Setting Fire to the Stars (a MM Sci-Fi Romance)

Chapter 11: Hope

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Peter
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My foot slammed into the sturdy door of the second-floor apartment over and over again . "Reese! Wyatt!" I shouted. Loud thuds bounced down the empty stairwell as my boot punished the aged wood. "Open the fucking door right now!"

The door swung open, only for a gun to be shoved in my face. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I stared down the barrel of a Glock.

"What the hell do you want?" Reese demanded. He immediately froze, his gaze landing on Lauren's unconscious body in my arms. "Oh, shit—"

Shouldering past him, I pushed my way into the loft. Whitt and Josiah reclined on the grey sectional, the blond's headphones over his ears while Josiah held a book in his lap. The two glanced up, jaws consecutively dropping open like a couple of gaping fish as they jumped to their feet.

"What the hell happened?" Josiah demanded, stalking towards me.

"No time," I grunted, hefting Lauren in my arms and racing past them to reach the couch. Carefully setting Lauren down on the cushions, I tilted his head towards me. His face was so pale it was almost white with dark shadows under his eyes. I checked his radial pulse, my chest loosening at the strong beating against my fingertips. I turned to Reese, who remained anchored by the doorway. "Where's your doctor?"

Reese stood there unmoving, eyes glued to Lauren.

"Reese!" Whitt snapped his fingers, shooting the man a fierce glare. "Dammit, go get Malik!"

Blinking rapidly, Reese secured the handgun in his pants. "He better still be breathing by the time I get back!" He shouted, running out of the room.

My hands quivered as I hovered near Lauren. What should I even be doing right now? How could I help him? It was hard to ask myself these questions because I didn't know the goddamn answers. Inflicting pain was familiar to me, not mending it. Lauren's confidence when he took care of me wasn't something I could replicate. My hands balled into fists, fighting to restrain the rage warring in my head. Watching him inhale hoarse breaths through blood-smeared lips was agony.

I couldn't lose him. I would not fucking lose him. Shit, had I ever felt such acute dread before in my entire life?

I'd always been worried about how other people saw me. All I had wanted was for my parents to see me as the perfect golden boy and to finally be proud of the man I'd become. The perfect son. The star athlete. A football legend. Even a hint of my father's approval used to make me happy. When I was young, I would hang off my parent's every word. I'd thought that my dad was a hero until the first time I got in a fight in middle school. Lauren and I had won, but we'd received three days suspension. It was the first time my father hit me like he meant it.

After, I vied for his affection, trying to affirm that even though I'd screw up, he still loved me. It was utterly fucked up. I had idolized him and he had barely given me a scrap of fucking attention, ordering me around like I was some mutt he'd trained. Sit. Roll over. Play dead.

It only became abundantly clear to me a year ago that my father was never going to change. Still, I'd worn the mask. I'd played the part. And for what?

Everything that I'd worked for my entire life meant fucking nothing in the face of losing Lauren.

"I'm here," I said, holding his hand. Fuck, his skin was cold as ice, so frail that I worried if held him too tight, he'd shatter. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Just hang in there, Laurie."