“Probably getting us killed,” I said as I took aim. “Or worse, grounded.”
Gemma stood back as I hurtled the brick through the kitchen window. The huge plate glass splintered but held steady for a breathless moment, as if shocked at what we’d done. Then it shattered the quiet night air with a roaring crash as shards of glass cascaded onto the sidewalk. The man appeared instantly.
“I’m calling the police, you bastard!” I tried to sound convincing enough to scare him.
His glared down at us, anger twisting his features. “You little bitch. You’ll pay for that.”
“Run!” Instinct took hold. I grabbed Gemma’s arm. “Run!”
While Gemma tried to head down the street, I dragged her toward the very apartment building we were trying to get away from.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, fear raising her voice several notes. “We need to get to the car.”
I ran for the cover of shadows. Pulling Gemma between the apartment building and a dry cleaning business, I dragged her down the narrow opening. “We can go across the arroyo. It’ll be faster.”
“It’s too dark.”
My heart pounded in my ears as I negotiated around boxes and weathered crates. The cold was no longer an issue. I felt nothing but the need to get help. To save him.
“We have to get to a phone,” I said. “There’s a convenience store across the arroyo.”
When we emerged from the passageway, another chain-link fence blocked our path.
“What now?” Gemma whined helpfully.
The dry arroyo lay on the other side, and the convenience store beyond that. I pulled her along the fence, searching for an opening. Even with a security light behind the dry cleaning shop, we slipped and stumbled along the frozen, uneven ground.
“Charley, wait.”
“We have to get help.” That single thought blinded me to all others. I had to help that boy. I had never seen anything so violent in my life. Adrenaline and fear pushed bile up to sting the back of my throat. I swallowed hard and breathed in the crisp air to calm myself.
“Wait. Wait.” Gemma’s breathless plea finally slowed my progress. “I think it’s him.”
I stopped and whirled around. The boy was on his knees beside a Dumpster, holding his stomach, his body convulsing with dry heaves. I started back. This time Gemma grabbed my arm and struggled to keep her footing as she trudged behind.
When we got to him, the boy tried to stand, but he had taken a harsh beating. Weak and shaking, he fell back onto his knees and braced a hand against the Dumpster for support. The long fingers of his other hand dug into the gravelly earth as he tried to catch his breath, gulping huge rations of cold air. He wore only a thin T-shirt and a gray pair of sweats. He must have been freezing.
With empathy tightening my chest, I knelt beside him. I didn’t know what to say. His breaths were shallow and quick. His muscles, constricted with pain, corded around his arms, and I saw the smooth, crisp lines of a tattoo. A little higher, thick dark hair curled over an ear.
Gemma raised the camera from around her neck to illuminate our surroundings. He looked up. Squinting against the light, he lifted a dirty hand to shade his eyes.
And his eyes were amazing. A magnificent brown, deep and rich, with flecks of gold and green glistening in the light. Dark red blood streaked down one side of his face. He looked like a warrior from a late-night movie, a hero who’d charged into battle despite ridiculous odds. For a moment, I wondered if I’d made a mistake and he was actually dead; then I remembered Gemma had seen him, too.
I blinked and asked, “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, but it was the only one I could think of.
He fixed his gaze on me a long moment, then turned his head and spit blood into the darkness before looking back. He was older than I had originally thought. Perhaps even seventeen or eighteen.
He tried to stand again. I jumped up to help, but he backed away from my touch. Despite an overwhelming, almost desperate, need to assist him, I stepped aside and watched as he struggled to his feet.
“We have to get you to a hospital,” I said once he was standing.
It seemed like a perfectly logical next step to me, but he eyed me with a mixture of hostility and distrust. It would be my first real lesson on the illogic of the male population. He spit again, then started down the narrow opening we’d just come through, hugging the brick wall for support.
“Look,” I said, following him down the passageway. Gemma had a death grip on my jacket and jerked on it occasionally, clearly not wanting to follow. I pulled her along regardless. “We saw what happened. We need to get you to a hospital. Our car isn’t far.”
“Get out of here,” he finally said, his voice deep and edged with pain. With effort, he climbed onto a crate and grabbed a high window ledge. His lean, muscular body shook visibly as he tried to peer into the apartment.
“You’re going back in there?” I asked, appalled. “Are you crazy?”
“Charley,” Gemma whispered at my back, “maybe we should just leave.”
Naturally, I ignored her. “That man tried to kill you.”
He cast an angry glare at me before turning back to the window. “What part of
I admit, I wavered. But I couldn’t imagine what would happen if he went back into that apartment. “I’m calling the police.”
His head whipped around. A beautiful agility took hold of him, as if he was suddenly unfazed by the beating, and he leapt from the crates to land solidly before me.
With just enough force to let me know it was there, he placed a hand around my throat and pushed me back against the brick building. For a long moment, he only stared. A plethora of emotions flashed across his face. Anger. Frustration. Fear.
“That would be a very bad idea,” he said at last. It was a warning. A cutting desperation laced his smooth voice.
“My uncle’s a cop, and my dad’s an ex-cop. I can help you.” Heat drifted off him, and I realized he must have had a fever. Standing out in the frigid cold with only a T-shirt could not be good.
My audacity seemed to astonish him. He almost laughed. “The minute I need the help of a sniveling brat from the Heights, I’ll let you know.”
The hostility in his tone threw my determination askew, but only for a moment. I recovered and charged forward. “If you go back in there, I’m calling the police. I mean it.”
He clenched his jaw in frustration. “You’ll do more harm than good.”
I shook my head. “I doubt it.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Or him.”
“Is he your father?”
He hesitated, stared impatiently as if trying to decide how best to get rid of me. Then he made a decision. I could see it on his face.
His features darkened. He stepped closer, pressed the length of his body against mine, leaned into me, and whispered in my ear. “What’s your name?”
“Charley,” I said, suddenly afraid, too afraid not to answer. Then I tried to say
“Dutch?” he asked, scrunching his brows together.
He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. He was solid and strong and fierce. And vulnerable. “No,” I said in a whisper as his fingers drifted down and brushed intrusively over my breast. “Davidson.”
“Have you ever been raped, Dutch?”
The knowledge that he was aiming for pure, no-holds-barred shock value didn’t lessen the question’s impact. I was stunned and thoroughly terrified. I tried to resist the urge to run, tried to stand my ground, but self- preservation was a difficult thing to squelch. A quick glance at Gemma for support did little to help. My sister stood wide-eyed with mouth agape, absently holding the camera as if it still mattered, and somehow managing not to get a single moment on tape.
“No,” I answered breathlessly.
His cheek brushed across mine as his hand eased back up to lock on to my throat. To an ordinary passerby, we would look like lovers playing flirtatiously in the dark.
