by J. T. Hardy
The Pretty Boy glared at the alley and growled. A second man stepped out of the shadows, equally hot, equally dangerous. Bad. Very bad. This was not the Pretty Boy behavior I'd known all my life.
Grace, time to go.
Time froze again as I scrambled to my feet and raced for my car, my shaking legs hobbling me.
The Pretty Boys crashed together like sumo wrestlers and a crack echoed in the still air. One of the Pretty Boys grunted, the other roared, and they both hit the ground and rolled my way. I dived out of their path and fell hard onto chunks of gravel and rock. Pain shot through my thigh and down my calf. I officially hated gravel.
Another smack, another grunt as they wrestled, and a curved knife skittered across the stones and halted by my foot. It had a bone handle, wrapped in leather, its blade black as a beetle shell.
I snatched it from the gravel and scooted away. The tussling Pretty Boys blocked my escape to the car, intent on pummeling each other into goo. I scrambled to my feet and circled around toward the passenger side.
The Pretty Boy from the bar snarled and threw a swift punch to the other one's gut. He clutched his stomach and staggered to one knee, an easy target. The Pretty Boy kicked him in the head and knocked him to the pavement. Then he turned to me.
"Stay the hell away from me!" I thrust the knife forward as he shot toward me. Little good it would do.
The blade sank into his chest up to the hilt. Chartreuse light burst from the wound, not viscous like blood or even the green liqueur it resembled--just light. The Pretty Boy gaped at the widening hole.
"How?" he said, more wonder than fear in his voice.
More light burst from his chest and he shattered to pieces.
That was new.
Chapter Three
Green fire whirled around me and knocked me flat. My ears rang, my skin stung, and something was wrong.
Screaming.
People were screaming.
Run--run--run--
I pushed myself up and squinted past a too-thin haze of gritty smoke that didn't smell like smoke, but also didn't stink like the Pretty Boys always did. This scene was spicy, woodsy even. The edges of the nearby cars glowed with a chartreuse luminescence, like--
Images of Mom flashed across my mind. Darkness, the car swerving, crumpling. Chartreuse-green fire. A handsome man with kind eyes leaning over me.
"What did you do?" he asked, voice muffled.
Wait...the man was here, it wasn't my nightmare, wasn't my memory. Past and present slammed into focus, and I was no longer five, no longer crying on the side of a dark road. A dusky man had kneeled in front of me then, too, with chartreuse dust smudged across his face and clothes.
My mind buzzed louder than the throbbing in my ears. I shook my head hard, and the fuzz finally cleared. My memories fell back into place, sorting themselves, filing the past and returning to the here and now. A man was kneeling in front of me, his hair dark and shining, his skin brown and dusty. He smelled like exotic food simmering over a campfire.
A Pretty Boy. Right here, right now.
"Stay back!" I ordered, brandishing the surprisingly effective knife. Chartreuse goo coated the black blade. Pretty Boy blood? I hadn't even known they could bleed.
He held up his hands, his dark eyes a mix of fear and wonder. His shirt was torn, and a hint of yellow coated the ragged edges. More blood? How many colors did these guys bleed in?
"I won't hurt you," he said softly. Anyone else would have believed him. A whisper in the back of my brain told me I was nuts for even suspecting him, but that's how Pretty Boys worked. Lured you close with their charm and then ripped out your throat.
"Stay back!" I staggered to my feet and the world tipped sideways. He caught my knife hand gently, his fingers cool on my skin.
"I would, but you--" His words died as his eyes widened, staring over my shoulder. Awe. Longing. Gold dusted the edges of his brown irises.
What the?
I craned my head around. No one was behind me but shocked pedestrians and indifferent traffic. The parking lot tilted sideways again and--
--Soaring. I'm drifting on air currents shimmering silver and bronze, watching an emerald field below. A woman walks, her hair long and dark, her skin the color of strong tea. She glances up, smiles, waves--
I gasped and yanked my arm out of his hand. The dream-like vision vanished. What the hell?
"Impossible," he whispered, his gaze glued to the car window behind me.
I looked behind me. Nothing in the glass but the ghostly half-reflection of a Pretty Boy--pale and insubstantial, proof they didn't fully belong in our world.
"What was that?" I asked. "What did you put in my head?"
"Ms. Harper!" Cavanaugh's voice rose above the din and he pushed his way through a growing crowd of onlookers.
The Pretty Boy who'd helped me jerked his gaze toward Cavanaugh and frowned. "You're not safe here. Leave before he sends another. I'll find you later."
"You'll what? He who?" Yet the warning and the voice were familiar, another déjà vu memory from that night on the road. "Who are--"
My helpful hottie blurred to a sprint and was gone.
"Wait! Oh come on!" I took a deep breath and centered myself. My hands hung empty and shaking at my side--damn it! He'd taken the knife.
Cavanaugh caught up to me, genuine concern on his face. "Ms. Harper, are you all right?"
Stupid question. No, I was not all right. I'd been attacked by a Pretty Boy. I ought to be dead. "Did anyone call 911?"
"Half the block I'm sure. What happened? Was that an explosion? Is there fire?"
The only other time a Pretty Boy had helped me had been the night Mom had died. There'd been that weird green light then, too, but it hadn't been like this. There'd been more mist than fire, and nothing so explosive.
That Pretty Boy had also smelled like woodfire smoke.
