Page 65 of Vance

Kaden moves with lethal efficiency, taking down the kid who stabbed Beckett with a blow that drops him instantly. Baldwin and Xander’s storm into the others, fists and elbows flying. The sound of violence fills the warehouse as I scramble to my knees. Pressing against his wound, hot blood spills against my palms as gunshots ring out and the wet thud of bodies hitting concrete echoes around us.

Beckett’s face pales, and his eyes are glassy. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I apply pressure, his life pumping out between my fingers. “Beckett, stay with me. Look at me. Look at me!”

He tries to focus, his lips moving, but no sound comes out. His hand finds my wrist, gripping weakly.

“Vance!” Kaden looms over me, blood on his knuckles, his face grim. “You need to get him out of here. Now.”

“Help me,” I bark. Baldwin kneels, helping me lift Beckett, his arm around his shoulders, mine around his waist. We half carry, half drag him toward the door, leaving Xander and Kaden to finish what we started.

“Could any of you assholes own a car with more than two seats?” Baldwin grouses, surveilling our cars when we step outside. He helps Beckett into the front seat of my Valkyrie. He’s conscious, barely, his breathing shallow and rapid. I strip off my jacket, wadding it up, pressing it against the wound, the fabric staining almost immediately with blood.

“I got him!” I exclaim, closing the door and quickly rounding the car.

When I slip behind the driver’s seat, the engine roars to life, and I peel from the parking spot. I run lights and blow through stop signs, the city blurring past as a waning Beckett tries to hold pressure to his own wound.

“Stay with me, Beck,” I plead desperately. “You don’t get to die for me, you stupid fuck. Mom will beat my fucking ass.”

He laughs, blood bubbling over his lips and spraying across my dash as we reach our destination. I help him out of the car, and he stumbles with me as I drag him toward the door.

“Just once I’d like to go to a real doctor instead of Paws & Claws.” He chuckles weakly.

“Shut up and save your strength. And Dr. Morris is a real doctor.”

He just happens to be a veterinarian.

Dr. Morris lives in a family home in a quiet neighborhood; his practice and surgical suite occupy the ground floor. He’s a kind older gentleman who’s been drowning in gambling debts since we were teens. Debts we keep paying to ensure he’s available for moments like this, treating injuries that don’t quite go unnoticed by the authorities.

I pound on the door, and Morris answers within a minute. He takes one look at Beckett and nods, stepping forward to help take some of his weight. We carry him down the hall and lay him on the stainless-steel table under the bright surgical lights. Morris scrubs in and pulls on gloves as Beckett finally loses his battle with consciousness.

“How long ago?” he asks.

“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

Morris nods, cutting away Beckett’s shirt to reveal the ragged, bleeding wound. “Lung’s nicked. Maybe his liver. I need to open him up.”

“Do it,” I say, moving to the sink, scrubbing my own hands with antiseptic soap until they’re raw. “I’ll assist.”

Morris looks at me, surprised. “You sure?”

“You got anyone else?”

With the copper of blood and chemical antiseptic thick in the air, Morris makes the incision as I suction. I do whatever he tells me to, grateful that Beckett’s chest continues to rise and fall.

“Clamp,” Morris says, and I hand it to him. “Suture.”

Other than a few short words, Morris works silently for what feels like hours, save for the wet suction and my own ragged breathing.

“Got it,” Morris breathes, his voice tight with concentration. “Bleeder’s clamped. Lung’s patched. He’s a fucking lucky bastard. The knife barely missed his liver.”

He is a lucky bastard.

He’s going to live, and I’m going to owe him everything. Because of Beckett, I get to go home to my wife.

I wake with the sheets tangled around my legs, trapping me in a cotton prison that smells like Vance’s sweet tobacco-infused cologne, with my heart hammering against my ribs. I kick the sheets away, my body slick with sweat, despite the climate-controlled coolness of the penthouse, as I try to catch my breath and slow my heart.

Realizing I’m in bed alone, I roll over and clumsily reach for the phone on my nightstand. The screen is blinding, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to read the numbers: 1:31 a.m.

One in the morning.