Chapter 31

I can't believe this is happening. I can't do this again, losing the mother of my child and now this? There is no way I'll survive it again. Well, I'll live but I won't be living. This will ruin me.

Sloane's words keep playing over and over in my head as I pace the street, watching as the firefighters battle the flames.

I love you. Make sure Atlas is okay.

Even as her own life is threatened, she worries about my son. It makes me fall for her even harder.

As a parent, that's all you want for your child when they're looking for a partner. Well, if you're a decent parent, that is.

It doesn't matter if they're straight or not, black, white, or purple. I only ever wanted Atlas to be happy and to be loved. For someone to care for him deeply.

Sloane is that person for him and I'm lucky enough to be able to call her mine, too.

Or was lucky enough.

I can't think like that. She has to be okay. They sent two guys inside and neither has come out yet; that has to be a good sign… right?

The place isn't that big though, so what's taking them so long?

They can't have fallen because that would really light a fire under the department's ass.

Tires squeal, jolting me from my thoughts. Instinctively, I turn, my heart pounding in my chest, even though deep down, I already know who it is. Atlas.

Sure enough, his truck hurtles down the street and I brace myself as he skids to a stop.

He bursts out of the truck and rushes toward me, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of the bar. I reach out, grabbing him as he collapses into my arms, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild.

"Did they get her out? Please tell me she"s out, Dad," he pleads, desperation in every word.

My own eyes burn with unshed tears as I hold him close. "Nothing yet, son. She"s strong and stubborn. Don"t count her out, yet," I reassure him, though I was just having my own doubts.

"Chief! We found her!" A voice crackles over the radio, cutting through the tense air like a knife.

Both Atlas and I turn toward the charred remains of the Iced Rose. The fire is almost out, but nothing remains of the building. I don"t know what happened, but I intend to find out. We did the inspection ourselves before the sale was finalized and the electrical was up to code.

But there"s no time for answers now. A silhouette emerges from the rubble with his colleague behind him. My heart lurches as a firefighter walks out, cradling Sloane like a fragile doll.

Atlas gasps, wrenching himself away from me, his body convulsing as he doubles over, retching onto the ground.

"We need a medic!" the firefighter shouts.

Paramedics jump into action, running the stretcher toward Sloane. The fireman lays her down on it and the EMTs take her vitals, their voices a blur of urgency as they work to save her.

I run toward the ambulance and watch as they load her up into the back.

"Where are you taking her?" I demand, my voice raw.

"Swedish Memorial," someone says, but I don't pay attention to who.

Right before they close the back door of the ambulance, I see a paramedic jumping on top of Sloane, giving her CPR.

The firefighter locks the backdoor and bangs on the ambulance, signaling they're good to go. The vehicle speeds away and I stand there staring after it for a moment before a hand lands on my shoulder.

"She's in good hands. Those are two of the best paramedics I've seen," the firefighter tells me. Looking at his badge, I see his name is L. Fields.

"Thank you," I murmur and he gives me a small smile before jogging back toward the remnants of the bar.

I stumble back toward Atlas; he's on his knees. Grief washes over me like a tidal wave. But I can"t afford to fall apart, not now.

Atlas trembles in my arms, his sobs echoing in the stillness of the street. Tears stream down my face, but I push aside my own emotions, focusing on what needs to be done.

"We need to go to the hospital, son," I whisper. "They"re taking her to Swedish Memorial. We need to be there, no matter what happens, you hear me?"

He chokes out a weak, "Yes," and I pull him to his feet, steadying him as we make our way to his truck. I take the driver"s seat, allowing him to settle into the passenger side. My own truck can stay where it is; right now, it"s inconsequential. All that matters is Atlas beside me and Sloane fighting for her life.

I don"t tell Atlas they were performing CPR. He can"t handle that right now. We"ll get to the hospital and see what they say.

I push the speed limits, disregarding red lights and stop signs, my focus only on getting us to the hospital as fast as humanly possible. The emergency room parking lot greets us, and we rush inside, adrenaline pulsing through our veins.

I hate hospitals. They're all white and sterile and just scream this is where bad things happen. Shoving the unease to the back of my mind, I step up to the receptionist's desk.

