There’s a moment of quiet. The swift sound of a cartridge being ejected; she’s reloading.
It’s a small window, but I have to take it.
I stand.
My broken body screams in agony — my busted rib grinds against its neighbors, every bruise in my body turns my muscles to sludge — but I stand and I charge.
But Anna doesn’t have her eyes on me.
I hear tires chew roadside gravel behind me. Doors slam. And Tiffany shouts my name.
And Anna slides the fresh clip into her gun like a pro.
Maybe this bitch isn’t so dumb.
She rises. Takes aim at someone behind me.
There’s a satisfied look on her face.
She wouldn’t look that way unless she were shooting someone she really hated.
Tiffany.
The world slows.
Ann crooks her finger.
That evil smile grows larger.
I have a choice: I can keep running, I can reach her, but she will get off a shot. This could all be over in a few steps, I can take down the bitch who tried to make my mother homeless, who is threatening her life, but that means Tiffany will die. Can I risk losing the only woman who even bothered to help me, despite my terrible credit score?
Even if she did rat me out, the thought of her no longer being there to lecture me, or to tease me with her wavy brown hair and her unbelievable legs, strikes me deep in my gut and makes my heart seize with unimaginable pain.
It doesn’t matter what she’s done. I can’t let her get hurt.
In that split second, I make my choice.
I leap into the line of fire just as Tiffany pulls the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tiffany
The last memory I have of this man is the fight we had. The threats we exchanged. The fire in his eyes as he told me I should leave his home. Now, as a puff of smoke and a crack of thunder erupts from the muzzle of Anna’s gun, I’m terrified that those are the last things he will remember me by. That I’ll never again get to tease him for his impossible credit score, or marvel at how big his heart is, or rest my head against his chest while he holds me.
I scream as he hits the ground, motionless.
That shot was aimed at me.
I don’t have more time to ponder that, as another crack rings out and sparks fly from the Volvo behind me.
“Get the fuck down,” Razor screams.
My two escorts are out and have their guns drawn, but Anna knows how to use her gun way better than I would’ve given her credit for. She fires just enough to keep us pinned, and my escorts know better than to charge headlong into fire. Especially when their compatriot is prone on the ground twenty yards away. He’s our priority. We have to save him.
Fuck Anna Ebri. Fuck revenge. I just want to get to Blaze.
There’s a car passing on this suburb road, an ocean-blue Prius, and the driver’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates when Anna charges, brandishing her weapon, and she commandeers the vehicle in seconds. Moments later, she’s nothing more than a speck in the distance.
“Come on, we need to get to Blaze,” Razor says. “Forget about that bitch, the others aren’t that far behind, they’ll catch her soon enough.”
I race to Blaze, each beat of my heart crashing painfully against my ribs, squishing my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Please be OK, please be OK.
He’s face-down in the desert sand, sand that is darkening around him as blood leaves his body. Razor and Crash both trade a grim look before they roll him over.
The sight of his face is enough to make me gasp.
Bruised, battered, he’s a wreck, and that’s not even counting the bloodstained bullet wound on his shoulder.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Crash says. “They really fucked him over.”
“I’m calling Stitch,” Razor says, whipping his phone out and staring back toward the empty road.
Far in the distance, I hear approaching motorcycles. Will they get here soon enough?
I don’t intend to wait.
I can’t lose him.
I have to act.
“I need alcohol. Vodka, whiskey, it doesn’t matter,” I say, glaring at Crash because he looks like the type to have a flask on him.
“This isn’t the time for a fucking drink,” he says.
“Just fucking give it to me or I swear to God…” I shout and let my broken, angry voice trail off as he reaches into his cut and pulls out a flask.
“Here, take it,” he says.
I don’t answer. I grip the hem of my work shirt and rip it in half. It comes apart in one tear, leaving my entire midriff bare. I rip that in two and make two bandages, which I quickly douse in foul-smelling whiskey.
“Lift him, and slip that under his wound,” I say to Crash, and I hand him one bandage. “Do it now.”
He does. And the second he sets Blaze back down, I take my bandage and hold it tight to Blaze’s wound, pressing as hard as I can into his muscular frame. Blood soaks my foul-smelling bandages and, under my breath, I whisper a prayer to whoever is listening that he holds on.
“C’mon, Blaze. Don’t leave me,” I say.
Thunder rolls closer, though I hardly hear it over my heartbeat and the sobs wracking my body.
Hold on, Blaze. Fight. Come back to me.
I just want him to make it. I don’t care about anything else. This man gives
