Precious Gems - Sierra Hill Page 0,53

panic skyrockets as I squirm to get away.

But the voice is my savior.

Faron.

“How many are there in the house?” he whispers close to me ear, his hot breath soothing me from the panic that spiked through my veins when he woke me.

I hold up one finger and he nods. Removing his hand, he places his index finger to his lips and then a palm out for me to stay put.

I want to hug him and kiss him and drag him down on top of my body to thank him for coming to my rescue. I don’t know how he knew I was in trouble, but he’s here now and I’ll find a way to make it up to him when I get a chance.

He points to the doorway, and then removes a pair of plastic ties, throwing them on the bed next to me. The same type he’d used on me originally in Antwerp. He mouths for me to wait and that when the time comes, he’d need my help.

I give him the thumbs up sign and slip out of bed to find my flannel shirt to cover myself. Faron quietly opens the door, holds his post for a moment before peering down the hallway. And then he’s gone.

I think I hold my breath for an eternity as I wait for what’s to come. I didn’t notice a gun, but maybe it’s hidden underneath the dark shirt he wears.

The silence is deafening, until I hear a weird gasp, and then thunderous groans and the bodily clamor and struggle of a man being choked to death.

I stay put, but worry claws at my very being, crippling me to the point where I begin to hyperventilate.

More scuffling, the sound of breaking glass, something heavy landing on the floor, a screech of pain and a loud curse. Banging thuds, one, two three. And then nothing.

I swallow, the sound loud to my ears, and tiptoe to the door to poke my head out, my voice coming out in a dry rasp. “Faron?”

I’m not even sure if the sound registers. I take a step out the door and try again a little louder this time.

“Faron?”

I lurch around the corner and flip the light switch on to find Faron laying on his side, holding his stomach with blood seeping out like a river flowing through his fingers.

Flying over to the floor, I land on my knees next to him. “Oh my god, baby. Are you okay?”

There is a large piece of glass sticking out of his belly, his sweater stained a bright red, his breathing labored and measured.

“Go find something to clean it up,” he pants, pushing me away with his free arm.

My adrenaline kicks in now as I rush to the kitchen, grabbing the first bottle of alcohol I can find and several clean dish towels. Returning to the living room, Faron has scooched up against the back of the couch but is still slouched over and sweating profusely.

“You’re going to have to help me.” But his attention goes to Clive on the floor. I follow his gaze and see the guy twitching slightly. “First, tie his wrists together with the binders.”

I do as he requests, fumbling as I loop them around his slippery hands, oily with blood. I watch for signs of consciousness, but he lays limp and nearly lifeless.

“Is he dead?” Faron asks, his head bobbing to the side, his eyes rolling back into his head.

I was never very good at playing doctor but I know the signs of a concussion.

“I don’t know, and don’t care. We need to get you taken care of. Is this your only injury?”

I poke and prod, looking for any other wounds or bleeding, but he’s just bruised and sore around his knuckles and face. As I focus on the task of cleaning him up, I give him a swig of the vodka and get to work, rummaging in the bathroom for bandages and thread and needles, in the event I need to stitch.

Thankfully, in the end, the laceration proves not to be that deep as I remove his shirt to clean the wound, apply pressure and bandage him up around his belly and waist.

Satisfied that things are stable, I help him up onto the couch, careful to avoid jostling him too much, and I sit down next to him.

“Did you really feel I used you? That I don’t care about you?”

My heart plummets to my feet, the guilt of having said those lies burning like acid in