Feisty (The Do-Over Series Book 3), Page 2

  “Cops ain't takin' me nowhere,” he growls, the words layered, an imminent threat. He reaches for his waistband and suddenly, I know.

  I know what he's reaching for.

  If he gets a gun in his hands, this is over.

  Comical confusion crosses his face as I keep my knees loose, the lights from the cop car turning into the lot. Seconds pass like hours, but it's really only been three minutes since he banged on the door, according to the analog clock on the wall, the giant owl's eyes staring at us with a solemnity that is meant to be wise, but I find terrifying.

  “What the–” Tearing his gaze away from me, he looks around.

  I use my peripheral vision to find what he's looking for, neck turning when I realize what he's lost.

  His gun is under a chair at the bubble station. My kick knocked it out of his pants.

  Poetry comes when you least expect it, not mere words on a page but emotion that truncates because it's too big to convey any other way. Our bodies speak in silent poetry, too. Pain, grief, horror, terror, disappointment, dismay, regret, loneliness, evil–it all emerges one way or another.

  Right now, my body's poem starts with one word:

  No.

  Diving for the gun, Rico doesn't bother with subtlety. The parking lot is suddenly screaming, just like me as I walk toward his back, twisting to do the mid-air jump and turn I need, every ounce of my No centered in my core, pushing energy from it to the ball of my foot.

  Which connects with the back of his head.

  No.

  He goes down as the screech of tires fills the air, a parallel sound to the one his car made just three minutes ago. The scent of burnt rubber is in my nose, although that's impossible, and my throat is sore from warrior screams I don't realize I'm making until the video is reviewed.

  The arch of my foot is on his neck.

  The gun is still under the bubble table chair.

  And every goddess in the history of the multiverse converges in me, their energy lent to me, feeding me, my body a furnace, an atom, a star, a fusion ball with a singular purpose: to save.

  To protect.

  To win.

  And so I roar.

  I roar, arm up in thanks to all that aligned to stop him as the police burst through the door, guns drawn on us. I roar in gratitude as Officer Capobeira puts his hands on my shoulders, his barrage of words meaning nothing, just gibberish I can't understand because I don't speak with my mouth anymore. I am pure energy, centered for one act, one move, one moment.

  How do you unravel enough to remember words?

  More cops.

  More lights.

  Cars and more cars are pulling in, frantic parents appearing, police officers and ambulances clustered in front.

  “Fiona. Fiona,” Officer Capobeira says, bending and kneeling before me like Prince Charming at the ball, his hands on my slippered foot, gently pulling up as another officer zip-ties Rico's hands behind his back. He's flat on his belly, body covering a train mat designed for play.

  “Gun,” I whisper.

  The cops both freeze. “Where?” they ask in unison.

  “Got it!” a female officer calls from the bubble station. “And some kind of pick over there.” She points to the Peace Table.

  “He attacked you with that?” Officer Capobeira asks as he stands, my foot now on the edge of the area rug, Rico hauled to his feet.

  “Crazy woman attacked me!” he screams. “She broke my toof!” Blood clots along his lower jaw. “I was just here to pick up my kid. I got custody papers. And she went crazy on me!”

  “Yeah, yeah, Rico. Tell it to the judge,” the female cop says.

  “MATTIE?” A man I know, wearing a paramedic badge and uniform shirt, appears at the glass door. His sharp green eyes catch mine, worried and frantic. “Fiona? Where's Mattie?”

  “Get out of here. Crime scene,” Capobeira snaps, eyes cutting over to someone behind the paramedic, a curt nod and a sudden burst of compassion confusing me.

  The paramedic looks at Rico. “You piece of shit. If you hurt Mattie–”

  Mattie? Why is this paramedic so worried about Mattie?

  Oh. Right. Paramedic. Because that's Fletch. Chris Fletcher.

  Tingling starts at my kneecaps, blooming at different points on my body, energy overloading my skin and pouring through me wherever it can, as fast as it can, my body too small to contain it. Nerve endings in my jawline fire up, sending starbursts into my vision, my diaphragm frozen, my chest a wall of bones held together with nothing more than residual fear.

