Fleeting Moments (4 page)

“H-h-h-Hunter,” I croak.

“No, honey, it’s Gerard. I’m here. You’re okay.”

“Where am—”

“You’re in the hospital.” A tear runs down his cheek. “Oh god, I was so scared. I could do nothing . . .” His voice hitches, and I focus on him.

“Gerard,” I whisper. “The baby?”

He looks away and more tears run down his face.

No.

“No,” I cry, my voice pained. “
No
.”

“I’m so sorry. It was too late when you arrived at the hospital.”

I jerk upright. “Those people. All those people.”

“It’s all over, Luc. They got them all out.”

Not all of them.

My heart aches, a deep, painful ache that I know will probably never leave. Yesterday morning, I woke with happiness; today, I wake with darkness. How quickly life can change.

“I need . . . I need to talk to an officer, please.”

I
need
to know if he lived. I
need
to know if he made it out.

“They’ll question you when you’re feeling better,” Gerard says, stroking a piece of hair from my face.

“No,” I say, my voice harder than it’s ever been. Gerard jerks back slightly, flinching. “No, I need to talk to them now.”

“Lucy . . .”

“Please,” I beg. “Please. I need this.”

I need to know he’s okay.

“Okay, all right, I’ll get someone.”

He studies me with a worried look in his eyes, then turns and walks out. My heart races as I look around the room, reliving every minute. Hunter saved my life. Hunter held me up. Hunter kept me breathing. Then he went back in. His last words ring through my head and desperation clutches my heart. I need to see him again. I just . . .
need
to.

“Ma’am.”

I turn and glance at an officer standing at the door with Gerard. He’s the same officer who was there when we got out. I start rambling before he even takes a step into my room. “I need to know if he’s okay. Can you please tell me if he made it out?”

“Who, ma’am?” he asks, coming in and stepping up to my bed.

“Hunter!” I cry. “He went back in and—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

I blink at him. What does he mean he doesn’t know who I’m talking about? He was there; he spoke to Hunter—of course he knows who I’m talking about. I squeeze my eyes closed. Maybe it isn’t the same officer. I try to remember but it’s all a crazy, horrific blur. I focus on him again. It is him.
It is.

“You . . . he got me out. He was right there. You spoke to him. He went back in.”

The officer shakes his head, eyes shifting back and forth in confusion. “Ma’am, I’m afraid you were out there alone. There was nobody with you.”

“There was!” I scream. “He was right there. He sat beside me. He saved me. He got me out. He was there.”

“You’ve experienced an extremely difficult time. Perhaps it’s best if you rest and we’ll talk to you when you’re feeling well again.”

“No,” I shriek. “No. I need to see him. He was there.”

“Lucy,” Gerard says, reaching for my hand. I jerk it back.

He looks hurt. “If the officer says he wasn’t there, perhaps you’ve gotten confused. Sometimes that happens in traumatic situations.”

“No,” I yell. “No, I was not confused. Go, look on the cameras, check the tickets. He was there. He saved me.”

“I’ll get a doctor,” the officer says, leaving the room.

“No,” I cry, trying to get out of the bed.

Gerard’s hands find my shoulders, and he pushes me back. “Lucy, calm down. You’re freaking out. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Squirming, I try to shove him off. “No. Let me go. You don’t understand.”

“Lucy, calm down.”

“No!” I scream so loudly he rears back startled.

A doctor appears, studying me, and then barking an order to the nurse. I fight against my husband, shoving desperate. They’re lying to me. Why are they lying to me? Tears soak my cheeks as I desperately try to force my way past Gerard.

A needle hits my arm and warmth once again spreads through me.

“Hunter,” I whisper as my body slumps backwards.

Where did you go?

“F
ive people were killed and twenty injured in the deadliest attack the city has seen in its history. The baseball stadium was ambushed by what is believed to be a religious group after a request to take the land for their own was refused by the mayor.”

I stare at the television screen, my body numb. A religious group. Five dead. Twenty injured. Was one of those people Hunter? Did he get killed? Is he injured? Is he in this hospital? I lift the remote and turn the television off; I can’t watch it anymore. I can’t relive the horror for a second longer. It hurts, digging deep into my chest until I can’t feel or breathe anything but the pain.

