bleeding out. Hit once in the shoulder, once in the midsection, both from behind. The bullets had gone through both times. I turned her over, and she was already coughing up blood. I couldn’t stop it. There had been no way to stop it. I remembered asking her what to do—she was the doctor, not me. She couldn’t speak except in whispers, and all she’d said was, “I love you.”
I squeezed my eyes even more tightly when I remembered the panic, the fury, the helplessness. There was nothing I could do but hold her while she bled to death in my arms. It had only taken a minute or two by the time I reached her.
I killed her. I might as well have. If she hadn’t been there that night, she would have lived. She would be a respected doctor. She might have a family, kids, a husband. A happy life. A life, anyway. If it weren’t for me.
I threw an arm over my eyes, willing myself to calm down and stop thinking over it again. How many times had I replayed that night? Hundreds? Thousands? A few times a day? All to remind me of one thing: I was no good for anyone. I had pushed everyone and everything I ever cared for out of my life after that night. I was close with my guys, but not too close. I slept with women, but never more than once or twice and never two nights in a row. I lived alone. I never went out except with the club, and usually only when we had a run to go on. Otherwise, it was just me. By myself. I liked it that way. That way, I wasn’t accountable for anybody but myself. And I wouldn’t get anybody else killed just because they loved me.
Chapter Six
Kara
The sleep did a world of good. When I woke up, my arms hurt, but I felt more clearheaded than I had in weeks. Months, maybe. I understood why when I looked at my phone. I sat up so fast, I nearly hit my head on the underside of the top bunk.
“Two thirty?” I shrieked, flying around the apartment. I put on my sneakers and raced out the door without even going to the bathroom or looking at myself in the mirror. It didn’t matter. I had to be at the school by two forty-five to pick up Emma. All I needed was for somebody to think I was unfit when it came to picking my daughter up from school. And I couldn’t have her thinking I wouldn’t come for her.
I made it there with just a minute to spare, pulling into the pickup line in front of the school with a sigh of relief. I’d probably broken a half dozen traffic laws to make it there in time, but I’d managed to fly under the radar, thank God. Somebody up there was on my side for once.
A knock at the driver’s side window. “Hi, Kara.” Wendy, one of the shiny, happy moms. Didn’t I used to be one of them—or, rather, didn’t I used to pretend to be one of them? I wished she had known me back when I was like her. When I used to get my hair done every four weeks, along with my hands and feet. When I used to exercise like a demon to keep myself in shape, or risk being called a fat cow. When I dressed impeccably rather than driving to my kid’s school without a bra on beneath my t-shirt.
The smug tone of Wendy’s voice told me everything I needed to know about my appearance. To think, when I was a kid I used to believe there were no such things as bullies once a person grew up. I wished somebody had told me bullies never went away. They just got bigger.
“Listen,” Wendy continued, “Mrs. DeSilva is going out on maternity leave at the end of the week, and all us moms thought it would be nice to put a card together for her. You know, with a gift card inside for a baby store or something.”
I knew where she was going. “That sounds great,” I said, smiling. I was so used to forcing myself to smile, it was sad.
“I figured you might not have the money, so I put twenty dollars in for you. You can get me back whenever you have it. No rush.” She smiled like she thought she was Mother Theresa or something. My pulse raced, my hands
I squeezed my eyes even more tightly when I remembered the panic, the fury, the helplessness. There was nothing I could do but hold her while she bled to death in my arms. It had only taken a minute or two by the time I reached her.
I killed her. I might as well have. If she hadn’t been there that night, she would have lived. She would be a respected doctor. She might have a family, kids, a husband. A happy life. A life, anyway. If it weren’t for me.
I threw an arm over my eyes, willing myself to calm down and stop thinking over it again. How many times had I replayed that night? Hundreds? Thousands? A few times a day? All to remind me of one thing: I was no good for anyone. I had pushed everyone and everything I ever cared for out of my life after that night. I was close with my guys, but not too close. I slept with women, but never more than once or twice and never two nights in a row. I lived alone. I never went out except with the club, and usually only when we had a run to go on. Otherwise, it was just me. By myself. I liked it that way. That way, I wasn’t accountable for anybody but myself. And I wouldn’t get anybody else killed just because they loved me.
Chapter Six
Kara
The sleep did a world of good. When I woke up, my arms hurt, but I felt more clearheaded than I had in weeks. Months, maybe. I understood why when I looked at my phone. I sat up so fast, I nearly hit my head on the underside of the top bunk.
“Two thirty?” I shrieked, flying around the apartment. I put on my sneakers and raced out the door without even going to the bathroom or looking at myself in the mirror. It didn’t matter. I had to be at the school by two forty-five to pick up Emma. All I needed was for somebody to think I was unfit when it came to picking my daughter up from school. And I couldn’t have her thinking I wouldn’t come for her.
I made it there with just a minute to spare, pulling into the pickup line in front of the school with a sigh of relief. I’d probably broken a half dozen traffic laws to make it there in time, but I’d managed to fly under the radar, thank God. Somebody up there was on my side for once.
A knock at the driver’s side window. “Hi, Kara.” Wendy, one of the shiny, happy moms. Didn’t I used to be one of them—or, rather, didn’t I used to pretend to be one of them? I wished she had known me back when I was like her. When I used to get my hair done every four weeks, along with my hands and feet. When I used to exercise like a demon to keep myself in shape, or risk being called a fat cow. When I dressed impeccably rather than driving to my kid’s school without a bra on beneath my t-shirt.
The smug tone of Wendy’s voice told me everything I needed to know about my appearance. To think, when I was a kid I used to believe there were no such things as bullies once a person grew up. I wished somebody had told me bullies never went away. They just got bigger.
“Listen,” Wendy continued, “Mrs. DeSilva is going out on maternity leave at the end of the week, and all us moms thought it would be nice to put a card together for her. You know, with a gift card inside for a baby store or something.”
I knew where she was going. “That sounds great,” I said, smiling. I was so used to forcing myself to smile, it was sad.
“I figured you might not have the money, so I put twenty dollars in for you. You can get me back whenever you have it. No rush.” She smiled like she thought she was Mother Theresa or something. My pulse raced, my hands
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