Chapter 33
“It’s fuckin’ crazy out there.” Eddie jerked his thumb to the entrance of Miami General where reporters jockeyed for position, all trying the get the latest juicy story on the high-profile shooting.
“I know.” Cheryl’s gaze darted behind Eddie, grateful for the hospital policy of restricting reporters.
“How’s he doing?” Eddie embraced her, and she held onto him, desperate for support and comfort. They’d called and texted furiously before Eddie boarded the red-eye from New York.
“He made it through surgery, and they’ve moved him to ICU, but the doctor said it could go either way.” Saying the words drained her, but she gathered herself together and relayed the doctor’s words. “The bullet ruptured an artery in his abdomen. He lost a lot of blood, and the next twenty-four hours are critical.”
“Fuck.” Eddie stepped away from her, flexed his fists a few times, and swiped the visitor’s sign off the information desk.
The two elderly ladies manning the desk gasped in shock, and the gray-haired security guard hurried over, fixing a stern glare on Eddie. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, puffing out his chest while trying to suck in the fifty pounds that proceeded him.
Eddie threw up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry, man.” He bent to retrieve the sign.
“He got some bad news.” Cheryl stepped between them.
“We don’t allow those kinds of outbursts here, son.” The guard backed off when Eddie straightened to his six-foot-three height of solid muscle.
Eddie righted the sign, but the two women were still staring, so he dug in his pocket, peeled off a fifty, and placed it on their desk. “Have lunch on me tomorrow, ladies.”
Cheryl tugged at Eddie’s forearm and led him down the hall into a private sitting area away from prying eyes. She motioned to one of the chairs. “Now sit and calm down.”
He stood by the chair but didn’t sit. “I’m fine. Just tell me again what happened.”
The storm raging outside, Max holding a gun on Jonny, it seemed like a weird joke until she’d seen Max’s dead, cold expression.
After that, the minutes alternated between speeding by and slow motion. But nothing prepared her for the up-close, ear-splitting sound of gunfire, or the sight of Jonny slumped on the couch clutching his stomach, his hands covered in blood. Max stood there at first, not moving, looking as terrified as her. Then he half limped, half ran out of the condo. She’d frantically called 9-1-1, then waited for an eternity.
Eddie ran his hands through his hair. “I told him I had it under control. I should’ve seen this coming.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I just can’t believe he didn’t shoot me too.” She stroked Eddie’s hand.
“He’s not a professional. He probably freaked.” Eddie paused. “It’s not like in the movies.”
“The story’s all over the internet. It’s crazy.”
“How about the cops?”
“They were here already. Typical cop questions, but for once I could answer honestly.”
“I guess there’s something to be said for being the victim.” His wry comment didn’t hide his anxiety.
The waiting and mindless, vacant hours were torture. She paced, and Eddie smoked his way through a pack of Marlboro’s. When it became obvious Jonny wasn’t regaining consciousness any time in the near future, Eddie suggested they go to the hospital cafeteria. She didn’t think she could even look at food, but at least walking to the cafeteria gave them something to do.
At one in the morning, the hospital cafeteria had a steady stream of doctors and nurses trying to revive themselves with coffee and carbs, along with clusters of families holding each other together for support. They found a table off to the side and sat. Eddie folded his bulky frame into the molded plastic chair, rested his arms on the table, and held his Styrofoam coffee cup in a way that made the tats on his forearms stand out.
“He’s strong.” The glaring fluorescent lights etched shadows of fear across Eddie’s day-old stubble. “He’s gonna get through this.”
“I know,” she said without conviction.
She stared at the cracks in the Formica tabletop.
“You sure you don’t want something?” He motioned to his coffee. “You should eat.”
“I’m fine.” The sight of food made her stomach churn.
Eddie played with the plastic stirrer. “Jonny was always the smart one making it all work.” His large hands wrapped around the steaming cup. “All I ever wanted was to get paid and get laid.”
“It was the same way here in Miami,” Cheryl told him. “Everybody wanted to be around him.”
“He could’ve been one of them big executives.” Eddie smiled wryly. “Me, I liked giving the beatdowns, but Jonny’s heart was never in it.” Eddie made a fist, then unclenched it and smoothed his hand over the tabletop. “Back in the day, he got me straight, kept me from going off the rails.”
“He liked to act like a tough guy, but inside . . .” Her voice choked, and she swallowed hard. Guilt gnawed at her stomach.
Eddie sucked in a breath. “Frank’s a fuckin’ psycho.” He slammed his fist down, and the cheap table wobbled under the force. Heads jerked in their direction until Eddie’s glare made them turn away.
“Calm down.” She patted his hand, as hot tears ran down her cheeks.
“Ahhh, shit.” Eddie stood, scraped his chair to her side of the table, and held her. “I’m supposed to be making you feel better, not worse.”
“It’s not you.” Her chest tightened. “Jonny thinks I set him up.”
“What?”
She relayed the whole story, starting with Frank’s phone call at the condo and ending with the cops frisking Jonny outside the club.
“Fuckin’ bastard,” Eddie hissed.
“Max told Jonny right before he shot him, and now Jonny thinks I . . . What if something happens and I never get to tell him the truth? What if . . .” Another flood of tears erupted, and her chest heaved with long-held sobs. She burrowed her face against Eddie’s shoulder and released all the tension of the last few days and the fear of the last few hours. When the sobs quieted to little choky gasps, Eddie lifted her chin with his forefinger.
“Jonny’s a tough fucker, and he’s not gonna give up.”
She prayed Eddie was right because losing Jonny was unthinkable, but losing him before he knew the truth was unbearable.
~ ~ ~
It all seemed so surreal, but Cheryl wanted to believe Eddie’s words. Jonny was tough. He would make it. He had to. The doctors said his loss of blood caused his coma, and it would take time for him to heal. Now, five days later, reality hit, hard. The shades half drawn to keep out the hot, bright Miami sun. The room’s cool, controlled air conditioning. Machines and monitors humming and buzzing. Wires and tubes snaking their way in and out of his arms.
ICU nurses were stationed on the other side of the glass wall, observing his every move. His flawless complexion was sallow and waxy, and his skin clammy and too fragile to touch. Each breath was weak and shallow. What she wouldn’t give to hear that low-down rasp teasing her just one more time. She blinked hard, thinking she didn’t have anything left in her to cry, yet every day she sat here, and the tears fell.
“I’m here, baby, and I’ll never leave you.” She leaned closer. “And when you get better, we’ll go somewhere where no one can hurt us.”
His eyelids fluttered for a second, and his back became rigid. The alarms on the monitors shrieked. The ICU nurse swept into the room, followed by a doctor and another nurse with a crash cart. They pushed her to the side, powerless, scared, and shaking with fear.