“You need to stop watching that. It’ll only upset you more,” Gerard says, rising from the chair beside me and handing me a glass of water. “Have some water. You’re pale.”

I stare into his pleading eyes. “I’m not thirsty,” I say, my voice weak and scratchy.

“You need to keep your fluids up.”

“For what?” I mumble. “There’s no baby to take care of anymore.”

His face scrunches in pain, his eyes narrowing, his lips tightening. “No, there isn’t right now, but there might be again soon if you don’t—”

I roll to my side. “I’m tired, Gerard.”

“Lucy, I know you’re struggling. I know, but—”

“You don’t know,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “You have no idea.”

“I saw the news,” he argues weakly. “I saw it all. I had to wait, I had to watch, I—”

I roll and face him. “Did you see them get shot? Did they show you that on the news? Did you hear their screams? Did you feel their fear? No, you did not. I’m tired. Please leave.”

“Lucy, please don’t shut me out. I know it’s only been two days but it’ll get better, it will . . .”

No, it won’t.

I lost my baby. I’m being treated as if I’m losing my mind.

The man who saved me has fallen off the face of the Earth.

It will not be okay, and I’m tired of hearing it will.

“Lucy?”

My dad’s soft voice fills the room, and I peer around Gerard to see him standing at the door with two coffees in his hand. He raises them a little. “I got your favorite.”

Dad is the only one even trying to understand, to listen.

Gerard sighs and leans down, kissing my head. “I’ll go home, have a shower, and then I’ll coming back. I love you.”

I meet his eyes.

I do love him, but the words just won’t come out of my mouth. The Lucy I was three days ago just isn’t the same girl laying in this bed. I’ve changed; I don’t know how deep that runs but I can never go back to being the way I was. I can never unsee what I’ve seen. I can never save my baby. I can never see Hunter again.

I look away. I can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes because I don’t respond.

He leaves, and my dad moves closer. I look to him, studying him. My dad and I look the same—every single piece of me is made up of him. My mom always told me I got nothing from her. She was right. My blond hair is the same shade as his—soft like honey with a touch of gold. My eyes are the same shade of emerald green, and my skin the same creamy white.

He’s not very tall, and neither am I. For me, it makes me appear cute and petite; for him, he’s just short. He has a dimple when he smiles, just one in his left cheek. I have the same dimple. My dad is gentle, loving, and sweet. He raised me to be the same way. He raised me well, with love and compassion, and he gave me everything a dad should give his daughter. Granted, I’m an only child and so I got a lot of the good stuff, but all the same, he never let me be spoilt or rude.

“How are you feeling today, princess?”

I shrug, taking the coffee he hands me. It’s warm against my palm. “Thanks.”

“Your mom said she’ll be in later; she had to go into work.”

I nod.

“Lucy,” he says carefully, sitting on my bed and facing me. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say anymore, Dad. Nobody believes me.”

“I believe you.”

I meet his eyes, and I know he’s telling the truth. “He saved me. He got me out of there.”

Dad nods, sipping his coffee and pausing for a second before answering, “Maybe he’s working in a case where his identity can’t be known. It happens.”

It does?

My heart skips a beat. “Do you think that could be true?”

“From what you’ve told me about him being overly calm, talking to people like he was on a mission—yeah, it’s quite possible.”

“Then how am I supposed to find him?”

His face drops. “The problem is you’re not supposed to. It’s likely he gave you a fake name. Lucy, honey, maybe you need to accept that he saved your life and be grateful for that, but let it go.”

I can’t. I can’t let it go. Nobody understands what Hunter, if that’s even his real name, gave me in that stadium. He was more than a rock; he protected me, comforted me, held me up when I wanted to fall. He made sure I survived.

“He saved my life, but it was more than that. He kept me afloat. He stopped me from losing it and probably getting shot.” My voice breaks on the last part and I look away.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through, Lucy. I don’t even want to. I’m grateful to that man for helping you. Honestly, if I could thank him I would, but he isn’t here for a reason. You know who is here? Who is scared? Who is desperate for you to be okay?”

