Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

34

Tuesday, December 24

Wedding Day

Jenny

Iveer off, around the container that holds Gwen and toward the sound of the gun firing. Some tiny part of my mind is screaming, “Run away from the bullets, not toward them, you dummy.” I ignore it because, as loud as that voice is, another voice is yelling even louder. It only says one word, and that word is “DEAN!”

If he’s in trouble, I need to help him.

As I round the corner, I see a ghastly tableau in front of me. Justin holds a pistol in his outstretched hand with a tendril of smoke curling from its tip. Lola stands behind him, cowering. She has her hands over her ears, like the sound of the gun shooting was too loud.

Caleb and a couple of police have taken shelter by a stack of metal containers on the other side of Lola and Justin. They poke their heads out, then draw them back when Justin wildly swings the muzzle their way.

The worst thing I see is Dean, crumpled on the ground not far from me.

I’m sure he’s dead.

Shot by Justin.

I notice he’s breathing with shallow pants. He has his hands over his ears, like he and Lola are playing some deranged game of Simon Says.

I duck behind the nearest container, a few feet away from him. “Dean,” I hiss, trying to get his attention. “Dean!” I say louder this time.

No response.

Caleb and the police are shouting at Justin, telling him to put down the weapon. He’s distracted, looking their way.

I take the opportunity to scoot toward Dean. I crawl over to him and tug on his arm, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes are shut tight. His hands remain clamped over his ears. I pull harder, trying to drag him back to safety.

It’s no use.

He’s too heavy.

Once, a long time ago, Gwen told me how they rouse unconscious patients in the ER. People who have overdosed or had a seizure, for example.

She said in that situation you rub your knuckles as hard as you can on the patient’s sternum.

I have no idea why that particular conversation occurs to me at this moment, but I decide to try it. I push my knuckles into Dean’s chest and move them back and forth, pressing on his breastbone.

The result is instantaneous. Dean’s eyes fly wide open, and he jerks up into a sitting position.

“Dean,” I whisper, “we have to go.”

His expression is glazed, but he must hear because he moves with me over to safety behind a pile of wooden pallets. There he curls into a ball.

“Jenny,” he gets out through clenched teeth, “leave me. Get Gwen. Help Caleb.”

“What? No!” I protest.

His words make me look back at the container that holds Gwen. She’s gone silent. Pip sits at the base of the container, staring up at it. I mentally will the tiny dog to stay quiet.

Holding my breath, I lean around Dean to peek out from our hiding spot. Across from me, the police continue to argue with an armed and angry Justin. Caleb moves away from them, creeping along the back of the container where they hide. Instantly, I see his plan, just from the direction he’s heading. He’s going to go behind Justin and Lola and try to surprise attack them from that angle. If I went that way, I could do the same thing. The two of us could flank them from the rear, each coming from opposite sides.

More gunfire breaks out, the sound reverberating through the large space. I whip my head toward Justin in time to watch the police scramble back to their container. They must have tried to sneak up on him, and he caught them. Luckily, there’s no blood—no one appears to be hurt.

“Go!” Dean cracks an eye open. The agony I see in it almost brings me to my knees. This is literally his worst nightmare.

“Please, Jenny,” he begs. “Please go.”

“Okay.” I rise, trying to be quiet. “Don’t move,” I command, pointing my finger at him. “Stay put.”

He nods miserably. I double-check that he’s out of eyesight from where Justin and Lola stand.

With an aching heart, I leave him and make my way behind the stacks of metal containers. Once I’ve gone a few feet, I turn to see Dean drag himself toward the container where Gwen is imprisoned.