  Fletch.

  The paramedic is Fletch.

  Fletch from Mallory’s wedding party.

  Fletch from middle school.

  The last time I dropkicked someone, it was him.

  And it was in that moment, seventeen years and a lifetime ago, that I became Feisty.

  “Mattie's mine!” Rico screams at Fletch. “You and your bitch mother poisoned Candi against me!”

  He lunges at Rico, the officers anticipating it, a wall of dark-uniformed men and women appearing suddenly. Two paramedics grab Fletch's arms, elbows bent, his face hard to see with so many big, powerful officers surrounding him.

  “Don't, man. He's not worth it.” Capobeira's voice is calm, measured–and loud enough to make sure Rico hears.

  “Besides,” someone else says, their voices mingling as they all turn into energy threads, their bodies no longer real and distinct. “He got the shit kicked out of him by a chick. That's all the guys in lockup with him need to know.”

  Masculine laughter fills the air. I look at Fletch.

  He's not joining in.

  “Fiona?” he asks, stepping toward me. “Guys, I think she's about to–” Warm, strong hands hold my shoulders as my legs turn to rubber, energy whirling inside me, trapped in place, desperate to leave. Fletch's hand goes around my waist, his polo shirt collar brushing against my cheek.

  I look up. Why do I hate him again?

  “I'm sorry,” I whisper, brushing my fingers against his short, brown hair. It's shiny and handsome, softer than I expect.

  “For what?”

  I can't answer, the room filling with blue light, not from cop cars but from some other layer of consciousness that makes my heart zoom, my skin grateful for his power, because his eyes care, his hands care, and his expression–oh, his face, his handsome, strong, clear-eyed, worried face...

  It's the last face I see before I faint.

  Chapter 2

  “Fi? Fiona? You did it,” Michelle says, tears streaking her face, raccoon eyes and blue-streaked hair distressing until I realize it's mascara and her hairdo and I'm not dreaming about a Marvel Universe movie.

  I'm looking up. Behind her shoulder is the leaf mobile our class constructed just a few weeks ago, thirty-two different leaves from various deciduous trees creating a work of natural art.

  “I did what?” I start to sit up and quickly recline. The world spins.

  I need less spinning.

  “You saved us! You–God, Fi, he had a gun. A gun! That asshole brought a gun into the classroom and–” Her hand on my forearm starts to shake.

  Voice, too.

  This time, I do sit up. “Where are the children?” A prickly feeling creeps along my skin from the palms of my hands to the soles of my feet.

  “In the other room. The police are releasing them to their parents, one by one.”

  I look over, seeing only uniformed police officers and a paramedic who looks awfully familiar. One arm is around Candi Fletcher-Lingoni, the other on top of Mattie's head.

  Fletch.

  “Are they okay? The children?”

  “Terrified, but yes–they're fine. They're unharmed. Ani and I took them out the back office window and through the alley behind the insurance agency and the consignment shop. We got into the woods and hit the swamp before the cops arrived, so it all worked out.”

  “What about you?” Compassion roasts me from the inside out, so fast and full
, in a wave that makes me flush. “Oh, God, Michelle–the gun. The attack. You went through it before. Are you okay?”

  “No.” Her chin quivers. Swallowing hard, she squares her shoulders. “What're the odds, right?” A high, hysterical sound comes out of her. She sniffs and swallows again, suddenly looking considerably younger than her twenty-one years. “But the kids are fine. No one's hurt. No one died today.”

  No one died today.

  My heart squeezes, like a million souls are hugging it, desperate to fill it with happiness again.

  I grab her in an embrace and try desperately to refill her happiness, too.

  “Where's Ani?” I whisper in her ear.

  Michelle pulls back, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Being interviewed by the police.”

  “And Rico?” I shudder to say his name.

  “Arrested. They took him out of here before Mattie's uncle could beat him up. They found the gun and that long spike thing. Did he use that on you?” Her fingers trace something on my arm that stings. “Is this scratch from him?”

