“Sure,” Frank says then smiles at me and winks.
“This is going to be bad. I’ll go get the car,” Aye mumbles, leaving the kitchen.
“It will be fine,” Frank states.
I hope so.
*
“I can’t believe you shot me,” Frank groans, lying back on the stretcher.
“It’s barely a scratch.” Aye rolls his eyes.
I squeeze Frank’s hand, because even if it is just a scratch, he is right. I just shot him.
“A bullet hit me,” Frank growls.
Aye just shakes his head.
“All right. You’re free to go,” the EMT says after placing a Band-Aid over the small wound.
“Are you sure that’s safe? What if I have a concussion?” Frank asks.
The EMT looks at him like he has lost his mind.
“Come on, Frank. Let’s get you home so you can lie down and rest,” I interject.
“That’s probably smart. I’m a little tired,” he tells me, and I fight not to laugh at him. “And you should call me Uncle Frank.” His arm goes around my shoulders and I feel myself stumble slightly from his weight.
“Okay, Uncle Frank.” I tilt my head to look up at him.
He smiles, but then his face goes serious. “Don’t tell Kai about this,” he pleads.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing and nod my head once. Then I help him the rest of the way out to the car. No way would I tell Kai about this. I could only imagine his reaction.
Kai
As soon as I get off the plane in Vegas, I head to the car that is waiting for me. Frank Jr., my uncle’s son, is standing outside with his arms crossed over his chest and a look of displeasure on his face. He looks just like my uncle, but where Frank Sr. is slightly crazy, Junior is serious and has been my right arm since I was just a little kid.
“Brother,” he rumbles, greeting me with a handshake and a half hug.
“How’s it going?”
“Could be better, but then you know that or you wouldn’t be here,” he says.
“Did you get in touch with Rosenblum?” I ask him, opening the back door to the car and tossing my bag inside before heading to the driver’s seat.
“He’s meeting us there,” he mutters once we’re both seated.
I start the car but pull my phone out of my pocket, sending a quick text to Aye to let him know that I’m on the ground and ask him what Myla’s doing. His text of, Good. She’s in the kitchen baking, comes in almost immediately. I ease back in my seat, put the car in drive, and head for the police station downtown.
“My dad phoned this afternoon when you were in the air. Said he got shot today,” Junior says nonchalantly.
My eyebrows pull together. If something happened, I would have been notified at the time.
“Did he shoot himself?” I half joke.
“Said your wife shot him.”
I slam on the brakes, look over at my cousin, and pull my phone out, dialing my uncle’s number before putting it to my ear.
“You land?” he asks on the first ring, sounding normal.
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Good. Myla’s safe and in my direct line of vision. I will keep you up to date on her whereabouts.”
I grit my teeth and growl, “Heard you got shot today.”
“Dammit, woman. I told you not to tell him you shot me,” he complains.
I hear Myla in the background reply, “I haven’t even talked to him!”
“How the fuck did Myla shoot you, Frank?” I bark.
“She wanted to learn how to shoot a gun,” he says, and I hear Myla ask him what I’m saying.
“Goddammit, Frank! What the fuck were you thinking?” I holler.
“How was I supposed to know she was such a bad shot?” he protests.
“I’m going to kill you, Frank. Swear to Christ, when I get home, I’m going to kill you.”
“Hey, now. I should be the one complaining. After all, I did get shot today.”
“Where’s Aye?” I demand, and the phone goes quiet for a moment.
“You don’t even have to say it,” Aye sighs.
“Apparently, I do. What the fuck were you guys doing?”
“Frank said it would be good for Myla to learn how to shoot, she agreed, and I agreed with them. The plan was good, man. Just the situation got fucked up.”
“Do not…under any circumstance…leave Myla in Frank’s care. You got me?”
“You know I wouldn’t,” he assures me.
“Good. Now, how bad was he hurt?”
“Grazed,” he whispers, and I can only imagine my uncle eating that shit up like it was a near-fatal wound.
“Put Myla on.”
“Hello,” she says softly.
“No guns, makamae,” I tell her firmly and hear her move around for a moment.