Worth The Wait: A Nature Of Desire Series Novel (39 page)

She dialed 911 while rushing out to the truck. The small black case was there, next to his usual backpack. She told the 911 operator what had happened and that the police and an ambulance were needed.

“All right, ma’am. Stay on the line and stay where you are—”

“I can’t. My diabetic friend is hypoglycemic and I have to go back to him. I’m going to lose the signal there. The police can come in the side door. I’m leaving it propped open. We’re in the stage area.”

She cut the connection. The operator would wisely tell her to stay outside where it was safe, where her attacker wasn’t. But the operator didn’t know how effective Des was at tying someone up, especially when he wanted it to be intensely uncomfortable and impossible to shake. Maybe it was petty of her, but she was glad he’d made it uncomfortable.

As she went back through the side door, she thought of the attacker’s footprints being forever imprinted on the floorboards of her theater. She wasn’t going to stand for that. She’d get a voodoo doctor or witch to cleanse the place. She normally didn’t go for the New Age stuff, but it sounded like a good idea. There was a Wiccan craft store in Huntersville. She’d have someone come and burn sage or something.

Stop babbling, Julie.
She flew back toward the stage area and then jumped back, almost landing on her ass with a little shriek as her attacker raised his head, gazing at her blearily. “Bitch,” he snarled. “You better let me go or—”

“Or what?” Des came looming out of the shadows, shoving the guy’s head back down to the boards with his foot. His skull made a resounding thump. She had no idea how Des had managed to get up, because he looked like a walking corpse. The shaking was affecting his whole body, but his eyes were feverish, glittering as he put the sole of his shoe on the man’s throat and leaned his weight there. The man choked, tried to writhe away, but Des wouldn’t let him go.

“Des,” Julie said sharply, but Des didn’t respond to her, holding the man’s frightened gaze with one as pitiless as a shark’s.

“Apologize,” Des snapped. “For calling her a bitch. For all of it.”

The man strangled as Des put more weight on his carotid. Julie lunged forward and caught Des’s arm. He was still clammy. It was as if suddenly he’d become an old man before her eyes, but an old man still more than capable of dealing with this.

“Say you’re sorry,” she snarled at the man.

“Sorry,” her attacker rasped, and Julie was able to pull Des away, probably because he almost fell backwards. She helped him into a seated position against her podium.

“Police?” he said hoarsely.

“They’re on their way.” She popped open the box and saw a syringe and vial. “What is this?”

“Glucagon. Because I can’t… Christ, I’m sorry, love. I’m going to pass out. Just follow…instructions. Turn me on my side in case I…throw up.”

Her gaze flew up to his face. It was as if he was speaking through cotton. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he folded over to the floor almost gracefully.

“
Des.
Des.” She looked down at the open kit. Syringe, vial. Note. Unfolding the note, she read it quickly.

Glucagon Kit: In case I pass out, follow kit directions to inject under my skin. Nothing to it. Just pinch up some loose skin and stab. I won’t mind. If I’m not back in 15 minutes, do it again. Don’t let me die if you can help it, but don’t worry if I do. It was bound to happen eventually. If all goes well, I should be back in a few minutes. Have juice and PB crackers standing by.

Finding a loose skin part on Des was no easy task, but after she injected the liquid into the vial of powder and mixed it with shaking fingers, she realized the looseness of his jeans gave her access to the upper rise of his buttock. She injected the medicine, afraid she was hurting him, because she’d never done anything like that before, but he didn’t stir. Her heart hammered nevertheless, because she wasn’t sure if she was doing it right. She wasn’t sure of anything. She wished the police and ambulance would get here, now, now, now.

“Shithead gonna die,” the man said sullenly. “And if he don’t, I’m gonna sue him for trying to strangle me. I—”

She didn’t think, galvanized by something so primitive inside her she would have been afraid to look in a mirror. Lunging off her knees, she pulled a belaying pin for the stage ropes from its slot. She closed the distance between her and the man and swung, hitting him full in his fat, stupid mouth. She was pretty sure a tooth went flying. His lip split in a spray of blood.