"My son"s girlfriend was just brought in here by ambulance. Sloane Bucklee," I explain to the receptionist, my voice urgent.

She's my girlfriend too and while I'm not ashamed, Atlas appears more her age, and if they turn us away for any reason, it will be my undoing. So I give the quickest, easiest answer that comes to mind.

"I don"t have any information for you at the moment," she replies, her tone sympathetic. "The doctors are working on her now. As soon as we know something, I"ll have them speak to you."

We take our seats in the waiting room, the minutes stretching into eternity as we cling to each other, each second feeling like a lifetime. All we can do now is wait and hope, praying for Sloane"s survival.

Dad and I sit side by side, our shoulders tense with worry, our eyes fixed on the door as if willing it to open and bring us some news, any news.

It"s been an eternity since we arrived, since they whisked Sloane away, leaving us to wait in a state of uncertainty.

The fact that no one has come out and declared her dead must be a good sign. At least that"s what I"m clinging to, the fragile thread of hope that keeps me from crumbling completely. Because without Sloane, there"s nothing for me in this life. She"s my everything.

Earlier, detectives stopped in, wanting to speak to us, asking if we knew anyone who had a motive to do this. And if Sloane had any enemies.

Apparently, in her 911 call, Sloane named her attacker, the one who had started the fire. But since it's an active investigation, they couldn"t disclose the suspect"s identity.

I rattled off Jenna"s name and number, just in case, but while the girl is a gossip and hates Sloane, she wouldn"t attempt to kill her. That leaves Ali and the woman, Trina, whom Sloane fired. Unless Ali thought there was money or drugs inside or thought killing Sloane would get her cash, she had no reason to want her dead either. But would losing a job be enough to drive someone to attempted murder?

I don't know. But I"m so proud that my girl called 911 and turned in her attacker. Even though she thought this was her end, she was brave and called the authorities before calling us.

Finally, the doors swing open, and a doctor calls, "Atlas Duttin?"

Dad and I rise as one, my heart pounding as we follow him into a small room.

"Miss Bucklee took in a lot of smoke," he begins. "She has some damage to her throat and lungs from the inhalation. No burns miraculously. The firefighter said he found her behind the bar with a wet rag over her face. But it smelled like bleach. He's assuming she dipped it in the cleaning water in desperation. She had no irritation on her skin, but just in case, watch her. If she ingested any, she needs to drink plenty of fluids and she might have some diarrhea and stomach pains. To heal her lungs, she"ll need plenty of fluids as well, along with rest and no smoking, vaping, or being in a smoky atmosphere."

Relief floods through me. "She"s alive? She"s going to be okay?"

The doctor nods, confirming what I desperately needed to hear. "Very much alive. They lost her in the ambulance briefly but got her back. She"ll be sore and a little out of it, but she"s going to be okay."

"Thank you," my dad tells him. We shake hands, and the doctor leaves us alone in the small room.

A few seconds later, a nurse enters with a smile. "Would you like to see her? She's asleep, but you can sit with her."

She escorts us to the room and the minute I lay eyes on my woman, tears of relief blur my vision as I sink into a chair beside the bed, clutching her hand like a lifeline. Dad takes the seat opposite me, his expression a mix of relief and concern.

"She"s okay, Atlas," he murmurs, his voice soft with emotion.

"I was so scared, Dad," I confess, my voice trembling. "She"s everything to me. I don"t care about fast or slow or ex-wives or anything. She is my endgame."

"I know, son," he replies, squeezing Sloane"s hand gently.

"And you? You seemed so together and not worried," I ask.

"I was scared shitless," he admits. "But she made me promise to help you and as your dad, that"s my job. No matter how I was feeling. Yeah, Atlas, somehow I"ve fallen in love with my son"s girl and I wanna say I'm sorry, but I'm not. She"s an amazing woman. I"m not letting her go either."

I smile. "Then we don't. She's ours."

He nods in understanding, and together, we settle into a vigil by Sloane"s bedside, watching over her as she sleeps, grateful for every precious breath she takes. She"s not just my girl—she"s ours. And we"re not going to let her go without a fight.