The pain in his voice edges me toward tears. “I’m so sorry, love. Just stay still.” I stroke his cheek, my other hand still maintaining the pressure high on the back of his head.

He takes in a shuddering breath. “I hate crying like this.” His jaw is stiff, like he’s more offended by the indignity of the tears than the horrible circumstances around why he’s crying. “Lying down, the tears get in my ears. I hate my ears getting wet.”

“I know.” The rare gripe is strangely reassuring. “I don’t understand how you shower.”

Jane chuckles, and the fist around my heart releases some.

“We’ll get you taken care of.” I keep my hand on the side of his face and look for the guy with the phone, hoping 911 has given him an ETA.

“Jane!”

At the name, I scan for a familiar face. It takes me a second pass to notice Charles emerging at the front row of onlookers, Darcy beside him.

Charles pales, his eyes darting around wildly as he approaches. “Oh my God, Jane!”

Jane stiffens. “Charles?”

Charles kneels, clasping one of Jane’s hands in both of his. Even with my upside-down view, the relief on Jane’s face at Charles’s arrival is clear.

“What happened?” Charles asks, not taking his eyes from Jane.

Darcy takes a knee beside me. “Has someone called 911?” He leans in to see the wound. The move puts him within motorboat distance of my cleavage, which really shouldn’t be in my awareness right now, but damn it, adrenaline does strange things to a gal’s body chemistry.

“EMS should be here any minute,” hollers the guy in the suit. I nod in thanks and get back to Darcy.

“The gate thing came down, hit Jane,” I explain.

Darcy sits up, face tight in consideration as I meet his dark eyes. “Are you okay?” He touches my elbow. The unexpected contact has me taking in a sharp breath that extends until I fill my lungs. My head swims, then clears.

“I was down the street when it happened. But if you could find something for the bleed—”

Darcy produces a white handkerchief from a pocket, or perhaps thin air, and offers it to me. “Will this do? It’s clean.”

“Um, thank you.” I take the hanky and press it to Jane’s wound, grateful I no longer have to look at the brutal tear.

“Anything else?” Darcy’s voice is brusque. He sounds . . . impatient? His eyes dart to his left wrist—

Did he just check his watch?

I scowl. “I’m sorry, is my friend’s head trauma keeping you from something?”

Darcy stares at me, brows low in familiar dour bafflement. “Well, actually—”

Just then a teenager walks through the group of people, head bobbing to whatever’s playing on his oversized headphones. He steps over Jane’s legs without even acknowledging the scene.