The tremendous amount of blood has the edges of my vision going blurry as the ever-growing puddle of red continues to expand.
What the fuck just happened?
It’s like I blacked out, only to awaken to a nightmare.
Kay is in a crumpled heap on the floor, and that motherfucking pool of crimson only gets larger.
Can I get a replay?
I run the tape back in my head, but the last thing I can remember is feeling Kay’s hands pushing against my side.
Instinct finally kicks in and has me rushing to her side, yelling for someone to “CALL 911!” as I do. My knee cracks as I bend next to Kay’s prone body.
My hands hover an inch over her, itching to touch her, to roll her and scoop her into my arms where I can keep her safe. I flex my fingers, spreading them out completely in indecision. Unsure how badly hurt she is, I can’t risk moving her.
“Ambo’s on the way,” someone behind me confirms.
As scared as I am to touch her, I’m concerned about the amount of blood starting to stain her rainbow-colored curls. Head wounds bleed excessively, but I still need to address it. The last thing we need added to this is Kay bleeding out before help can arrive. I whip my Hawks polo over my head and, with great care, press it to her temple.
How the hell did this happen? Why is she hurt?
With the gentlest of touches, I stroke the side of her face. The sight of a bruise already forming on her cheek has me biting the inside of mine hard enough that the coppery taste of blood coats my tongue. Rage floods my veins, pumping hot and fast through my body.
“Kay, baby.” With light, steady pressure, I stretch my thumb to brush underneath the fringe of lashes on her unbruised cheek. “Come on, sweetheart, open those beautiful eyes of yours and show them to me.”
Nothing.
No response.
Not even a flutter of her eyelashes or a twitch of her lids.
“Come on, Skittles.” My forehead drops to hers. “I need you to open your eyes for me, baby.”
She’s so still. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest, I would be afraid she was dead.
What can I do? How can I help her?
My muscles protest being crouched after hours of playing football. What I wouldn’t give for Kay to lay into me about proper aftercare right now.
The shuffle of feet and a flurry of activity happens behind me, but every molecule of my being is still focused on my baby.
A hand touches the back of my bare shoulder, and I twist to see a navy blue shirt belonging to the male paramedic attempting to get close enough to Kay to exam her.
I know I should move, know they need space to work, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
An authoritative command from the paramedic to do so has me reaching out to shove the table out of the way, stepping over Kay’s body, and maintaining my close proximity while they get to work.
The smooth, barely textured material of a nitrile glove grips my hand with purpose, and I meet the confident I got this gaze of the EMT then release my hold on the shirt I used to stanch the blood flow of Kay’s head wound.
“Can you tell us what happened?” He directs his question to me with a quick flick of his eyes up before dropping them to where he slowly peels the material away from Kay’s head to inspect the injury site.
I wish I could say yes, wish I had the answer, but all I have are questions; I shake my head.
Trav makes his way over to my side, the unyielding clench of his jaw causing the bone to jut out as he takes in the efficient movements of Kay’s vitals being taken and a c-collar being strapped around her small neck. His eyes darken in anger as they move to meet mine. I can tell by the strain around them that I’m not going to like what he has to say.
#Chapter2
“She was punched.”
I blink.
Then blink again.
I must have heard that wrong. No way did Trav say someone hit her. Right?
There’s a shuffle of feet, and one of the police officers—who must have arrived around the same time as the EMTs—moves in closer as the paramedic’s head snaps up to me, an accusatory glare plastered across his face.
“The fuck you looking at?” I growl, annoyed as all fuck that he could even think