  “That's the same question I was about to ask,” says another person with a paramedic's badge that says JOSH. “Hi, Fiona. I'm Josh. You fainted, but your vital signs seem to be fine so far. Blood pressure's a little low. Does it tend to be low?”

  “What?”

  “Are you having a hard time hearing me?” he says louder, eyebrows up, arching over his black-rimmed glasses. Like Fletch, he has on a polo shirt with the town logo on it, a paramedic's badge marking his role.

  “No. Hearing's fine. Just–I'm just–” All I can do is blink. My throat closes up. My nostrils feel plugged. My pulse is in my ears, like the ocean gearing up for a nor’easter, the pounding waves growing.

  And I can't breathe.

  My lungs have decided that the world is too dangerous to make a move, utter a sound, do anything. I'm frozen, the pulse inside me growing stronger as time ticks away. My own shut-down system is the barrier to oxygen. The disconnect between what my body needs and what my tattered psyche can handle is causing my overload to leak out in a really obvious way.

  “Fiona?” Josh says, shaking me gently, Michelle looking to him for certainty.

  And then suddenly, Josh is out of my sight, replaced by two clear, calm, green eyes, light brown hair, and hands that feel like anchors.

  “Feisty? Feis–Fiona?” Fletch corrects. The sudden pivot to using my proper name is jarring, given the fact that every atom in the world is buzzing inside my ears and nothing anyone does will help me to breathe.

  I make a strange sound. I know it's strange because his eyebrows turn down in the middle, his facial muscles pushing them low enough to show concern.

  Concern for me.

  “Breathe,” he says slowly as he puts one hand on my diaphragm, fingers warm and firm.

  I make a sound to indicate that I am confused and the speech centers in my brain have shut down. Empathy floods me as I realize this is exactly what my student with severe apraxia, little Myles, must feel like when he loses his words under extreme stress. For years, I've said “use your words” to four-year-olds having anxiety fits.

  Never again.

  “Breathe, Fiona,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath to demonstrate, his belly expanding in a comical way, though I know his technique is strong. Hypnotic and commanding, his voice and body tell me what to do, guide me back from being lost in the woods to a cleared trail where I can find my footing, take a rest, and possibly feel safe again, knowing I can find my way home.

  I inhale, the insides of my nostrils cold, the air hitting my nasal passages a welcome assault, diaphragm spasming and sputtering back to life.

  “That's my girl,” he whispers against the curl of my ear, his breath like coffee, his hard forearm muscles all I can see, the ripped cord of his strong lines drawing my gaze. “You just breathe. It's over now. You did it. You saved them. It's okay to breathe.” He inhales, then slowly exhales. “Let's do this together now.”

  The back of my throat thickens, my ankles tingling, blood rushing to my extremities as the truth of what just happened in my classroom starts to course through me.

  “FIONA!” someone calls out. “Brad Johnson, NECN. Were you injured in the attack? Is it true the assailant had a gun? Do you have martial arts training? We have questions, Ms. Gaskill!”

  I look over to see flashes, cameras popping, people with video equipment crowding around the front door as police lights outside blind me, turning into a purple haze.

  “Hey,” Fletch says softly, drawing my eyes to him, turning my focus to something sharper. He's all I see now, the cacophony behind him just a buzz. “Come here.” Shielding me from the worst of the media circus that's taken over our parking lot, he curls me into him, becoming my shell, giving me his heat, his peace, his energy.

  I let him.

  I've received so much today, why not a little more?

  “Is it true you're specially trained for this?” someone shouts from the media horde. “You're a ninja nursery school teacher!”

  “Oh, God,” I groan.

  He glares in the general direction of the cameras. “The police want to interview you. I think you need to go to the hospital first.” He's not hugging me. We're not intertwined. He's just there, a solid wall between me and the cameras.

  Between me and the world.

  “Michelle says everyone's okay. The kids are okay? Tell me they're okay. Why am I saying the word okay all the time? Is that okay?” I ask, my mouth apparently detached from my brain.

