Every molecule of air rushes out of my lungs as I hit the ground.
Rolling over, hard splinters of wood stab into my side as I fight to draw in oxygen. Every second I’m on the ground is another second the man who killed my parents can slip away. Forcing myself into a sitting position, I catch sight of Easton getting to his feet before firing two shots in the direction I saw Ian running. He curses and takes off outside.
Fuck!
As I push myself up, I ignore the pain of being tackled into a goddamn table and rush outside.
There’s no sign of either Easton or Ian, and when I don’t see them in the next yard, I run back to the house, pulling out my phone to call Easton.
“Answer the fucking phone, Easton!” I yell when it goes straight to voicemail for the second time.
Days old, half-empty takeaway containers litter the lounge room along with empty bottles of alcohol, but with no idea what’s going on, I make a quick exit out the side door Easton had kicked in.
All those gunshots? The fucking cops are going to be here any minute.
When I make it onto the street, I’m about to head in the direction of Easton’s Mustang when he appears around the corner of the next block. Jogging towards me, the closer he gets, the more my stomach sinks.
He didn’t get him.
Easton’s breaths are short and sharp by the time he reaches me, and he’s fucking pissed—his muscles coiled tight with a deep frown marring his forehead.
“We need to go,” he says, and I don’t disagree with him, but the weight settling in my stomach steals some of my urgency. A fresh rivulet of blood trails down his arm, catching my eye.
“Now, Sebastian!” he growls. “The cops will be here any second, and I’m not taking the slim chance it’ll be someone on our payroll.” As if punctuating his words, sirens sound not too far away, and I snap out of my shit long enough to get the fuck out of here.
“You’re hurt,” I say over the roaring engine of Easton’s Mustang. Most of the blood had dried, but there was still a trickle of fresh crimson making a slow path down his arm.
“I’m fine. It’s a graze,” he says, his tone short.
“Why the fuck did you do that?”
“Do what?” East asks, but his dark tone suggests he knows exactly what I mean.
“You know what. I fucking had him. Iwouldhave had him.”
“You wouldn’t have had shit, Sebastian. You’d still be lying on that floor, the shit pumping through your veins nothing but another stain in that cesspool of a house,” he grits out, his hands flexing around the steering wheel.
“You’re exaggerating. And how is it any bloody different than you kicking down the fucking door, storming in without a clue of what was waiting.”
“It is different,” he says, his voice hard.
“Bullshit, Easton,” I say, my anger getting more palpable by the second.
Eastondoesn’t respond, and I know he’s not going to agree with me. We were so close, but we may as well be back at square fucking one, especially now that he knows we’re after him.