Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (best affordable ebook reader txt) 📕

something sat like an anvil atop his chest.  Blocked the sun from his face.  Prevented air from reaching his lungs.

He lifted one arm in a feeble bid for freedom, but pain propelled through it like a rocket.  “Shit.”

“Clay!”

The voice rang familiar, frantic and female.  What sounded like boards clattered, followed by the peal of sirens and the whoosh of water.  Around him, fire cackled and roared.  He wondered how close he was to the flames.

“I think he’s over here!”

Kim.  That was definitely Kim.

“I need a hand with this!”

More clattering, then light speared his eyes.  Until a cloud of black smoke roiled to obscure the sun, its acrid scent falling like dirty rain.

“Oh, thank God.” Kim’s worried frown hovered.  She touched his cheek, brought her fingers away bloody.  He wondered if she knew that her face was smudged.  “Just hang on a minute, Clay, and we’ll get this off of you.”

With the admission of daylight, Clay could see that he’d been pinned by a chunk of door.  The door that had been connected to the house. The house that had just blown up.

With Max in it.

“On three…”

Clay cried out as the heavy piece of wood was lifted, oxygen filling his lungs in a painful rush.  Two men he didn’t recognize carried the door off to the side, and tears flooded his eyes as he attempted to lever himself onto his good arm.  “Max.”

“Shh,” Kim cajoled, closing in, easing him down.  Concerned blue eyes darted over him, visibly widening at the sight of his arm.  “Don’t try to move yet.  Max is fine.”

Yeah, right.  Like he was going to believe that.  Kim was just trying to pacify him to keep him from moving – as if he cared if he’d broken a few bones.  “Don’t lie to me, dammit.” And heaving his weight, pushed her off.  “Where’s Tate?” Jesus God, he had to see her.  “Tate!”

“Is he okay?” he heard her voice, wrecked from grief, but he couldn’t see her.  Then Kim moved back, calling for an EMT, and there she was, dropping to her knees.  “Oh Clay.  Your arm.”    She visibly paled, touched his cheek.  “I thought you were dead.” And her sob was pitiful.  “You just… flew into the air…”

Unable to speak, she leaned over, tears dripping onto his cheeks to mingle with his own.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, lips a hair’s breadth from her ear.  “I’m so, so sorry.  God, Tate.  I… I loved him, too.”

Leaning back, Tate blinked at him, and unbelievably, started to smile.  It dawned slow at first, hesitant, but burst forth into a blinding grin.  “Max is fine,” she echoed Kim’s earlier declaration.  “Well, maybe not fine, but he will be.  In all the panic and chaos, I forgot that you couldn’t have…” She shook her head, and pointed toward a nearby ambulance.  “He’s drugged, still, and we’re getting ready to head to the hospital.  But his vital signs are all good.  He’ll be sick, some, they said, but he’s alive, Clay.  He’s…” she lifted her shoulders and then relaxed them in a heartfelt sigh. “Alive.”

The rush of emotion was like nothing he’d ever known.  Relief.  Awe.  Love…

Confusion.

“How –” he started, but then Kim appeared, medical technician in tow, two others following with a stretcher.  The EMT knelt next to him, asking Tate if she could please move back.

“Casey Rodriguez,” she explained, reluctantly leaving his side.  “She was in the house.  She went through the bathroom window and climbed out onto the porch roof, carrying Max.  One of the snipers saw her, and radioed that they were out.  That’s what your friend Kim was trying to tell you.  Casey jumped, holding onto Max, and, I think, twisted her ankle, but she managed to get clear of the house.”  She pushed her fingers to lips that trembled.  “They’re going to be okay.”

“Sir,” the EMT interrupted as Clay tried to sort through what Tate was saying. Casey Rodriguez had saved Max?   What about Walker?  “We’re going to need to get you into an ambulance,” the man continued his professional buzzing in Clay’s ear.  “Your arm’s busted up pretty good.”

Yeah, Clay was beginning to get that picture.

“Can he ride in the ambulance with Max?” Tate wanted to know, watching the proceedings with anxious eyes.

“That’s not standard procedure.” The man braced Clay’s neck, stabilized his arm so that they could lift him onto the stretcher.  Clay felt little right now, but knew the shock would wear off and it was going to hurt like a bitch.

“Please,” he said, grabbing the man’s arm with his good hand.  “He’s… mine.”

The EMT blew out a breath, glanced at the nods from his colleagues.  “Okay.  But anybody asks, we went by the book.”

       THE IV Clay was hooked to contained some pretty awesome drugs.

He was feeling no pain, that was for sure, as Tate ran her fingers through his hair while they waited for the EMTs to wrap things up. He groggily looked over at Max, noticed Tate’s other hand clutching her son’s.  Other than a few scrapes, bruises and a good bit of dirt, the boy didn’t look too worse for wear.  There was the drug to worry about, of course, but if his respiration was good…

It could have been so much worse.

Frowning, he glanced toward the open ambulance doors.

“Do you see Kim anywhere out there?” He wanted to know if they’d found any sign of Walker.

“Um…”  Tate shifted beside him, straining her neck so that she could see around the doors.  “She’s over by that van.  Do you want me to go get her?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.  Once they get me into surgery, it will be a while before I can talk to her.”

After dropping a kiss onto both his and Max’s cheeks, Tate reluctantly climbed out from beside them.  “Be right back.”

Clay closed his eyes, feeling his body float, as if the laws of gravity could hold him no longer.  And though the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant, he wanted to stay alert until he spoke with Kim.

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