  “Shhhhhhh.” Lips barely moving, he keeps his eyes on mine, watching me with his chin down, eyes up, as if he's ready to restart my heart at any minute.

  “I'm fine.”

  “You're anything but fine.”

  “Hey! I'm great in an emergency. I'm fine.”

  “You're damn great in an emergency. That still doesn't make you fine.”

  “But–”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For keeping Mattie safe.” His emphasis on the last word makes my knees buckle as the reality of what I did sinks in. The kids weren't safe. Hearing Fletch acknowledge that makes my stomach melt into my toes.

  “Fiona? Fi? Feisty?”

  “Don't call me...” My voice winds down as I pitch forward into his arms.

  It's the last thing I remember until I wake up to find my body on a stretcher, a warm blanket on me, and the sight of Fletch, whose expression makes it clear he's overwhelmed with gratitude.

  And pissed as hell as he bounces up and down, leaning suddenly to the left.

  “They were supposed to back off,” he mutters as the ground beneath me lurches to the right. I realize we’re in an ambulance.

  A moving ambulance.

  “They?”

  “The media.”

  I nod. “How long was I out?”

  “A few minutes. We're getting you to the hospital now.”

  “Hospital? I don't need–”

  “You're getting evaluated. Your blood pressure is low and you experienced syncope twice. That's enough for a doc to take a look at you. You got someone I need to contact?”

  “Huh?”

  “Boyfriend? Husband?”

  “You know I don't have either! We're in Mallory's wedding together. If I had one of those, I'd bring him!”

  “It's a formality. For the paperwork.” His amused side eye doesn't help matters. “And good to know you're back.”

  “Back?”

  “Back to being Feisty.”

  I kick him. He's just out of range, unfortunately, so my foot goes into dead air.

  “Careful. Those things are lethal.” He grabs my slippered foot, hand so warm, the grasp full of a caring possession so different from what Rico Lingoni just did to me.

  “I didn't kill him.” I move my hand so it's under the white blanket, the warmth very welcome. “Even if I wanted to.”

  Eyes flashing with emotion, Fletch leans toward me. “I wouldn't have
blamed you if you had.”

  “I used the least necessary force.”

  “That takes skill. Composure. Deep awareness.”

  “Yes.”

  “And compassion.”

  “Compassion? I pressed my entire weight into his neck.”

  “But you didn't break it. See? Compassion.”

  My laughter makes me feel guilty.

  The ambulance slows at the exact moment that a rush of energy infuses me. Closing my eyes, I touch it, drawing on my higher self, my wiser mind, to help me during this time. I need the positive power of the universe to support me.

  Feed me.

  Take care of me.

  “You okay?” Fletch asks, his voice filled with concern.

  I open my eyes. “Yes.” I'm trying to catch the essence of my core self. His sexy forearms aren't helping. I close my eyes.

  “What are you doing? Meditating?” This time, his voice is curious, not concerned, but I still don't open my eyes.

  “Something like that.” Trying to explain my energy healer, Jolene, to a guy like Fletch is just begging for teasing.

  “I meditate,” he says.

  My eyes fly wide open. “You do?” Through the small windows in the ambulance doors, I catch a glimpse of a large sign, glowing white and red, that indicates we've arrived at the emergency room. I'm suddenly embarrassed to be brought in via ambulance.

  “Sure. Lots of people do. Helps keep me focused at my gym.” The ambulance stops. “And here.”

  “I'd imagine being a paramedic requires a lot of grounding.”

  Pain flashes through his eyes like a flipbook. “Yeah.” He closes himself off, all professional composure. “Look, I'm still working my shift. This is where we part.”

  “My phone!” I gasp. “My purse! Where are they?”

  He reaches behind him. “Here.” He hands me my purse. “I already called Mallory and Perky.”

  “You what?”

  “Mallory insisted we all have each other's numbers because of the wedding. Remember? Something about the wedding party needing to be able to contact each other in an emergency. This counts,” he says with a grimace. “And Perky's still in town.” One side of his mouth goes up. “We have that dance lesson tonight.”