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Chapter 22

Bystanders immediately ran screaming while a couple of others ran over from afar having seen Jalen get hit. The suspect fled before firing another shot. Jalen, barely conscious and bleeding profusely, struggled to pull out his phone but managed to do so and dialed a contact: Chrysti Oliviera.

Chrysti answered after a couple of rings.

"Hey." She says softly.

There's no response at first.

Then she hears on the line a strained voice that says, "I'm sorry..." and then a rattling sound as if the phone had been dropped on the ground.

Then nothing. The only noise Chrysti could hear was that of people yelling and screaming in the background. Chrysti immediately straightened up and began to panic.

"Jalen? Jalen?! JALEN!!"

Chrysti's heart stopped.

"JALEN?! What the fuck—Jalen?!" she screamed into the phone, but there was nothing. Just the faint, hollow sound of the line still being connected, but no voice responding.

Her hands shook so violently she almost dropped the phone. She scrambled out of bed, heart hammering in her chest as adrenaline surged through her veins. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed her keys, still in her yoga pants and tank top, and ran to her car. Something was wrong, and she didn't care what time it was, didn't care about anything except finding him. As she threw herself into the driver's seat, she realized she had no idea where to go. Jalen hadn't said where he was or what had happened, but she had heard the pain in his voice, the weakness, the fading.

She forced herself to take a breath. "Think, Chrysti. THINK."

Jalen had told her earlier that day when they texted that he was going out, but he never mentioned where. Was he home? No, that didn't make sense. If he was home, why would he be calling her instead of one of the others?

"He called me." She thought.

Her blood ran cold. That meant whatever happened... he didn't want the others to know just yet.

"Come on, Jalen," she muttered, dialing his number again as she peeled out of the parking lot. It rang. And rang. And rang.

Then it went to voicemail. Chrysti cursed and slammed the steering wheel, feeling tears sting her eyes.

"No. No, no, no, no."

She had to find him. She had to save him. She tried again, and it answered! Only this time, an unfamiliar voice picked up.

"Hello! Listen! I don't know who this guy is but he's been shot! I've already called the 9-1-1!

"WHERE?!!" Chrysti screamed into the phone.

"He's in the parking lot outside the St. Regis Bar!" the voice on the other end shouted. "I just saw it happen. He got shot and the guy ran! The ambulance is on the way. He's still breathing but he's fading fast!"

Chrysti's vision blurred with panic as she gripped the steering wheel.

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