Page 74 of Bleeding Heart
“You give up the real kid entirely for the fantasy kid? Is your imagination that unwavering?” I ask in a brazen way only a brother would.
“You think I don’t question that all the time, Jake? Whatever I choose, it can still blow our world up; Mine and Sloan’s.
“Chen got out.”
“Felix got old. Senile.” I hear my old excuses in Carver’s righteous, indignant huff.
I lift the mallet, but Carver doesn’t move his hand.
He looks me dead in the eyes. Defeat stares back at me. The same longing and hopelessness I saw from Cris when Liz died and she took his dreams along with her.
“Right now. Make a choice right now. Sloan or the money. The dream or the kid,” I dare.
Carver’s hand curls into a ball. He closes his eyes and gives me an almost imperceptible nod. His lungs fill, and before he releases the breath, I bring the sledgehammer down. The force it takes to crush the bones from his wrist to his fingertips isn’t gentle. But the decision to do it is likely the most considerate one I’ve made.
Like me, there are threads of his past that Carver has held onto. Lies we’ve told ourselves that money is enough to buy happiness. To absorb our pain and set us free.
I wasn’t worthy of Liz. I didn’t go after Kimber fast enough. I held myself back from Holly because I couldn’t settle for not having all of her. The one-sided feelings weren’t as big as me not making amends with my ghosts. I didn’t know how until Paisley came along. And I still had to shutter her out to move forward.
Sloan is the best thing that ever happened to Carver. He needs her like the air he breathes. And although he’s committed to her, he hasn’t allowed himself the final step. As a kid, what he saw of a family was out of reach for someone raised by an addict. He can’t break down the last barrier to get what he wants now.
Not without my help. And what I’ve given my best friend is the ability to strip away his past and set the stage for the rest of his life. Ironic that it is in the same building where our mothers stripped off their clothes.
“God-fucking-dammit-all-to-hell-you-goddamned-asshole.” Carver’s blood-curdling bellow echo surrounds us.
He crouches, holding his painful shattered limb close, and I call for an ambulance.
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Kimber parked her car the closest. The three of us jump inside. A tense Sloan takes the front seat and tells Kimber where to go. Our words that everything will be fine don’t assuage her.
I’m worried, too. Aside from giving us directions, the only other thing we know is that Carver is hurt. Sloan fights back tears on the short drive.
We arrive at Sweet Caroline’s. Emergency vehicles dot the lot. In the daylight, the fire truck’s flashing lights replace the pink neon glow I’d become accustomed to. A paramedic with a red bag slung over his shoulder leaves the ambulance’s back doors swinging.
The scene is chaotic. Self-preservation had me avoiding this stretch of road, so I hadn’t known the building was undergoing renovation. Chain link construction fencing protects the materials workers are storing to use inside. We dash by two-by-fours and drywall scattered near the entrance.
I haven’t allowed myself to worry about Jake. Yet, now I can’t help the way my stomach churns.
Is anyone else is injured? And how badly?
Inside, the police officer on the scene allows Sloan to pass when Jake waves her over. Jake’s eyes meet mine for the briefest moment. Seeing him safe sucks the breath out of me. A flare of awareness flashes across his face, making me weak in the knees. But as fast as both happen, Jake turns, ushering Sloan down the hall. The officer stationed at the door stops Kimber and me from going further into the theater than the entryway.
“We need this area clear for the medics to wheel him out. They’re taking him to the hospital,” the cop says with authority. They won’t answer any more of our questions.
Frazzled and clutching one another’s hands, I look around while Kimber dials Trig. Ear pressed to her phone, she tells her husband to meet them at the emergency room as soon as he can.
Their conversation peters out, and other noises come to the forefront. The building is busy and at the same time work has come to a standstill. Voices echo through the massive space. Open plumbing is visible where the bar used to be. The reserved booths are missing. It’s a blank wall now. At least there is a wall there. In darker corners, some areas appear skeletal with no drywall. My toes twitch, seeking to spread out and sink into the carpet. Except under my shoes is cold gray concrete. The heavy red velvet curtains surrounding the stage are gone. The stage itself is the only recognizable feature. Upon it sits a large sanding machine. Below it? A pile of sawdust from stripping the wide wooden floorboards.
I’m astonished. Gutted, Sweet Carolines looks nothing like the strip club I ran into on Valentine’s Day.
Around the same time I’m able to pick my jaw up, the EMTs roll Carver out on a stretcher. The red bag the paramedic carried rests by his feet. Carver has his arm, splinted and bandaged from the tip of his hand to his elbow, crossed over his chest. Pain radiates from Carver’s tight features and the stillness of his body.
Sloan is walking beside him, guided by Jake, who has a gentle hand on her back. Her fingertips play at her parched lips and her face is tear-stained.