Aced (Blocked #2) (32 page)

He shook his head. “Gotta get something out of those boring-ass classes.”

“We’re all grateful to Brad,” Dad said. “He got the shooter. He and China are a big reason you and Maddie are alive.”

“Who
was
the shooter?” I asked.

“Mr. President?” Dad’s chief of staff walked in and handed him an iPad. “We’ve made the changes you wanted to your speech.”

While Dad read the screen, Mom spoke in uncharacteristically hushed tones to Brad. I noticed Lucia crying.

“Lucy.” I held out my hand, and the motion jarred my shoulder—I wasn’t going to do that again anytime soon. Her eyes got big when she saw me wince. “I’ll be okay,
hermanita
.” I curled my fingers, and she finally stepped closer to put her hand in mine. She sniffed as a fat tear rolled down her cheek. She looked like she needed a hug, but I couldn’t provide that in my current state. “Is Dane here?”

“He was.” She sniffed again. “He had to go to practice.”

Mateo’s hands were stuffed in his jean pockets, and he stared out the window of the hospital room at the gloomy drizzle.

“Matty.”

He kept staring out the window.

“Mateo.”

He looked at me with glassy, vacant eyes.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I’m fine.”

Now that the anesthesia was wearing off, I noticed how tired they all looked. “None of you slept, huh?”

Lucia shrugged.

“Matty, you need to get some sleep. There’s a lounge chair over there.” I tilted my head to the corner of the room.

“Karen just checked my numbers. I’m fine.”

I sighed and nodded. We were all too fatigued to argue. But I also sensed my siblings were freaked out. “Matty, Lucy.” I looked them both in the eye. “The agents did their job, and they’ll keep protecting us. We’re all safe. We’re going to stay safe.”

“How do you know that?” Lucia asked, chewing on her fingernail. She wore a volleyball T-shirt that said
KEEP CALM AND ACE IT
.

“I trust our agents, Luce. They’re a pain to deal with, but they do a good job.”

Mateo frowned, but his shoulders lowered an inch.

Lucia whispered in his ear, and he smiled as he extracted his phone from his pocket. They looked at something on his screen, and she gestured to the chaise lounge over by the wall. When Lucia sat, Mateo sat next to her. He pulled out earbuds, and they listened to something together before Lucia handed one earbud back to him. After a couple of minutes, I was amazed to see Mateo lean his head back and close his eyes. Lucia reached for his jean jacket and draped it over him like a blanket.

“She sure has a way with him,” Maddie whispered.

I smiled. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

Dad glanced at me. “I’ll be back after I address the media.”

Once he and his entourage left, it was just Maddie by my bedside. “The reporters,” I said.

“What about them?”

“They alerted the shooter of our location.”

She nodded. “That’s what they think. Brad’s kicking himself that he didn’t call off the dinner once the reporters came ’round.”

“Yeah, but how could he have known? It’s not like someone’s been after me. Who was the shooter?”

“Are you sure you want to talk about this now?”

“Absolutely.”

“His name was Alan Eastman; he lived near Highbanks.”

“An
American?”
I’d figured it was a Middle Eastern terrorist. That was a threat I knew. To think one of my own countrymen had tried to kill me…I shuddered. “Why’d he do it?”

“We think it was a hate crime.”

Brad stepped toward the bed. “Your dad’s about to speak—he’ll explain it.” He reached for the remote and turned on the TV set hanging from the ceiling.

“Now awaiting remarks from the president,” the reporter said, “following the horrific shooting last night. We’re at University Hospital on the campus of Highbanks University.” She nodded. “Here’s the president.”

Dad approached a podium in the hospital lobby. “I’m relieved to tell you my first-born son, Alejandro, is in stable condition. He’s going to make it.”

Applause sounded from those gathered. It felt bizarre to be spoken about on national TV. What would their reaction be if I’d died?

“I’m so grateful my son will live. He’s studying to become a doctor, learning to heal others just like the tremendous physicians at University Hospital do every day. Their care has been top notch.

“We ask for your prayers for Secret Service Officer China Halloway. She’s done an outstanding job protecting our family, but we need to protect her now. She’s fighting for her life after taking three bullets. She’s in critical condition.”