I look back to him.

“Gerard. He loves you, honey. Please don’t push him away. Let him take your hand and get you through this.”

Guilt stabs my chest, and I look down at the coffee cup in my hands. “I’m not trying to push him away. I just . . . I can’t sleep, Daddy,” I whisper and a sob breaks free. “Every time I close my eyes they’re there.”

“My sweet girl,” he says, taking the cup from my hands. A few seconds later he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. He smells like peppermint, and coffee, and my dad. I cry harder. “We’re going to get you through this, I promise you that. I won’t let anything happen to you. Neither will Gerard.”

I just hang onto him, sobbing for the millionth time in days, trying to ease the blinding pressure in my chest. Trying to erase the memories. Trying to forget the sounds. But mostly, trying to forget him.

Hunter.

~*~*~*~

“W
e’ve given you some painkillers and a sleeping tablet, Lucy,” the nurse says, checking my temperature. “They should help the cramping and let you get some rest.”

It’s late, possibly around midnight, and I’ve called for some pain medication. I’m still suffering some cramping and bleeding from my miscarriage. The doctor said if it doesn’t ease, they’ll have to put me under to clean out anything remaining just in case my body isn’t doing its job. Clean. Like my baby was just a mess they need to clear up.

“Thank you,” I mutter, shifting in the uncomfortable bed.

“Call out if you need anything else.”

I nod and she leaves, closing the door behind her. I got a private room, thanks to my parents and Gerard. I’m grateful, because it means nobody else can hear me cry myself to sleep. Because I do. Most nights I just lie here sobbing until exhaustion takes me. I try to remove all the thoughts from my mind, to shut down, to switch off, but I can’t.

They won’t leave my head. All those people.

Those gunmen.

My baby.

Him
.

I start sobbing the second I close my eyes, like my body knows as soon as my lids slide shut that it needs to release. Tears leak down my cheeks and I tremble even though I’m already growing warm from the sleeping tablet. I clutch the blanket and whimper, trying to muffle the sound. I just want it to stop.

“Lucy girl.”

The voice startles me, and I roll so quickly I nearly throw myself from the bed. I grip the side to stop myself going over. I can’t see much; my room is so dark, only the light from the hall flows in from beneath the door. I didn’t even hear it open. I must be imagining things. But a figure moves closer to my bed, big, broad, and I know . . . I
just know
it’s him.

“H-h-h-hunter?” I sob.

Maybe the medication is messing with my mind. That has to be it. He couldn’t really be here.

He steps up close and looks down at me, the light catching his face just slightly. He’s got scruff on his chin, making his face look darker, but there is no mistaking it’s him. The way his dark hair falls over his forehead. The way he holds himself. He’s here. He came back.

“You’re here,” I croak, trying to sit up but the medication is kicking in, making my body weak.

“I had to see if you were okay,” he murmurs, leaning down and stroking a stray piece of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

His touch brings me instant comfort—a comfort I haven’t felt in days. Not since he left. I want to reach out and throw myself into his arms, to surround myself in the warmth he’s bringing, the relief, the contentment.

“I-I-I . . . they told me you weren’t there and—”

“Hush,” he says, sitting on the bed beside me. “Tell me you’re okay?”

“I’m not,” I sob. “I’m not okay. I can’t get the thoughts out of my head. I can’t stop seeing those people dying, hearing them scream . . .” My sobbing gets so intense my words are cut off.

He moves slowly, gently lifting me from the bed and pulling me into his lap. He’s so big, so strong, and I curl into him like a child, letting his strength engulf me, letting it wrap around me until I feel the pressure easing from my chest, until the sobs subside, until the tears begin to dry up.

He makes me feel okay again. Like the strongest drug, like the most beautiful lie.

“Let me tell you something that works for me—that helps me live with the images.”

“I don’t w-w-w-want to live with them. I want them to go away.”

“You can’t make them go away, honey,” he says, his voice low. “They’re yours now, and you have to work out how to accept them into your life. The more you fight them, the more they’ll haunt you.”

“You want me to accept the horror?”

He falls silent for a minute. “Can you take it back?”