7

“And they’re showing you that he’s …” His voice trailed off, and he lifted his hand from Joe’s neck and ran it through his hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, Joe. Open your eyes and look at me, buddy.” When Joe didn’t respond, Smith put his hand on his friend’s chest and shook it. “Open your goddamn eyes. I know you can hear me right now.”

I didn’t stop him because I didn’t think movement would hurt Joe’s condition.

“What the fuck did you take?” He got closer to Joe’s face. “You didn’t have to do this. We would have figured it out. I would have helped you; you know that.”

Just as Joe’s pulse slowed a little more, I heard the sound of the siren. By how loud it was, it couldn’t have been more than a few blocks away.

“They’re almost here,” I said to Smith.

My fingers stayed on Joe’s wrist, constantly monitoring his heart rate in case it lowered to where I needed to give him CPR. My eyes were glued to him, taking in the coloring of his skin, the movement in his face, every rise of his chest. And my ears were focused on the sounds that came from his mouth.

When the paramedics got out of the ambulance and approached us, I gave them Joe’s pulse, and then I said to Smith, “Follow me.”

“You’re asking me to leave him?”

I looked over my shoulder. “I’m just asking you to step aside, so they have room to work on him. Once they get him in the ambulance, they’ll let you on, and you can ride with them to the hospital.”

Without another word, he got up and followed me to the sidewalk, moving several paces down the building.

The medics placed the stretcher outside the alley and took our places in front of Joe.

I turned around to face Smith. “Are you all right?”

His eyes didn’t leave Joe, but from where we stood, we couldn’t see much. “That’s my best friend over there. I don’t know if he’s going to make it. Fuck no, I’m not okay.”

There was nothing I could say to assure him that Joe would make a full recovery. It just depended on what his vitals showed, how his body continued to respond, how the EMTs medically treated him on the way to the hospital.

What I knew was, every second Joe went untreated, it decreased his percentage of survival.

The medics working on him knew that, too.

“Let’s wait over here,” I said to Smith and led him to the side of the ambulance.

A crowd had started to form by the alley. I didn’t want Smith to get forgotten once they had Joe on the stretcher.

“They need to fucking hurry up,” Smith said. His arms were crossed over his chest, his breathing so much more rapid than his best friend’s.

“They’re good at what they do,” I assured him.

Boston only hired the best, so he didn’t have to worry about that.

He took a few steps forward and the same amount back. His hand shifted from his bicep to his hair to cupping the open door of the ambulance.

Since I still wasn’t able to see much of Joe, I took the opportunity to evaluate Smith, something I still hadn’t done yet.

The muscles in his jaw were tensing.

He was smashing his lips together, rubbing them against each other.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

But it was his expression I understood the most.

The pain, the helplessness.

It filled his eyes.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

He stopped pacing and glanced at me, but our eyes only connected for a second because, suddenly, there was movement in the alley. The medics were putting Joe on the stretcher, buckling him in and rolling him toward us.

“This is Smith Reid,” I said to the paramedics, pointing at him. “He is Joe’s best friend. He’ll be riding with you to the hospital.”

“No problem,” one of the medics said as they got ready to lift the stretcher inside.

When Smith’s eyes landed on me again, I said, “Good luck.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond.

I just immediately walked away and didn’t stop until I saw the familiar row of dark red brick and the five front steps that led up to my townhouse.

I unlocked the door.

Keys were placed in a bowl on the table in the entryway, and I set my bag on a barstool in the kitchen.

I grabbed the bottle of red and carried it along with my phone into the bedroom. As I dumped my jewelry in a drawer on the right side of the closet, I saw Dylan’s handwritten note on the bottom shelf next to a pair of heels.

He always left them in the craziest spots.

I read his words.

I love you, too , I thought as I stripped off my clothes and dropped them in the hamper, my boots staying wherever they fell.

Keeping my makeup on, not even brushing my teeth, I carried the wine and my cell over to the bed, and I climbed in. Once I got comfortable and had several swigs of the red down my throat, I looked at the texts that were filling my screen.

Rose: Why did you hang up so quickly? Is everything okay?

Rose: Why aren’t you texting me back?

Rose: Peter said you haven’t shown up to the restaurant. I’m freaking out right now, Alix. Where are you?

Rose: CALL ME.

I would call her once I caught my breath.

Once I replayed everything that had just happened and I got it settled in my mind.

Because what had just gone down was a moment.

One that needed to be celebrated.

I would get there.

It was just going to take me more than two seconds.

Seven

Dylan

Three Years and One Month Ago

Alix walked up the stairs to exit the Downtown Crossing station and stepped onto Summer Street. She looked to her right and then slowly turned toward her left.

That was where I was standing.

Fifteen feet away.

Our eyes locked.

Her smile pounded my chest like a goddamn mallet.

In that moment, everything made sense.

Answers filled my head.

All of them had to do with her.

Alix Rayne.

The woman who was about to change my whole fucking life.