Over the Edge 2: The Over the Edge Series, #2

Over the Edge 2

The Over the Edge Series, Volume 2

Erika Rhys

Published by Erika Rhys, 2015.

For everyone who has summoned the courage to leave an abusive situation and start a new life.

Copyright and Legal Notice:

This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights.

Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

First ebook edition © 2014.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental. Copyright © 2014 Erika Rhys. All rights reserved worldwide.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter One

My eyes fluttered open. Red lights flashed, and a gritty, burnt-rubber smell wafted in the cool night air. I blinked several times and tried to discern where I was.

I’m in an ambulance?

A man in scrubs leaned over me. His clinical gaze swept over me from head to toe, and then returned to my forehead. She’s got a superficial head wound, and cuts to her hands and knees.

The right side of my forehead throbbed with a dull pain. Gingerly, I touched the spot, and my fingers came away sticky with blood. I grabbed onto the sides of the stretcher and tried to get up, but I was strapped down.

The EMT held up his hand. Please lie back, miss. You have a serious cut and you may have a concussion as well. I’m going to wheel you into the emergency room.

What’s happened to me?

My lips parted to ask the question, but words wouldn’t come. I was too dazed to speak.

Here we go, the EMT said. He wheeled me toward a glass-doored entrance. The sign above the doors read Cambridge Hospital.

Cambridge. Hospital.

Images and emotions flooded through me.

The two vicious men who mugged Damien and me, turning a quiet evening into a race against death.

The smaller mugger’s cruel eyes. The edge of his knife, sharp and cold against my throat.

The glint of steel when the larger mugger’s blade flashed toward Damien.

The shock when that blade sank into Damien’s chest with a thick sound that I’d never be able to forget.

The EMT pushed my stretcher into the busy emergency room waiting area and past clusters of people. Face after face displayed grim stoicism, fearful anticipation of bad news, or something in between.

As I became more coherent, the full weight of what had happened earlier crashed into me.

I remembered the raw terror that I felt when Damien crumpled to the sidewalk—and didn’t get up.

I remembered his body sprawled on the sidewalk, unnaturally still.

I saw his white-lipped face against the blood that saturated his shirt and pooled around his head and shoulders.

So much blood.

The EMT wheeled me past a series of examination rooms. From one doorway, a patient moaned, and a chill trickled down my spine. Where was Damien? Had the police arrived in time to save him? Was he still alive, or was he forever lost to me?

My chest constricted. My heart stuck in my throat, and my lungs felt paralyzed. White spots floated in my vision, but I fought to remain conscious. I couldn’t pass out. Not again. Not now. I had to find Damien.

I gripped the sides of the stretcher and took a deep breath before I grasped the EMT’s forearm. My boyfriend—Damien Barlow. Where is he? Is he alive?

The EMT glanced down at me. Your boyfriend was rushed into surgery the moment the ambulance arrived with both of you. He’s alive, but he was stabbed in his shoulder, and has lost a lot of blood.

I closed my eyes at the thought of it. It was Damien’s shoulder and not his chest. Thank God. But there had been so much blood. Why so much blood? Had the knife severed an artery or something?

Is he going to make it? Please tell me the truth.

The EMT’s gaze softened. It’s too soon to know. But our trauma surgeons work miracles every day. Trust me, every effort is being made to keep your boyfriend alive.

* * * * *

The next few hours were among the longest of my life. I sat in a sterile green cell of a room that stank of antiseptic and gleamed with cleanliness, stainless steel, and fluorescent light.

Time dragged by as a succession of ER personnel cleaned me up and made sure that I was OK. I had cuts to my hands and knees, and a bloody gash on my forehead from when I’d fainted and fallen to the sidewalk.

I’d been lucky. That’s what everyone kept telling me. And in a way, they were right. I’d walk out of the hospital on my own two feet. I didn’t have symptoms of a concussion, and I wasn’t significantly injured.

At least not on the outside.

Physically, after spending years on the receiving end of my father’s fists, I’d been through worse than this. Maybe I should have felt relief that I’d escaped serious injury. Maybe I should have been more thankful for the skilled nurses who were patching me up. But how could I feel grateful for anything when Damien’s life remained on the line?

The nurses were kind and pleasant, but when I answered their questions, it was with difficulty. Yes, my head hurt. No, I hadn’t vomited. No, I no longer felt dizzy or nauseous. No, I couldn’t recall when I’d last had a tetanus shot.

Between cleanup, shots, and three stitches in my forehead, I asked nurse after nurse about Damien, but all they could or would tell me was that he was still in surgery. I could hardly wait for them to finish.

Once I get out of here, maybe I can find someone with more information.

Finally, after a flurry of paperwork, they let me go.

I left the examination room where I’d spent the past two hours and headed for the ER waiting area. Maybe someone there could give me an update on Damien’s condition.

When I reached the waiting area, I approached the Formica-topped reception desk, behind which sat two women.

One of them looked up from her computer. Your name, please? she asked. How may I help you?

Mia Martel. I’d like to ask about Damien Barlow, who I’m told is in surgery. We arrived together.

The receptionist tapped several keys on her computer. Damien Barlow is out of surgery. He’s been moved to intensive care. Are you a family member?

No, I’m Damien’s girlfriend. I was with him earlier tonight—when he was stabbed.

She scribbled a number on a pink sticky note and held it out to me. You need to call the Cambridge Police at this number.

I took the note. Can I see Damien?

She shook her head. Not unless you have permission from his family. What you need to do now is call the police and arrange a time to give a statement and pick up your belongings. You’re welcome to use one of our courtesy phones.

My belongings? Right now, I couldn’t care less about my purse or anything in it.

Yes. At the crime scene, the police picked up some personal items that they kept to dust for fingerprints.

Just then, a female voice came from behind me. Excuse me. You were with Damien tonight? The voice was low and measured, the accent refined.

I turned my head toward the source, and saw an elegant, fiftyish-looking brunette in a stunning midnight blue evening gown. Diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat. In contrast to the noise, color, and chaos of the crowded waiting room, she exuded calm, wealth, and control.

Yes, I said. Are you related to Damien?

Her gaze flicked over me, and I sensed wheels of evaluation turning and interlocking inside her flawlessly coiffed head. I’m Anne Barlow. Damien’s mother. She gestured toward the tall, silver-haired man at her side. This is my husband—and Damien’s father—Edward Barlow. We arrived about an hour ago. When the hospital called, we were just leaving a dinner at the governor’s mansion.

I nodded at each of them. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Barlow, Mr. Barlow. I’m Mia Martel. Can you tell me anything more about Damien?

Anne lifted one perfectly arched brow. Damien is as well as can be expected. The surgeons repaired a nicked artery and nerve damage to his left shoulder.

Nerve damage? I asked. What does that mean? I glanced at Anne, then at Edward.

In contrast to Anne’s impassivity, Edward was visibly distraught. His face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes reddened and haunted. He cleared his throat and spoke in a strained voice. Damien is out of danger. But he’ll need time and physical therapy to recover full use of his arm.

My stomach unclenched for the first time since the stabbing, and tension ebbed from my body. Damien’s life no longer hung in the balance. Maybe this senseless nightmare was finally coming to an end.

Is he conscious? I asked. Can I see him?

Anne looked at me as if I were a fly that had landed on her manicured hand. Not now. Damien is heavily sedated to manage the pain from his injuries. What he needs more than anything is to rest. Her voice took on an arctic edge. "You mentioned that you’re his most recent girlfriend, correct? If that’s true, then I’m certain that he’ll call