“One more word, and I will say you got loose and I had to bash your fucking head in to save my life,” she growled, brandishing the pin over him. “Got it?”

His eyes were white with fear. She spun back to Des, kneeling next to him and dropping the pin. Rethinking that, she jumped back to her feet, ran to her mini fridge and came back with a juice box. She freed the straw with shaking fingers, stabbed it into the box, and put it to the side. Easing Des’s head into her lap, she stroked his hair away from his face, and thanked God when she heard the sound of sirens.

By the time the police found their way through the stage door and assessed the scene, Des was stirring. The two paramedics split up, one checking their culprit and one coming to her.

After checking the attacker out, the EMT informed the police the suspect could be taken to the station. The police hauled him to his feet and removed him, after taking an extra few moments to figure out how to get Des’s rope off him. Except for feeling a relief like a weight off her chest, Julie paid little attention to the departure of the suspect. Or to the young police officer trying to draw her away from Des to talk to her about what had happened. When he realized he wasn’t going to succeed until they’d figured out Des’s situation, he stepped back to wait.

Des was lucid enough to explain his medical condition. “I’m good, man,” he told the EMT. “Not my first rodeo. She took care of me. Just got stressed out like a fucking pansy and my blood sugar took a nose dive while the blood pressure went through the roof.”

“You still managed to save the girl.” The EMT was a friendly, shrewd-looking middle-aged man with blue eyes and brown hair shot with gray. “I suppose you know you should be wearing a medical ID bracelet.”

“I should do a lot of things.”

The EMT chuckled. “Yeah, my wife says I should eat less red meat and exercise more, and she’s right. Doesn’t mean I do it. But both of us should think about it, because you have a pretty girl who cares about you, same as I do.”

He still insisted on taking Des’s vitals and monitoring him while the police officer finally coaxed Julie a few steps away to get her side of the story. Then he had her wait in the wings with another officer while he did the same with Des. When he gestured to her to come back, she immediately returned to Des’s side, taking his hand. His hold was less strong than it normally was.

“Hey, John,” the EMT said. “Before you go, can you help me get this guy moved?”

Des wouldn’t consent to an ambulance ride or a hospital visit, but Julie had mentioned she had a bed in back. The EMT shot Julie a reassuring look as the policeman moved forward to assist. “Your friend is an old veteran at this. His numbers are climbing again, which means you did all the right things. He’s going to be weak for a little while, so we’ll get him into the bed in the back and he can stay there until he’s fully recovered.”

The two men lifted Des, supporting him on either side, and she guided them to her dressing room apartment, where they laid him down on her mattress.

John had a couple follow up questions for her. She pulled a chair up next to the bed and answered them. She’d thought Des was out of it again, but as she relived the whole situation, his hand closed on hers. It was warmer now, and stronger, and though she chided herself for her weakness, she was glad of the support, since her hand was shaking in his. He noticed.

“You kicked his ass,” he said. “Don’t be doing that trembling, damsel-in-distress shit.”

John smiled. “Seems like you both did a good job of taking care of each other.”

“Well, she didn’t have any choice,” Des said dryly. “I was the one who fainted.”

While he’d been forthcoming about his chokehold, she suspected they’d both left out the part where he’d given her the choice of killing the guy or not. She had told the officer she’d hit the man while he’d been tied up. She said in the heat of the moment he’d threatened her boyfriend and she wanted to be sure he couldn’t get loose. She wasn’t going to let herself worry about any of that now. There was plenty more to occupy her.

The EMT and policeman finally took their leave. As she followed them to the side door, the EMT gave her his card. A quick glance told her his name was Ryder. It almost made her smile, since one of her favorite Disney heroes was Flynn Ryder of
Tangled
.

“That has my cell number on it,” Ryder said. “If anything comes up that really worries you, and he won’t let you take him to an urgent care, you can give me a quick call. I don’t live far from here and I get off shift in another hour.”

“Thanks,” she said. Going with her usual impulsiveness, she hugged him. “Thanks so much. To both of you," she added to the police officer.

“Don’t hug the rookie while he’s armed,” Ryder advised. “Grateful women scare him.”

