THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,253

“Don’t come in here!” I beg. After the words leave my mouth, I realize I should have said the opposite if I wanted him to obey me.

Then Alex fires his gun out the door in a rapid, unskilled manner. Quicker than I thought humanly possible, Steven barrels into the room, weaving back and forth to make himself a harder target. It’s obvious to both of us that Alex has no idea what he’s doing with the weapon. Steven tackles him to the ground in the next second, but not before Alex shoots off a few more rounds in my direction. Steven seems slow, clumsy…drunk. No. This can’t be happening.

I make a decision, one that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I pull the gun out from behind my back and point it at Alex’s head. “Speed,” I whisper and pull the trigger. The gun’s recoil is strong. The bullet hits the wall behind the men. Steven’s eyes widen in surprise as he struggles to get the gun out of Alex’s hands.

Closing one eye, I take aim again and squeeze the trigger.

The bullet spirals out of the barrel and hits him in the stomach.

Steven.

I hit Steven.

The smell of gunpowder scents the air.

Red. Red. Blood.

Sirens. Police swarm the living room. Someone takes the gun from my hands.

Steven.

They arrest Alex. He’s screaming. Irate. Insane with blood lust—a man completely unhinged.

I fall to my knees over Steven, unfeeling of everything. I’m numb as I stare at the deep red wound, pulsing blood, dripping onto the white marble. My heartbeat shatters my eardrums, as I process what I’ve done—the scene too surreal to be considered anything but a nightmare.

“Steven,” I whisper, tears I have no control over sliding down my cheeks and dripping off my chin into a puddle of his blood.

I touch the pooling blood next to my knees reverently. His eyes are closed, his hair still wet from a shower he probably took only minutes ago. Minutes before I shot him. His massive body is still, so unlike it usually is. Laughter is absent. Love is absent. Life is absent.

Cradling his face in my hands, I wail out his name over and over. Although it’s just his name I’m saying, I’m thinking of every memory we’ve shared over the years. Time stands still. Seconds fill a lifetime. A familiar sensation wells in my chest. Loss.

Steven.

Paramedics bump me out of the way, and someone tries to usher me away from his body, but I refuse to leave. I hear clips: …smell alcohol. Bleeding out. Find a pulse? I want to see everything. Hear everything.

If I don’t, I won’t believe the incomprehensible truth. I killed Steven.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Steve

“SHOULD WE LET her in here?” my mom says, worried. I can visualize her twisting a tissue in her hands, looking to my father to make the decision.

As expected, my dad’s deep tenor cuts in. “She killed him for a whole twenty minutes. I think she deserves something for that. Release the predator, doctor. Send her in,” he says.

“Don’t say that!” my mom snips. “I can’t believe you’re joking about something so serious. It’s Steven’s health, for crying out loud.” I guess I’ll live, then. Dad’s cracking jokes, which is a rarity, and mom isn’t catatonic. I open my eyes. It’s a painful process and the lights are far too bright—they blur my vision.

“Twenty whole minutes?” I ask, trying my best to smile. My mother lets out a high-pitched squeal and leans down to kiss my cheek. My dad chuckles under his breath and runs a hand through my hair, scrunching it like he did when I was a boy.

I turn my eyes to see him, his eyes crinkling at the sides—just like mine do, except with deeper lines. “Too stubborn to die and too dumb to live,” he admits. I laugh, but it hurts and turns into a small cough. My stomach is on fire.

Mom places a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, sweetie. Don’t talk at all if it hurts. You’re going to be okay. You’re okay.”

“The bullet missed all of your vital organs by centimeters. It’s actually miraculous,” Dad says, his eyes drifting to the window. “You were lucky. He didn’t want you up there quite yet.”

There’s an IV in the hand I lift to rest on his fingers. “Of course he didn’t. I have to give mom a grandchild first,” I quip. She wants to swat me, but she wouldn’t dare. Vaguely I remember what happened in Morg’s foyer—the struggle that shouldn’t have