Free This Is Love, Baby (War & Peace #2) by K Webster

memories.
    Something niggles at me.
    Something heavy.
    As if my heart is aching.
    “Son, you were shot. Do you remember that?”
    Again, I shake my head no.
    His frown is immediate. “Do you remember Baylee?”
    Baylee. Baylee. Baylee.
    My heart rate speeds up and I can hear it on the monitor. The sound is comforting and I find myself needing to count the beats. How many of those rapid beats would resound on the monitor in a minute’s time? My eyes dart all around the room in search of a clock. Finding nothing, I decide to count them. One, two, three, four, five, six—nearly two beats per second. Two beats per second means one hundred twenty in one minute. Is that normal? Is it abnormal? Is it the reason I’m in the hospital after being shot like Dad claims?
    I forget to count when I’m with you.
    The voice, my voice , echoes in my head over and over again. That phrase seems to be a mantra I’ve created for myself. Because of her.
    I close my eyes and I see her bright blue eyes. Kind and compassionate. Hungry and loving.
    She loves me.
    And I love her.
    Reopening my eyes, I plead with them to my father. To ask him where she is. Everything is confusing and hazy but when it comes to thinking about her, I can recall every tiny detail of her beautiful face.
    “I’m sorry but…” Dad trails off and reaches for my hand. I jerk it away before he can touch me.
    My heart rate thunders in my achy chest and the beats are out of control. The machine is dinging noisily at my side. Why is he sorry? What happened to her?
    “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. McPherson,” a woman says from somewhere else in the room. “Or should I call you Mr. Atlantic?”
    The panic in my chest doesn’t subside and I’m at the point where I feel as if it might rip right down the middle at any second. My skin would tear while the bones would crack as my heart makes its escape. Blood would spurt and spray the dingy, yellow ceiling tiles, making them a brilliant red instead.
    An attractive older woman steps into view, her brown eyes narrowing at me. I don’t know her, yet she appears to know me. Before she gets too close, Dad stops her with his arm.
    “That’s close enough, Detective Stark.”
    Stark?
    Why does that name ring all sorts of bells in my head?
    She nods her acquiescence. “We’d like to talk to you about Baylee Winston and Gabriel Sharpe. She’s wanted for questioning right now for her involvement in your attempted murder. We have reason to believe she was Mr. Sharpe’s accomplice. Is it correct that you were sending funds to help her mother?”
    The room spins and I snap my eyes closed to keep from throwing up. With this tube down my throat, who knows what would happen. I could drown on my own vomit. It would spew and spew but would have nowhere to go. Gobs of stomach acid would find their way into my lungs, burn through the tissue, and eventually suffocate me. Then who would help Baylee?
    I reopen my eyes and affix my gaze to my father. With furrowed brows I plead for him to explain to her that Baylee is my love, not some criminal. He frowns and nods, a knowing look on his face.
    “Parking is a nightmare around here,” another voice complains, interrupting our exchange when he enters the room.
    A middle-aged man with a receding hairline strolls in with his hands on his hips. I become fixated on his unusually long fingernails—too long for a man—on each hand. Black. Dirty and filthy underneath. And crawling with bacteria. Who the fuck doesn’t clean under their fingernails?
    My dad is saying something to Stark about Baylee, but I can’t take my horrified stare from the man who takes those same disgusting fingers and retrieves a discolored toothpick from his front pocket. He pops it into his mouth between his teeth and starts gnawing on the thing like he’s a goddamned beaver.
    Smack. Smack. Smack.
    The sound grates on me but the sight is much worse.
    Moisture forms on his lips and I shudder to think of how