The Duplicate

Chapter Nineteen

Oh my God.

Whether I say the words aloud or the words flitter only in my thoughts, I don't know. Either way, my mind is whipped into overdrive.

He's bleeding.

The gunshot.

Oh God.

As if in water, feeling sluggish and slow, I move towards him. Without even being fully conscious of it, I am raising my hands, reaching out for his shoulder, breathlessly mumbling, "Where is it? Where are you bleeding?" My fingertips graze him, and at once Trip jerks away.

"Don't touch me," he growls through his teeth.

I'm baffled by his reaction. I shake my head and take another step towards him. "You're bleeding. Just... Let me help you. How bad is it? Let me—" The glare he sets on me stays my hand.

"Get. Back."

Jumping from his dangerous tone, I step away, wide-eyed.

An injured, snarling dog—that's what he is right now—ready to snap and bite at anyone who comes near him. His breath is tearing out of him. His gaze pierces my skin. In one hand he grips Hound's pistol, and the other clutches his shoulder. Blood oozes between his fingers; it glistens in the alley light. But it's too dark for me to see just how much he's losing.

If the bullet hit an artery Trip could die in minutes.

If we stay here much longer we'll both be dead. Someone was bound to hear that gunshot, and my screams.  

I turn my head towards the mouth of the alley, the direction of the club. Onlookers have now clustered in the street. No one seems brave enough to approach us. Someone is talking into a phone, no doubt calling the police. "We need to go," I say immediately, but a glint of silver, something metallic, draws my attention. Trip's pistol lies where he'd tossed it. Quickly I clack over, pick it up, and hold it awkwardly in my palm. Skimming my thumb over the grip—carefully, very carefully—I check the safety. It's on.

Just one glance at Hound, at his chest still rising and falling, and I avert my gaze.

When I return to Trip, I realize he hasn't moved. His eyes are closed.

"Trip."

He opens his eyes, stares at the ground.

"Trip, we need to go, right now."

He doesn't stir. He doesn't even act like he heard me.

My heart flutters. He's starting to scare me. I'm so used to him calling the shots and telling me what to do, it feels so wrong for him not to. What if he's bleeding out, right now, before my very eyes? My panic rises a few more notches.

"Trip," I say with more force.  

He lifts his head to look at me, but somehow his eyes look cloudy, like he's not really seeing me.

"Let's go. It's not that far—just please, we have to go."

This time he seems to hear me. He pushes off the wall.

The onlookers' voices bound off the walls, now sounding urgent as we start down the alley. I don't look back. I keep moving—with every step, Trip's pistol feeling heavier and heavier in my hand. When we reach the car, I glance aside at him. Maybe it's just the dimness of the streetlight, but he is starting to look pale. "Want me to drive?" I ask.

Without bothering to respond, he pulls open the back seat door and slides in. Taking that as a yes, I round the car, open the driver's side door, and get in. My heart thrashes against my sternum as I gingerly place the pistol in the empty passenger's seat.