“Quit moving. Just…stay where you are,” I tell him, pushing down on his shoulder.
“They might come back,” Tristan grumbles.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure they’re dead.” Bryan points to the lamp post on the other side of the intersection where the car’s front end is smushed, the engine smoking.
“Again, that’s fucking convenient, detective.”
With that pronouncement, Tristan stops trying to get up and stays kneeling on the ground. I return to applying pressure on his back and arm.
“Tell the emergency responders to hurry the hell up!”
“I want them to treat the shooters first,” Tristan protests. “If they die, we won’t get any answers from them on why they came after you or who sent them.”
“No, you need to get treated first before you die!”
“I’m not going to die,” he proclaims with a roll of his eyes.
“Damn. Apparently, the feelings go both ways,” Bryan remarks softly to Tristan.
“What feelings?” I snap.
“They do,” Tristan answers, but I ignore his comment.
“Why aren’t you on the phone with 9-1-1?” I huff at the detective.
“You hear those sirens? That means they’re on the way, Kir.”
“There are always sirens blaring in the city!” I yell.
“Kir? You call her Kir like she’s a mongrel?” Tristan asks.
“It’s short for Kirsten.”
“You’re an idiot,” the mobster tells the cop.
“What do you call her?” Bryan asks but Tristan doesn’t answer.
“Sweetheart,” I answer for him. “He calls me sweetheart.”
Bryan looks between us and then laughs. “You two make the oddest couple I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“And he’s seen a lot of couples, haven’t you, Bryan?” Tristan teases.
Finally, I spot the blue lights in the distance just before the ambulance flies down the street behind them. Bryan leaves us to direct the officers to the wrecked car, telling them they’re the shooters and to cuff them if they’re still alive. If they were, they would’ve opened the doors and run or jumped out and kept shooting.
Why the fuck do people keep trying to kill me? And why does Tristan keep protecting me?
“Who’s first?” the paramedic asks when he approaches with a medical bag.
“Him. He was shot,” I say.
At the same time, Tristan mutters, “Her. She could have a brain bleed.”
“I don’t have a brain bleed! I barely scuffed my head while you have two bullets imbedded in your body!”
“I’ll take it from here, ma’am,” the responder says when he kneels next to us. “You can move your hands now.”
I pull my bloody palms away, and he takes over, ripping Tristan’s jacket and shirt off right there on the sidewalk.
