Another seven days have passed and it’s time for more words based up the #1LineWed theme. This week, it’s all about the **NUMBERS.** In this case, it’s who you call in an emergency. Declan, the hot-shot attorney for the Boston Wolves and he’s being trying to figure out how to get Maggie O’Brien’s number. Not quite sure this is what he had in mind…
Declan gazed around. This wasn’t his house. Where was he? The door behind him opened and light spilled out across him. A feminine gasp and a familiar scent washed over him. He had watched her for weeks—from the moment the cab dropped her and her suitcases off on the sidewalk. Her comings and goings. Visitors—of whom there were very few. Lying on her stoop bleedin’ like a stuck pig didn’t go far toward makin’ a good impression on his new neighbor.
“Ya think?” He’d been shot at least twice, beat to shite, and stabbed once and this damn sure wasn’t the way he’d planned on introducing himself to his new neighbor. The old lady who owned the row house next to his died but before any of the lads could snap it up, she showed up, lock, stock, and suitcases and moved right in. Ronan lived down the street. His brother, Mick, lived across the street. The others in the inner circle had apartments nearby but Ronan had a plan. He wanted everyone in houses spread up and down the block for tactical reasons. Declan’d been trying to get to his own place but obviously miscounted and here the pretty, little interloper was, squatted beside him smellin’ of honey and sweet clover with concern in those big blue eyes of hers.
“I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“The hell y’are.”
“Look you. I’m an ER nurse and I know gunshot wounds when I see—” He snatched the phone out of her hand and tucked it in the front pocket of his trousers.
“Don’t need the ER,” he insisted. Deck fished out his own phone because he wouldn’t stay conscious much longer. There was no way he’d end up in a human hospital. He stabbed out a number and heard a mumbled, “Fuck, Declan, you’d better be dyin’, boyo.”
Deck managed to grunt out, “I think I might be, Mick.” He caught the sound of a woman’s voice on Mick’s end but couldn’t make out her words. Yeah, he was fading fast. “I didn’t quite make it home but I’m close. Can ya give a mate a hand?”
The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered on the steps below him. Damn. He’d have to buy a new one, providing he survived. A door slammed across the street and then another. Before he slipped completely away, Mick and Sean were there.
Angry voices floated just on the edge of his hearing but the words made no sense. The only things he was sure of was the press of a cool hand on his fevered brow—and didn’t that just sound all poetic—and the scent of honey and sweet clover filling his nose and calming his wolf.
At least he got her attention, right? Writers, do you have any numberbs to share? Readers, I need to win the lottery. What are your lucky numbers? 😉