The crowd gathered was silent, and a ghostly pallor hovered in my hospital room.

“Officer Halloway’s partner tells me she’s a fighter, but she needs your prayers to help that fight.” He gripped the podium. “Though details are still emerging from the shooting, we want to share what we know at this point.”

Dad was following through on his pledge to be a good communicator.

“Last night, after the attack, Secret Service had to kill the shooter, Alan Eastman. He was an American, a thirty-two-year-old landscaper, married with a young daughter. He had two children, but his seven-year-old son died about a year ago.” Dad’s mouth trembled, and he took a moment to collect himself. “It appears Mr. Eastman’s grief relates to his heinous crime. His son, Joseph, sustained an injury from gardening shears and bled to death waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Mexican gang activity in the area reportedly prevented help from getting there in time.”

Dad swallowed. “To our knowledge, his son’s death incited a hate for Latinos that burned inside of Mr. Eastman. His wife has cooperated with investigators. She reported that her husband stopped taking his medication for depression last month. He went to a dark place and suffered from paranoia.

“Our country struggles with race relations, like every other country on this planet. We descend into hate of the different, the unknown. But the tragedies I’ve witnessed, including the recent threat to my son’s life, have taught me one thing: we bleed the same.” He paused. “Mr. Eastman’s son. My son. The brave men and women fighting for our country. Black, white, Latino, Asian, Muslim—we all bleed the same. The color of our skin doesn’t alter the color of our blood.

“Our nation has bled with hatred and violence too many times to count. The fear of differences will likely continue, but I pray the bleeding will stop. I do not believe God put us here to tear each other down. We are here to lift each other up. We are here to pursue happiness—pursue the American dream.

“I admit I was terrified when I heard my son had been shot. How dare they hurt my boy! I had revenge fantasies—I felt hate. But when fear and hate threaten to overtake us, we need to turn to love.

“I look to the African Methodist Episcopalian Church in Charleston, South Carolina, for spiritual guidance. A white man shot and killed nine black parishioners who had welcomed him to their Bible study. At a hearing two days later, family members of the deceased addressed the shooter. Their loved ones had died, victims of a vicious hate crime, but they had the audaciousness to
forgive
the killer. They stunned the world by praying for the killer’s soul.

“Stirred by their love, I have a message for Mr. Eastman and his family. I want them to hear the message loud and clear. I forgive you.”

I gaped at the TV.

“God forgive you. May God have mercy on your soul. We have no room for hate, therefore we will forgive. We are the country love has built, and we will not let hate tear us down. We will get to know our neighbors—who they are beneath the skin. Go deep so you can know their hearts. They bleed the same as you. We all bleed the same. Thank you.”

I absorbed Dad’s words. Maddie patted my shoulder, and I looked up to find her smiling at me. Mateo had slept through the speech, but Lucia and I shared a knowing look—a look of pride in our father. It wasn’t long before agents ushered Dad back into the hospital room.

“Wow, Dad,” Lucia said.

I nodded. “That speech was
increíble
.”

“Thank you. Really, the credit should go to the Charleston church. Religion gets a bad rap sometimes—people claim it can be stifling and judgmental, and sometimes it is. But that church showed the best Christianity has to offer: a message of love.” He glanced at Maddie. “And Maddie deserves some credit, too.”

“I do?” Her eyes widened.

“I liked what you said about getting to know someone’s heart. If China was out of the woods, I might have used your ‘we all taste like chicken to the bear’ joke. But I thought it wouldn’t be appropriate at this juncture.”

Lucia rolled her eyes. “Good call, Dad.”

“Speaking of forgiveness, I’d like to speak to my son alone.”

Maddie gave my hand a squeeze before she headed to the door.

Dad frowned at everyone else. “Could I have a minute?” When they all cleared out, except for my sleeping brother, I smirked. I hoped Dad’s absolute power didn’t go to his head.

He sat in the chair next to my pillow. He rested his hand on my knee and exhaled. “I was speaking the truth down there. I was terrified when I heard you were hurt.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“First Lucy gets an eating disorder, then you get shot, all because I wanted to be president.” He shook his head. “What horrible thing will befall Mateo?”

