𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐒

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 | 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡

a.c.
I stand in Devin's room, looking down at him. He has a large white bandage wrapped around his chest. A cannula wraps around his face, supplying air through his nose. I can hear the electric hiss of air going in with his breathing. An IV hangs above the bed, dripping a solution of pain medicine and saline, slowly weaning him off of the drug. He opens his eyes, looking around the room. His eyes land on me, an eyebrow raised.
"You look nice. Did Jamie get you all cleaned up?" He asks.
I nod, smiling down at him. I drop down onto my knees, sitting beside the mattress.
"How do you feel?" I ask, grabbing his hand—it's warm and unexpectedly soft.
"Like someone just cut my chest open." He groans out, reaching up to his chest. "Did they get it? Did they get the bullet out?"
I have the bullet in my hand in a small plastic dime bag, one similar to that of which they use to sell small amounts of narcotics. I nod.
"Yes, they did. You're very lucky. Another inch and that bullet would've gone straight into your heart, killing you immediately. Whoever hurt you, whoever shot you, is a damn good marksman." I say.
I hand him the bag, letting him look at the bullet. It's flattened from where it hit the sternum. He's lucky it hit the sternum. It slowed the bullet down enough to keep it from hitting the heart.
"Who shot you?" I ask, not even bothering avoiding the question. "This wasn't just some accident at the firing range. This wasn't a 'cleaning my rifle' misfire incident. This was a shot to the chest. An intentional shot."
He sighs, chewing on a chapped lip from dehydration.
"It was a disagreement. I was fighting with some guy and worse came to worse and the guy shot me. I mean, granted, it was in return for a bullet in him." He says.
I release his hand and stand. I step away from the mattress, a hand covering my mouth.
"You shot first? You shot someone first and this was a revenge shot?" I ask. "Don't tell me I actually saved a potential murderer."
He shakes his head, sitting up with a groan, leaning against his elbow.
"I took anatomy in college, I know what I'm doing. It was a shot to the knee. He'll survive. In what condition, I don't know." He replies.
I shake my head, crossing my arms as I look down at him.
"You came to me because you knew I would help. You used me." I say.
He shakes his head, adjusting the bandage on his chest.
"No, I went to the school to pick up my niece. You just happened to also be there." He says.
I roll my eyes, stomping my foot. To think I actually liked this Asshole.
"Well, what were you arguing about? Surely no argument is worth a shot to the chest." I say.
Suddenly, he's very serious, dropping the nonchalant sarcasm.
"You don't get it, do you?" He asks. "There's only one business in the world that'll get you this kind of cash. There's only one way that a simple disagreement could've lead to this type of injury."
I cock an eyebrow, looking around the room. It's beautifully decorated, wonderfully embellished.
"What are you trying to tell me, Devin?" I ask. "Whatever it is, you need to tell me right now."
He raises an eyebrow, looking around the room before lowering his voice.
"Haven't you noticed that Frasier has a mansion? And he doesn't lift a finger? All of his staff are scared shitless because of him. You really want to know why?" He asks.
I nod, slowly. Come to think of it, when we passed the carpenters and garden keepers, they turned white as if they had seen a ghost.
"Frasier Crawford runs his own business. Frasier hasn't had to lift a finger for work in twenty years. Frasier runs the Pictish Beasts—an organized crime Oasis." He says. "And I, am an associate under Frasier."
This is the Organization that Leo has been tracking for months. He told me that there were details about a Pictish Beasts gang operating somewhere in New York, but the details lead all the way back to Northern Scotland. He started investigating them when he first arrived in Scotland four and a half months ago, at the beginning of his five month deployment. I wonder if he knows as much about them as I do now. I know them on a first name basis.
     "You can't tell anyone that you know this, Ayleigh. Not even Frasier. If Frasier knows that I told you about the Mafia, he'll have the both of us killed." Devin says. "This has to stay between us. You have to keep quiet."
I nod. Two knocks sound at the door and Jackson enters the room. He's young, only twenty-one years old, yet, when he's worried, he looks nearly twenty-five. It's strange how wordy can distort a face to change your age. Devin sighs out sharply as he lays back down on the bed.
     "Ayleigh, I've been asked to escort you back to your car when you're ready to go." He says.
     I nod, looking back down at Devin. His dark chocolate eyes stare at me, pleading with me. I grab his hand, nodding down at him. He squeezes my hand tightly, biting his lip.
     "Keep in touch. I'll come find you later." He says.
     I nod, smiling. "You don't know where I live," I reply.
     A smile makes its way onto his lips, replacing a stern frown.
     "I'll find out. And, when I do, we'll talk then." He says.
     I nod, pressing my lips together before brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes.
     "Stay safe. Don't get hurt." I say, dropping the smile.
     He nods, his smile fading as well. I don't know which part of him is more enticing—his lips or his eyes.
     "Likewise, Ayleigh." He replies.