Page 23 of Knox
4
The ambulance lights splashed the parking lot blood red, and Tate just wanted to hit something. To add a little pain and violence to the chaos inside.
Please, just give him something to do. Something productive, something that might stop him from unraveling.
He’d nearly lost his brother. And that thought had Tate by the throat, nearly suffocating him since the moment Tate had watched the back of the arena crumble under the shock of the explosion.
He’d been working security near the far exit, far away from the impact. Thankfully, the damage centered on just the area backstage, probably one particularly placed explosive. Why, he hadn’t a clue, but he’d left his cohorts to control the screaming masses pushing to exit the auditorium and ran toward the smoke, flame, and cloud of debris.
Tate had sprinted through the center of the arena, leaping onstage and barreling to the back where other grounds security were already gathering, calling in for help. People had switched on their cell phones, tiny spotlights skittering over the wreckage of the explosion.
Miraculously, the explosion hadn’t taken out the entire back area, hadn’t left people with sheared limbs, burned and shattered.
From what Tate could tell, the explosion occurred a level below, caving in the mezzanine level, specifically the dressing rooms.
The sprinklers had switched on and bathed everything in a soggy wash. Smoke billowed up from a tangle of metal, cement, and debris.
From the first moment, he knew Knox had been buried. Because big bro had sent him a text telling him he was going backstage to meet the pretty Yankee Belles, that they’d catch up later.
And stupid him, he’d actually been jealous. Knox got all the good stuff—the reputation, the girl, even everything their father owned.
Knox was the Midas boy. Everything he touched turned to gold.
By the time Tate reached the backstage rubble, a crowd had gathered, some holding each other, crying. Others had started to move debris, and he joined a man on his knees, peering into the darkness of the crater.
“My daughter is in there somewhere,” he said as he glanced at Tate, eyes reddened in horror.
It just took a second—it would have been faster without the smoke and screaming—but yeah, Rafe Noble, PBR champion, worked beside Tate to rip away the cement debris that crushed his daughter. Tate had seen him perform on television, back in the day when Knox rode in the juniors.
Rafe was on his knees, feeding his phone light into the darkness, when a shout lifted from deep in the bowels of the rubble.
“That’s Knox!” Tate said and dropped down next to Rafe.
More lights, voices, and Tate got on his stomach, trying to dissect a way through the mess.
But he didn’t have to. More hands appeared, digging at the rubble, reassured by Knox’s voice.
Which, frankly, was normal. Knox knew how to reach out and hold people together.
Even when they didn’t deserve it.
Maybe that’s why Tate barreled into the wreckage, pulling out twisted metal, lugging out cement blocks, and finally unearthing a passage inside. Why he pushed Rafe back, got on his belly, and shimmied inside, a flashlight clamped between his teeth.
Why he nearly wept when he called out and Knox answered.
Because Tate simply couldn’t lose the one person who never gave up on him.
Now he stood outside in the parking lot, pacing as the medics gave Knox a twice over. He’d sliced his arm diving over the edge of the platform, grabbing onto the brunette from the Yankee Belles. Had hauled her up as if she weighed nearly nothing, holding in a grunt and saying nothing about his wound until he climbed out after her.
Blood saturated his shirt, and Tate had taken off his own shirt to wrap it. Knox must have nicked an artery, because blood pumped out in a rhythm high under his arm. Tate had hooked his arm around his brother’s shoulder and despite his protests, hauled Knox outside.
He heard Knox growling at the EMT, demanding something stupid like they give him a Band-Aid so he could—
“I’ll find her,” Tate said, stalking up to him, more than a little leftover adrenaline in his voice. “What’s her name?”
Knox still wore the grime of his imprisonment on his face, his jaw scraped, his shirt sopping with the blood. Definitely hospital-bound, and they should take a good look at his head while they were at it, because what was his no-fun brother doing attending a girl band concert, and more—hanging out backstage with one of the singers?
Although, yeah, well done, bro. It was time for Knox to get a life.