Wicked Restless

“Oh, I don’t think Graham’s weak. After all, he isn’t the one being held down and beaten by the light of the moon and headlights of my car, is he?” His laugh is soundless, and my body grows rigid on instinct, expecting to feel his hand on me, his fist through me; the need to protect myself, strong. “Look at that. I can still get to you, can’t I?”

I twist as he steps closer, and the hold on me grows stronger.

“You’re pathetic,” I spit out. “You can’t do anything to me. You have nothing to gain,” I say, my eyes darting around him as he saunters close enough to blow a puff of his smoke into my face.

“Maybe I don’t have anything to gain. But I sure as shit don’t have anything to lose, either. I had a shitload of money invested on this fight happening tonight, and you just cost me. You…you! You were always costing me, and when Harley said the fight wasn’t on because one guy dropped out, I knew who it was. I got into this on a whim, when Graham mentioned it was you. I thought it would be a quick-and-entertaining way to make some cash. I booked thousands, and some assholes even bet on you. Ha! Imagine that,” he says, his face close enough that I can smell the sourness of his breath. “Someone actually thought you would win. But you’re just the pathetic coward you always were, aren’t you?”

“I’m no coward,” I seethe, my mouth once again full of blood. “I’m just not your pawn. You’re the one who has always been afraid. I was a child, and I stood up to you. You’re nothing.”

I swallow hard, then let my lids fall closed for a brief second as I think of Emma’s face, my heart beating, my hands on her. There’s nothing he can take from me, and I’ve survived him before. I found her in the end.

I open my eyes and stare at him, almost challenging him, begging for his worst, when something shifts—a flash that makes my world tilt, my head dizzy. His thugs drop their hold under my arms and take off running back to the smashed-up SUV that brought them here. Nick Meyers walks away just as quickly, his step not quite a run, but his clip urgent. Their tires squeal and they swerve back into the direction they came from, their lights darting around buildings and disappearing around corners—the sound of their engines vanishing just as fast.

“That’s right, you fucker!” I yell, lifting my arm and swinging it over my hand, giving my ghosts a giant middle finger. “Run away, you fucking loser! I will never belong to you!”

My legs collapse under my weight, and my knees hit the gravel hard, the rocks digging into my skin as I fall forward, my hands catching me before my face hits the ground. I’m instantly heavy. The ground begins to swirl, and despite the fact that the sun has fallen below the horizon, my world is bright. Everything yellow. Everything slow. My mouth is overcome with the taste of metal, and I let myself fall to my back, my head to the side as I vomit blood. The feeling sends a searing burn through my stomach, and I curl my knees up into my body like a child, my hands moving to my belly, wanting to make the pain stop.

Wet—so wet. Everything wet! I pull my hand up in front of me and immediately lurch with the desire to vomit again. The blood is everywhere. I look down to see my shirt soaked through, and as I pull the fabric up, I see the gaping hole in my belly, the round wound spilling out blood faster than I can think. My mind races with what to do, putting together what happened, then I remember it—the sound. I shut it out, but it was there—the loud cap of the gun, the acrid stench from the fire of it.

My hand finds my pocket, and I slide my phone out, hitting the emergency icon and letting it ring. A woman answers, and I choke on my blood as I lay myself more to the side. More vomit. Moaning…I need to make noise so they hear me. I moan, and I slap at the pavement, and then eventually, there’s nothing.

* * *

Emma

I haven’t written a single word. I’ve been sitting in here among the smell of Andrew, buried in his covers, my books all around me, and all I’ve done is blink. I haven’t opened my laptop once, and the few times Trent has knocked lightly on the door, I’ve lied that I’m “fine” and “getting a lot done.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. And his knocks have come more often as the day has shifted into evening, as six o’clock has passed and as nearly an hour after the time Andrew was set to fight has come and gone.

I’m giving him two more minutes. Two minutes, and then I’m calling. Two minutes, and then I’m dragging Trent out into the streets with me to find him. The soft knock comes again, and this time I invite him in.