Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

Benelli closes her eyes and presses three numbers on her phone. The relief is instant, and a cool, black dizziness circles around me. I stagger back into the corner of the dining room, and it's like I'm in a plane that ascended too quickly. My ears clog up and I can't hear a single thing. All I can focus on are the rushed, frantic movements of the people I love, loathe, and am undecided about until a knock reverberates from the door and breaks me out of my spell.

Paramedics rush in. Mr. Youngblood's face is fierce and accusatory. Benelli presses her phone to her lips and watches, eyes wide, as the workers shove Winch and his parents aside and begin the frantic work of trying to save Remy's life.

The seconds tick by in violently quick succession, but also drag like we're all set in excruciating slow motion.

They heave Remington onto a stretcher and rush out the door, Mrs. Youngblood at their heels, Mr. Youngblood following his wife. Winch chases after them, but the paramedic shakes his head. Not enough room in the ambulance.

I turn to Winch's siblings, huddled uncertainly in the dining room. Ithaca, who crept out from her bedroom when the screaming died down, is staring at the stain of Remington's blood.

"C'mon." I wave them with my hand. "Let's go make sure Remy is okay."

"Our father will call for us when Remy's ready to have visitors." Benelli crosses her arms and clamps her mouth in a determined line, even though her eyes race back and forth with anxious uncertainty.

Colt picks up the chair Remy knocked over when he fell.

"I want to go." His voice is shaky.

Ithaca comes to stand next to me. "Me too. I'm sick of waiting on everyone else to make decisions all the time."

I walk towards Benelli and keep my words low enough that her siblings can't hear. "You can wait for your father to call you. Just be prepared if you never get the call you're expecting. Did you see him? Remy is sick. Really sick. And this might be...you may want to be there. In case."

I can't bring myself to even say the words, but just hinting at them has Benelli blinking like mad, her resolve shaken.

"I'll get my purse," she murmurs, pushing past me.

The twins file to the car, and I come to stand next to Winch, who hasn't moved a muscle since the ambulance pulled away. He's frozen still, his eyes staring at the vacant spot where he last saw his brother.

I'm afraid.

I shake and cold sweat because this was my idea. I pushed things. I added fuel to the fire and even threw the match that ignited this raging inferno.

I had no idea it would turn out like this.

I had no idea Remy would wind up in the back of an ambulance.

I'm afraid Winch will blame me. Will accuse me of working against his family. Will take out his pain on me. Will be unable to forgive me. Will hate me.

I put one hand on his arm, and the touch of my fingertips on the skin above his elbow shocks him out of his catatonic state. He blinks once, twice, his face a complete and total blank that makes my throat go dry.

And then he sweeps me into a huge, crushing hug, his face buried in my hair so I won't see him crying the tears I feel soaking into my skin.

I slide my arms around his waist and rub along his back. He's a few towering inches taller and pounds of packed muscle heavier than I am, but I do my best to offer him as much physical comfort as I can.

"This is my fault." The words hiss out, and I know it's because if he speaks clearly, the sobs will make good on their clear and present threat. "I did this to him. I put him in the hospital."

"Shut up." I force my voice to stay firm and rough while my hands soothe and gentle through his hair and knead at his neck. "Shut your mouth. Don't you dare put this on your shoulders. Your brother was seriously ill. If he didn't fall today, in front of your whole family, he would have done it in private. And maybe choked on his puke or his tongue and died. Or maybe your parents would have decided not to take him to the hospital. It needed to happen exactly the way it happened. He needed medical attention, and now he's getting it."

He pulls his mouth across my face and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that's more ravenous than romantic.

"I love you," he says against my mouth. "Thank God you're here. I don't know what I would have done without you. I love you, Evan."

The relief is so intense, I sag against his body, dropping the strong girlfriend act for a long second so I can just be with him, locked in his arms, happy in this moment when we somehow crystallized as a unit, a pair, a bonded set of two. I am the pepper to his salt, I am the cream to his coffee, I am the jelly to his peanut butter, and it feels good. It feels right.

I hope with everything in me that it lasts.

His siblings file out of the house and squeeze into the back of the car, which I drive because Winch is still shaken and edgy. Even the fact that I’m the one driving is a huge proclamation of how our relationship stands and what it means. He trusts me behind the wheel, driving his siblings, taking him to the hospital to join the rest of his family. I just watched Winch's brother seizure and got talked down to from his parents, but I feel, strangely, good. Real. Happy.

And nervous. Frustrated. Mistrusting. I know very, very well how the best feeling in the world can sometimes be nothing but the prelude to disaster.

We pull into the