shot to his feet when she walked in, questioning her with a single look.
“It was him,” she said, breathless from running and panicking and freaking out. “It was Levi. He fought with Kubrick. He got stabbed. He killed him and took me to the hospital and never said anything. After all these years, why wouldn’t he tell me?”
Quincy shook his head and led her out of the room. “That’s not possible. The DNA test. It was Wynn’s blood on Kubrick’s jacket,” he said as they walked toward the elevators.
“Where are we going?” she asked, oblivious.
“Coffee. Unless you want something stronger.”
“I want something stronger.”
They ended up at a bar on Central named after a tenacious frontierswoman and performer in the 1800s.
“It makes no sense,” he said, his brows knitting in confusion.
“They’re related,” Sun said, throwing back a shot of one of Levi’s creations, a butterscotch-flavored moonshine called Warm Butter Moon. It scorched her throat and she coughed before tapping the bar for another.
“I’ve never said anything out loud, but just an FYI, you don’t handle your liquor nearly as well as you think you do.”
“I know. I promise to take this one slower.” It was hot and sweet and delicious, much like its creator.
“And it doesn’t matter. The test would’ve told us if it was a relation or the real deal, and Wynn is the real deal.”