Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(75)

It hurts, but I’m a hockey player, so I don’t really care. Lurching to my feet, I look up at the windows. The blinds are closed, swinging gently. I creep sideways toward a planter at the patio’s edge. Would it hold my weight?

A hand clamps over my mouth. “Don’t scream,” whispers a male voice. “I’ll get her for you.”

Shock makes me immobile for a split second. I jerk violently around, elbow first, intending to catch my assailant in the face.

He anticipates me, dodging the blow. I get a glimpse of his face—it’s the bodyguard, the one Delilah calls Mr. Muscles. “What the—”

“Hush!” he hisses. “I’m going inside to get her. Where’s your car?”

“Don’t have a car.”

He pulls a key fob out of his pocket and thrusts it into my hand. “You’re taking her to the E.R.”

“And you?” My brain is still playing catch-up.

“Waiting with him. For the police. I think he drugged her.” The look of revulsion on the big man’s face probably matches my own. “Come on.”

I follow him around the side of the house to a door. He pushes me aside, out of sight, then knocks loudly. “Delilah!” he yells. “We got a situation.”

Nothing happens. I count out far too many of my rapid heartbeats, and still there’s no movement on the other side of the door. “I’m breaking a window,” I announce.

“No,” he whispers. “You’re invisible, you hear me? He won’t let you in. But he’ll open the door for me.” He pounds on the door again. “If you guys don’t respond, I gotta call the cops,” he yells.

Hurried footsteps are the immediate response. Just before the door opens, Mr. Muscles levels me with a glare that says, Don’t move yet or I’ll snap you in half.

“What’s the matter?” Brett’s voice demands. “You’re interrupting a meeting.”

“Emergency,” the bodyguard says, pushing his way inside. “Gotta see my girl.”

“She’s not your girl,” Brett snarls.

There’s a crash, followed by a shout and a thunk—as if something is hitting the floor. I think it might be Brett.

That’s all the invitation I need. I yank the door open again and charge inside. The bodyguard is standing over Brett, who’s sprawled on the floor. “Don’t move, fucker,” he growls down at him. “Or I will kill you.”

I’m already past them both, heading for the front of the house. My heart is in my mouth as I reach the bright room where Delilah is slumped sideways on the couch.

“Jesus, baby,” I whisper as I scoop her up into my arms. “I’m so sorry. But we’re out of here now.”

Her eyes flicker open, but they don’t seem to register much before closing again.

I carry her into the kitchen, where the bodyguard is now sitting on Brett’s back, dialing his phone. “Go,” he says. “The hospital is—”

“I know where the hospital is.” I’m already carrying her out the door and toward the shiny rental sedan in the driveway. Delilah’s head lolls against my shoulder, and her eyes are slits. But she’s not all the way unconscious. So I don’t panic. Much.

“It’s…a drug,” she slurs.

“I know,” I say, lifting her higher onto my body as I approach the car. I brace my hip against the vehicle and awkwardly fumble for the door handle on the passenger side. “You’ll feel better soon,” I promise both of us.

“Don’t let me go to sleep,” she begs. “Don’t want to lose time.”

“Okay,” I babble. “I promise. I’m going to buckle you in, okay?”

“Don’t leave me here.”

“I won’t. Never again. We’re going to drive away now.” I kick the door open and slide her onto the seat, buckling her in. Then I stand back to shut the door.

Her eyes open all the way, and they’re filled with terror. “Wait!”

“I’m not leaving you. Just jumping in on the other side.” I close the door, run around the front of the car, and slide into the driver’s seat. A tear tracks down her cheek.

My thumb swipes it away. “I’m not leaving you, okay?”

“You did.”

“Big mistake,” I say, pressing the car’s start button. “Never again.”

I drive like an asshole to the medical center. Good thing it’s only a few miles down the highway. I park in front and run through the doors marked EMERGENCY with Delilah in my arms. This guarantees that I have everyone’s attention. Nurses come running, and someone finds a gurney.

“Don’t leave me,” she mumbles, eyes closed.

“Still here,” I promise, and I don’t let up even when the nurse asks me to leave the exam cubicle. “No can do,” I say, holding Delilah’s hand.

The medical team asks a whole lot of questions, not many of which I can answer. Did I see the drug? No. Was it a powder or a liquid? No idea.

They do some tests. Apparently, the available antidotes are almost as unpleasant as the drug itself, so the protocol is to monitor Delilah’s heart rate and breathing.

There are machines for this, but I’m their backup. I watch each of her slow breaths and hold her hand.