Page 74 of Letting Go

Chapter Nineteen

Chloe

I realize it's pepper spray as soon as it hits my face. The burning is instant, almost unbearable, my throat is on fire, it’s hard to breathe and I'm choking on my own spit. I can't stop gagging. With eyes streaming, I'm flailing around and then slammed up against a car.

No, no, no.

I fight hard, lunging, crying, trying to run away in any direction from that car. Reed's hand grips me hard. I lean with him and then jerk away, fall against the car, stagger back, almost lose my step then another hand grabs me, shoves me behind them.

Bryce.

I can't see, but that wall of a man, blurred nearly beyond recognition, is him. There's shouting from behind, Finn's voice. Then gunfire, I can’t count. Loud shots and then something that sounds like zippers going off, four of them in quick succession. A hand closes on my arm and Bryce has me in his grip— he's dragging me, moving fast, and we turn. I still can't see a thing.

Another shot rings, hitting the dumpster. Finn must still be in the alcove to the back door. Then we round a corner.

Bryce's breathing is ragged. "Chloe here," is all he says and pushes me to the ground. My back is against something cold, hard, scraping through my shirt. I can’t stop wiping my eyes and trying to suck down air.

"Chloe, listen," he says, his voice catching, ragged. "Can you see at all?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm sorry. I—"

"I need you to listen carefully. I can only say this once."

I stop wiping my eyes, focusing only on his words. He is sitting down as well now, and I'm suddenly spooning him, my back against the wall. He moves my legs up so they're bent. "This hurt?" he says when I flinch. My knee throbs.

"No," I whisper.

"I need you to take my gun."

My throat feels like it’s closing over hot embers. I can't help myself; I have to wipe my eyes.

"Chloe, take my gun out of my right hand."

Reaching around his front, I find the gun. The handle is warm and smooth and foreign in my grip. As soon as I take it, though, I feel his body slump against mine, and his head balances on my left shoulder. That's when I feel his frame shudder. His chest quivers under my touch and his stomach is tight. He's gasping, not from effort, but because he's been shot. This reality is overwhelming.

"Bryce, oh my God!"

There are more shots from around the corner and then footsteps.

"I need you to trust me."

"Yes. Yes." I'm crying now from pepper spray, from fear, from losing Bryce.

I'm propping him up between my legs, my back pressed to the wall, his arms draped behind each knee. And I've got his gun.

But I can’t see.

"Chloe. Put your arm over my shoulder. The one with the gun. Point it straight and don’t move."

I raise my arm and rest it on his right shoulder, and he shrugs it into position. "Don't … move," he repeats. "Hold really still."

It's so hard. I'm still gulping air and my eyes burn like they've been sprinkled with hot ash. I want to writhe on the ground and claw my face. But Bryce is hurt, and I must be still.

Be still.

His voice is raspy now, wheezy, like he's drowning. He's whispering I think but I can’t tell because I'm so scared nothing sounds right. "When you feel my shoulder move," he pauses for a moment, "Keep your arm really straight…pull the trigger three times ... fast."

"Okay."