Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,121

as emotionless as she sounded. There was fear in her dark eyes as she stood before him in her sweatpants and T-shirt. Shattered glass lay along the tiled hearth of the fireplace at her back.

“You give me the money, and I’ll leave. You don’t give me the money, I’m going to fuckin’ shoot you in the head. And I will. I got nothing to lose.”

“I-I-I can call my bank manager,” Ivy said, nodding slowly. “It might take a few days.”

“Are you listening, you dumb bitch?” He cocked the gun. “I don’t have a few days.”

Instinct took over.

One second I was behind the wall, the next I was diving at Freddie Jackson without any thought but to stop him from shooting Ivy. We slammed into the ground, Freddie’s expletives filling my head. The gun fell into the thick carpet.

Adrenaline crashed through me as I lunged for it, my hands colliding with Freddie’s. We started to wrestle. The little shit was stronger than he looked. I screamed in rage, pouring all my strength into the fight and—

BANG!

Agonizing pain tore through my shoulder, and I slumped, curling into myself. Fire streaked up my neck and down my arm, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Dahlia McGuire.” A wet glob hit my cheek and the realization I’d been spat on cut through the pain.

Furious, I turned to look up at him, feeling something warm and wet trickle down my shoulder. Blood.

The bastard had shot me.

He straddled me, the gun pointed at my face.

“Does that make you feel like a man? Murderer,” I spat back at him, teeth gritted in agony.

His face crumpled in on itself with temper. “This is what happens to—” Surprise slackened his features. His eyes rolled.

And then he slumped over me and slid onto the carpet, unconscious.

Blinking in shock, I stared up at Ivy, brandishing an Academy Award statuette.

“Did … did you just kill him with an Oscar?”

I didn’t hear Ivy’s response. Black dots spread across my vision. Lots and lots of black dots … until there was nothing but black.

An irritating beeping noise filled my ears, bringing me out of sleep. Consciousness was followed by unbearable pain. I groaned, pushing my eyes open to see what the hell was burning my goddamn shoulder. Michael’s face, fuzzy, appeared before me.

Michael?

My eyes slammed shut without my say.

“Dahlia, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” an unfamiliar voice said. “We’re on our way to the hospital. Just hold on.”

I forced my eyes open, wanting to tell the unfamiliar voice that someone had set fire to my shoulder and could they please do something about that. But the words couldn’t make it past the pain. Michael’s face appeared again. Closer.

Something squeezed my hand.

Michael?

He leaned over me. “I’m here, dahlin’. Don’t let go, okay? Don’t ever let go.”

I wanted to mumble “okay,” but the darkness pulled me back under before I could get the word out.

There was that beeping noise again. Jesus Christ, it was irritating. This time as I swam up out of unconsciousness, the pain in my shoulder wasn’t so bad. Not at all.

My eyelids were heavy, and it took me a couple of tries, blinking against fluorescent lights, to get them to stay open.

When they did, the first person I saw was Michael. He sat sprawled in a seat beside me, his eyes closed, his face pale beneath his natural tan. I wondered what he was doing in my bedroom. Then I processed how high my bed was.

And the beeping.

Christ, the beeping.

Without moving my head, I took in the room around me and realized I was in a hospital bed.

A needle with a drip was stuck in my hand.

The beeping was from the monitors above my head.

What …

A loud bang ricocheted in my ears, and I winced.

It was a memory. Just a memory.

Freddie Jackson shot me!

Indignation caused movement, and pain blasted down my arm from my right shoulder. Son of a bitch!

Michael jerked awake. His eyes were wide and haunted as he looked at me.

“Hey,” I whispered.

Then something happened I’d never witnessed before.

Michael Sullivan bowed his head over my lap and started to cry.

Distress flooded me. I reached out with my good arm and sank my fingers into his hair to soothe him. “Baby,” I hushed, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

He shuddered beneath my touch, and I felt him fight to control his emotions. Then he sat up, rubbed his hands hard down his face as he gazed at me with dark eyes still shiny with tears. Then he stood, braced himself over me,