Seven years ago, Tristan Knight walked away from the love of his life, Serenity Harris, without a word or a backwards glance. No goodbye. No Dear John letter. No words of apologies or excuses. She'd woken up one morning to an empty bed, her body sor...
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The place was crawling with police. Everywhere she looked, all she saw were police cars. Sirens were going off. The blue and white vehicles were pulling up and screeching to a halt; cops were getting out and running; others were on their radios; a few were standing by talking intimately, while still a few others were barricaded against several journalists and news crews, trying to ward them off. How the hell had the news gotten out to the public?
It was hard for the car Serenity was in to get through; it was hard to hear coherently, hard to focus on one thing. So much activity was going on. The moderate-sized vacant lot was literally swamped with at least thirty-forty vehicles, each jockeying for position to get ahead of one another. Horns were blaring; first responders were yelling out of windows, cops were screaming at people; a few of them were even directing the bystanders, attempting in vain to move them out of the compacted space.
Serenity was frozen in terror. Her eyes were wide with grief and fear; her body corded tight with stress and uncertainty as Nyle cautiously made his way through the mass of police cars, firetrucks, and ambulances.
Ambulances?
Serenity weakly leaned forward in her seat, trying in vain to see through the sea of people and inconvenient traffic to where the SUV sat snuggled beneath the bridge.
She peered through the tinted windshield of Nyle's Aston Martin and cringed at the vision of shattered glass on the windshield of Tristan's Mercedes SUV.
She closed her eyes tight at the visual and fervently began praying to herself.
Please God. Please God. Please. Let him be okay. Please. Please.
Haltingly, she opened her eyes and struggled to focus on the scene in front of her. She was looking for someone, anyone to alert her to what was going on; what had happened. Katherine. A police officer. Tristan himself. Anyone. She hated they couldn't get through quickly enough. From the look of things, it had to be pretty bad. She couldn't reconcile in her mind that there would be so many emergency responders if there wasn't.
She was afraid to breathe, afraid to think, afraid to talk... She had difficulty swallowing. She was breathing and dry-heaving so hard, almost to the point of hyperventilating. The spaghetti she'd tasted before Ricky had shown up was swirling wildly in her body, threatening to project itself from her body. Trembles racked her body as she obsessively rocked back and forth in her seat, tightly squeezing her own arms; then gripping the arm rests of her seat so hard pain was shooting through her fingers.
Her mind kept going back to two weeks before. When she'd seen him on her doorstep. When he'd touched her. When she'd touched him. When they'd kissed, embraced, and practically made love to one another. The empty explanations that she refused to hear. All the horrible things she'd said to him. Her tears. His tears. Him begging for her forgiveness. The love she saw in his eyes. The desperation, the fear, the agony, the lust, the self-hatred for himself... And she'd just added to it. She'd been so cold. So heartless. She'd never forgive herself if he was dead. Never.