John snorted. “I’m going to issue a parking ticket to that ambulance out there, ma’am. I think he’s parked illegally.”

He went outside, Ryder following. As she watched them banter, and Ryder re-joined his partner in the ambulance, she was as grateful for the calming effect of their teasing as for their help.

It wasn’t quite enough, though. When she closed and locked the door, she leaned against it, discovering the need to hold onto something solid and inanimate, something that wouldn’t say a word about the things that gripped her and made her shake, spill a few more tears. She needed to call Madison and let her know what happened. As the theater owner, she’d be getting a copy the police report. But maybe that could wait a few minutes.

Calmer now, she returned to her room to find Des sitting up. She hurried over to him. “What are you doing? He said you need to lie down.”

“I’m good. I want to sit up.” He eased her away from him, making it clear he wasn’t going to take any coddling. The rejection, as unintended as she was sure it was, stabbed her, because she needed to be touching him. She needed him touching her, but she didn’t want to make him feel like he had to take care of her right now.

“It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

He was watching her face, all those conflicts chasing themselves over her far too transparent features.

“What is?” she ventured.

“Having a guy rescue you from the bad guy and then pass out so you end up having to watch over him. It’s as bad as a Dom walking away to get a beer instead of doing aftercare.”

“No, it’s not like that.” She deliberately shifted so she was closer to him on the bed, hip to hip. He couldn’t move farther away without falling off or standing up.

“You’re kind of missing the point,” she said. “You passed out because you expended all that energy protecting me. You saved me from the bad guy. And then you were nice enough to time the faint for after it all happened. It proved to be a good distraction. I didn’t become one of those hysterical, weepy females in front of the police and EMTs. They’ll go back to the station and say ‘Wow, we wish all our victims of criminal violence were as cool as she was.’”

He slid his arm around her. “You remember the day I said I don’t really think about life having worst moments?”

“Yes, I remember.”

He put his forehead against her temple. “When I heard you scream, I think that may qualify as one of my worst moments, not knowing if I could be strong, brave or smart enough to help you.”

She lifted her head and put both hands on his face. She’d thought his hypoglycemia was a direct result of the physical stress of holding the man in that stranglehold. While that had been part of it, she realized the main cause had been far more internal. Like her, he’d likely never been in a situation like that in his whole life. He’d come to her defense with no weapon to hand except what he knew how to do with rope. He hadn’t known if it would be enough, or if he'd be overwhelmed and become a second victim. Seeing all that, understanding he’d been perhaps as scared as she was, for different reasons, made her put her arms around him now and hold on, giving as much comfort as she received.

“You were everything I needed you to be, Des,” she said. “And even if you hadn’t been able to overwhelm him, the very fact you risked your life to try and help me meant everything.”

“Though our shared final thought would have been, ‘Why didn’t I—or he—dial 911 before rushing in to help? Dumbass.’”

She held him tighter. “You’re such a goof. But that’s a very good point. Next time I’m the victim of a crime, please remember to do that.”

“I have it permanently branded on my brain.”

She laid her head on his shoulder and together they let out an unplanned synchronized sigh, which made Des chuckle.

“You’re no victim,” he said, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I heard that part where you said you hit him with that rolling pin thing. Remind me not to piss you off when you have that close to hand.”

“It’s a belaying pin. And you need to teach me that hogtie thing.”

He snorted. “I’m not sure if that’s safe. I might piss you off someday.”

“You already have, and do, regularly. It doesn’t matter. I still love you.”

“Same goes. Speaking of which, why was the fucking side door unlocked if you were in there by yourself?”

She shook her head. “Because I was stupid. Because I was hoping you’d come to see me and say you were sorry, and I imagined this romantic thing where I’d look up and suddenly see you standing there, and you’d say something perfect. If you had to call me ahead of time and ask me to open the door, it would have ruined the scene.”

“Hmm.” He blew a short puff of air on her brow, stirring the tendrils of hair there. “For my future sanity, let’s agree that you won’t ever again compromise your safety to preserve the integrity of your internal theater productions.”