Take It On The Run

Chapter 60

POV: Reed

All our carefully laid plans had fallen to shit following my trigger-happy cowboy stunt a week ago. My ankle was fractured, two discs in Deacon's vertebrae were severely inflamed, and Avery had barely received treatment in time to avoid dry drowning.

Like it or not, the three of us were out of commission, and I wasn't the only one struggling with my guilt. After all, it had been Deacon's plan to intercept Sloan at the club. He wasn't just torn up over the fact that we'd be of little use to our girlfriend during the Red Wedding. He was also grappling with the fact that he'd gotten two of his best friends nearly killed in the process. Or at least that's why I assumed he was moping.

I didn't blame D, of course. I'd chosen to go, just as Avery had. We all knew the risks going into it, but I could tell that he still felt culpable. I think we all did, even Avery who'd only joined at the last minute.

"Any news?" I asked as I hobbled into the security room on crutches.

My ankle cast looked like shit since I wasn't an ortho, but at least the bone would heal properly. I was lucky I didn't need surgery because the break was near a joint. The one good thing to come out of my injury was that I now had a legitimate excuse to take paid sick leave.

I only counted three people in the room. "Wait, where's Deacon?"

"He's with my physical therapist," Mr. Dawson answered.

Even with a steady regimen of painkillers and muscle relaxers, D was still in excruciating pain, as was I. The giant could barely lie down long enough to sleep.

It was too early to tell if the inflammation between vertebrae was permanent or for him to receive epidural steroid injections to alleviate the discomfort. Either way, it would be a long road to recovery, and as a self-employed small-business owner, the poor bastard didn't have decent private health insurance. If he had to get injured somewhere, Europe was at least an ideal location.

Mr. Dawson continued, "And in terms of news, Liam Murphy is takin' Sloan to Tallaght as we speak."

Apparently, I wasn't cultured enough to grasp the Irish brogue because it sounded like he'd hocked a loogie instead of pronouncing what I could only assume was the name of a place.

I lifted a brow at him, hobbling further into the room. "Uh, yeah. No idea what that is."

Sloan's dad didn't leave me in suspense. "Tallaght is one of the most dangerous areas in Dublin. It's also where Murphy grew up until my father executed his entire family in front of him."

Huh. I guess he'd told Sloan the truth after all. I didn't know how to feel about this revelation. He was clearly opening up to her, which I guessed was ultimately a good thing. However, it failed to eliminate my jealousy.

"Lovely," Avery said drolly before coughing, his lungs and throat still sore no doubt. He winced as he reached for his side, then he stopped midair and let his hand drop. His fist balled into a tight sphere at his side as if he were fighting the urge to clutch his ribcage in front of me.

I'd just come from studying his X-rays—and surprise, surprise—four of his ribs were broken, courtesy of me, but it could've been a lot worse.

The average person didn't realize that CPR was nothing like the movies. It simply kept the brain and other vital organs alive until paramedics arrived. The fact that Avery had regained consciousness at all, let alone during mouth-to-mouth, was miraculous. Yet, that miracle had meant nothing without a phone or a hospital nearby for what came next.

Dry drowning was an incredibly rare and deadly phenomenon. A person could walk around normally after water inhalation for one to twenty-four hours before showing signs. I'd downplayed how close to death Ave had come again on the way back to Mr. Dawson's, but Sumner, a former lifeguard, knew exactly what was up when he met us at the front gate.