If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(4)

I’ve seen her before. She’s a rough-around-the-edges woman who hangs out all day in a bar on Main Street. Since my shop is only a few blocks away, I’ve seen her walking around. Right now, she’s wearing a tight-tight mini skirt and a shirt that is so low cut, I can practically see her navel. She’s covered in old, faded tattoos and her make-up is smeared. Classy.

“Who the f*ck are you?” she demands as she stomps up to the car. Her brown hair is tousled and tangled. She looks harsh. And then she starts screaming when she sees the guy in the car.

“Pax!” she screams, as she rushes to him. “Oh my god. Wake up. Wake up! I shouldn’t have left you. Holy f*ck, holy f*ck.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask her quickly. “I called 9-1-1 because I couldn’t wake him.”

She yanks her face away from his.

“You called the police?” she snaps. “Why would you do that?”

I’m incredulous. Clearly, her way of thinking is much different than my own. Her priorities are definitely in a different place.

“Because he needs help,” I tell her. “Obviously. An ambulance is on the way.”

She starts to glare at me again, but the guy in the car, Pax, starts gurgling again. And then he abruptly stops. He is still, his chin buried in his chest which is no longer moving.

The woman and I look at each other.

“He’s not breathing!” she cries as she grabs him. “Pax! Wake up!!”

She’s shaking him so hard now that his teeth are rattling. I grab her arm.

“That’s not going to help,” I tell her urgently.

Holy crap. She’s right though, he’s not breathing. My mind is buzzing as I try to figure out what to do and before I can decide on a plan of action, my body is moving with a mind of its own.

I shove the woman out of the way and pull on Pax’s arm with all of my might. He only comes partway out of the car, dangling half in, half out. He slumps over, his head almost grazing the concrete. His legs are firmly tangled beneath the steering wheel and we are now both covered in his smelly vomit.

“Help me,” I bark at the motionless woman. She snaps out of her hysteria and between the two of us, we drag the man out of the car and onto the sandy pavement. I kneel beside him and feel for a heartbeat. He’s got one, but it’s faint and thready. And since he’s not breathing, I know it won’t last long.

Shit.

I try to remember the details of CPR, fail and then just do the best I can. I pinch his nose closed, tilt his head back and breathe into his mouth. He tastes like ashes, Jack Daniels and vomit. I fight the urge to gag, fail, and dry heave to the side. Then I square my shoulders and give him a couple more breaths.

I gag again as I pause and listen at his chest.

Nothing.

He’s still not breathing.

“Do something,” the woman hisses.

I tune her out and breathe into Pax’s mouth again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

[page]What the hell do I do now? I am past being repulsed at the taste in his mouth. I’m only focused on trying to keep his lungs filled with oxygen, trying to make him take his own breaths. But it’s not working.

He’s not breathing.

I am frantic and on the verge of hysteria myself, when I give him two last futile breaths. And then I have to lunge out of the way as he chokes, then coughs, then vomits in a geyser-like fountain of orange puke.

I quickly shove him onto his side so he doesn’t choke on it.

By this point, he and I are both completely covered in his vomit. It isn’t pleasant, but at least he’s breathing now. It’s ragged and slow, but he’s breathing. His eyes are still closed, but I can see them moving now, rapidly, behind his eyelids.

And then he starts convulsing.

Oh my God. I don’t know what to do.

“What do we do?” I cry out to the girl behind me.

I don’t even look at her, I am just focused on the orange foam coming from this guy’s mouth. It billows out and upward, soaking into his nostrils and smearing everywhere as he flails. Bits of it fly off of him in orange flecks and land on my sweater.

I grab his arm and hold it down. He’s strong, even in this state and it takes all of my weight to keep him immobile. I practically lie across his chest, his arm folded beneath me. After a moment, his convulsions stop and he’s limp. But he’s still breathing. I can hear the rattle of his chest. It seems like every breath he takes is an effort.

I am on the verge of crying, simply from not knowing what to do, when I see red and blue lights flashing against his car.

I exhale a breath of relief. Help has arrived.

Thank God.

“Run over and bring them here,” I tell the girl. I turn, only to find her gone.

What the hell?

I peer into the darkness and see her running away, up and over the nearest sand dune. Apparently, she doesn’t want to be here when the authorities arrive.

Interesting.

It takes the paramedics only a minute or so to leap from their ambulance and begin administering help to the prone man in front of me.

I’m not sure what to do, so I shrink back to the periphery and limply wait. I watch as they shove a breathing tube down his throat. And then I watch as they do chest compressions, which can only mean one thing.

His heart stopped.