“Dad.” I frowned at him. “Eating disorders have multiple causes. One cruel photo didn’t create Lucy’s problem. She had other risk factors.”

“Like dating a Democrat, you mean?”

I snorted, then cringed at the pulse of pain up my arm. “Don’t make me laugh.”

His eyes creased with sadness. “Will you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” I pointed to my sling. “This will heal. America won’t. Our country won’t heal without your leadership. The economy’s already improved. Jobs are up—full-time jobs. There’s more opportunity for every American, just like you promised.”

“It’s not worth it if my children are in danger. And you’re telling only one side of the story—I’m getting hammered in the polls.”

“You’re getting hammered in the
press
, and your poll numbers are in line with those of any president who tries to make substantive changes. This takes time. Don’t let one crazy man deter you, Dad.”

He sat back in his chair and sighed. His fingers tapped his thigh as he stared at my sling. “This could be worse, I guess. That’s your throwing arm. The wounds would’ve ended your pitching career if you hadn’t given it up already.” He shook his head. “The surgeon could’ve been in here telling us you were done with your major league career, on top of everything else.”

I looked down and rubbed my thumb over the sheet. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry I had to give up pitching. I know you wanted to see me go pro.”

“¿Estás loco?”
He leaned over the railing of my bed, fury flashing in his eyes.

I heard the beeps of my heart rate monitor pick up speed.

“Don’t you know how proud you make me? You’re studying to become a physician! That’s every parent’s dream.” His eyes narrowed. “For as smart as you are, you can sure be dumb sometimes. You thought I wanted you to be on some pitcher’s mound? Entertaining fans, instead of saving people’s lives?”

“I…” I didn’t know what to say.

“Your surgeon came in here while you were still out, you know. The guy’s brilliant. Thank God he didn’t choose a career in professional sports over saving your life.”

“But I don’t know if I want to become a surgeon.”

Dad widened his eyes, gaping at me like I was a socialist. “Then don’t. Become whatever you want. You know, Alejandro, it’s flattering you look up to me. But I’m a flawed man. I make many mistakes. I sin, and I seek God’s forgiveness. Then I do it again. It’s time you stop looking to me, and start looking to yourself. You need to become your own man.”

La ceguera
. I blinked at him with wide eyes. He’d just ripped me a new one, but not to punish me…to free me. And he was right. I needed to let go of trying to please him all the time. I was too old for that. “You might disagree with my choices.”

He appraised me for a moment. “Then I guess I’ll have to deal with it.”

Both of us turned when we heard a rustling outside my hospital room.

“Let me in,
El Niño!”

I turned to Dad. “You had my best friend flown here?”

A sly smile was his only response.

“Come in, Jake!” I hollered.

He began talking as he entered the room. “Figures I don’t get one scratch on me in Afghanistan, and
you’re
the one who gets shot, fucker.” He stopped short once he saw Dad. “Holy shit,
El Presidente
.” In a nanosecond, his spine snapped straight, and he saluted. His desert camouflage tunic pulled tight across his chest.

Dad rose from the chair and returned the salute. “Good to see you, Second Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jake remained at attention.

Dad winked at me. “Should I tell your friend to stand at ease?”

“Hmm. I rather enjoy him forced to be silent like that. Silence from him is so rare.”

Dad laughed, then rounded the bed with his hand extended. “Glad you’re safe, Jake.”

Jake’s blue eyes narrowed at me before he smiled at Dad. “Thanks for helping us fight out there, sir.”

“The gratitude is all mine. Thank you for your service. I’ll let you catch up with my son.” Dad left, followed by a couple of agents, and Jake sauntered over to my bed.

“I just got to salute the commander in chief. The guys will be so jealous.” He eyed me. “You in a lot of pain?”

“Not unless I move. They’ve given me some analgesic, but I can’t read the IV bag.” My eyes strained upward. “Can you turn it so I can see it?”

Hydromorphone
, I read once he flipped the IV bag.

“That’s some serious shit, bro.” Jake shook his head.

“I know that, but how do
you
know?”

“They gave that to my buddy when his foot was blown off.”

He spoke so casually, but nausea stirred in my belly. “How do you do it, Jake?”