Get real, Grace-face, that was twenty years ago. It couldn't be the same one.
"Ms. Harper?"
I pushed my hands through my hair, pulling myself together before I said anything stupid. "Must have been a gas leak." Did they even use gas in Florida? Maybe that was a northern thing.
He gently took my chin and turned my face toward him. "You're bleeding. Did you hit your head?"
I jerked away. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You need a doctor."
"I'm...a little dazed is all. Ears are still ringing." And bruises aching, but a hot bath and some aspirin would help that. My helpful hottie had vanished, but my skin crawled as if more Pretty Boys were watching, a distinctive itch, like ants across my skin, and the burning smell still lingered in the air.
Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder. I swiped a hand across my temple--a little blood, but not too terrible. I wiped off what I could and rearranged my hair to hide the rest.
"I gotta go."
Cavanaugh gaped at me as if I'd grown another head. "You might have a concussion."
"I'm fine." I had to get out of there before whatever emergency vehicles were on the way blocked me in. "Where's my bag?" My knuckledusters had fallen off somewhere, and they weren't exactly legal in the Sunshine State.
"Ms. Harper, please sit down. You're acting irrationally."
I caught a flash of silver buried in the gravel. Yes! I scooped it up and grabbed my backpack a few feet away.
"I'm just a little shaken." Memory lapse or not, Dad was right--it was time to go.
Cavanaugh frowned, but his eyes were soft. "You seem more scared than shaken. Let me help you."
I opened my car door, avoiding the chartreuse grit best I could. "Thanks for the brotherly concern, but I don't need anyone's help."
He was still gaping at me as I sped out of the parking lot.
A few blocks away, I pulled into a gas station and called Dad, tensing tighter and tighter as it rang and rang. "Answer, dammit."
Dad always answered.
I hung up and dialed another number. It clicked imm
ediately to voice mail.
"I'm being followed, my squashling," Dad's message began. "At least two. I'm headed for the safe house. You know the drill. I'll contact you on the alternate line. Stay safe."
My shoulders dropped. He was okay. I had no clue how they'd found us, but clearly this was a synchronized attack if they came for both of us at once. Maybe they hadn't wanted to kill him until they knew they had me--
I stiffened.
A Pretty Boy had tried to kidnap me, not kill me. He could have snapped my neck instead of grabbing me, ripped out my throat like--I closed my eyes. Focus on the present. Not the past.
The Pretty Boys wanted us dead. That's what Dad always told me. If they caught us they'd kill us.
We don't kill them. It wasn't possible.
Guess again, Grace-face.
I rubbed my arm, sore where the Pretty Boy from the bar had gripped me. He'd had time to kill me before, during, and after our scuffle, even before the other one had appeared. Yet he hadn't.
Something had changed.
Was it connected to Cavanaugh or his list of names? That couldn't be a coincidence. Years without a sighting, then two in one day? And I was still breathing?
Apparently, they had a new plan. Well, screw that. Whatever it was, I wasn't about to make it easy for them. Time for me and my go-bag to--
I stopped. "Crap."
Fingers uselessly crossed, I jumped out of the car and opened the trunk. A dank odor wafted out--the mildew from a leak I hadn't known I'd had until I took the job in rainy Florida. Instead of a duffel bag filled with supplies, a damp, empty spot where my go-bag usually sat stared back at me. It stank--on multiple levels.
The package of weather stripping was on the table in my apartment. I'd planned to fix the leak this weekend.
So stupid. I slammed the trunk shut and dropped into the car. My go-bag was in the hall closet by the door of my apartment, utterly useless for a gal on the run, but I couldn't leave without it.
I put the knuckledusters back on my hand and gave myself even odds the Pretty Boys knew where I lived.
I sat outside my apartment building, casing my own joint for fifteen minutes--watching the windows and doors, the easy-to-see-the-entrance spots where I'd lurk if I were waiting for someone who lived here to come home. So far no one had shown up, but that didn't mean they hadn't gotten here before I had. For all I knew, they'd been waiting here all day for me.
Well, they could wait a little longer while I sorted this crap out. The Pretty Boy from the bar must have followed me from the hospital to the bar. No way he could have known where I'd be, unless Cavanaugh had told him, which felt unlikely. They guy was lying through his cute smile, but it didn't feel malicious, and I doubted he worked for the Pretty Boys. Unless they were following him, too?
I shook my head. I was turning into a conspiracy theorist.
Fine. Ditch the paranoia, focus on the facts and logical connections. I didn't know enough about Cavanaugh to classify him as friend or foe yet, and until I did, I had to assume he was what he claimed--a man looking for a missing woman for reasons he felt he had to lie about. If the Pretty Boys had also taken her, lying made sense. Caution was smart, but assigning ulterior motives to his questions was jumping to reckless conclusions that could get me killed.
Less shaky, I climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment. The hall was clear, no sounds but the faint whoosh of traffic and the squawks of one of the small green parrots that nested in the courtyard palm tree. I pressed my ear against the door and listened. No subtle taps or rustles came from inside. I unlocked it and slowly turned the knob. The door tended to squeak, but pulling up hard on the knob as I opened it usually kept it quiet. It creaked softly, but just once. I let it swing wide enough to peek inside.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Thrift-store-grade furniture sat in the kitchen and living room, with hotel carpet built for durability, not for comfort, and surely not for style. It wasn't as bad as my place in Memphis, which must have hired the designers of the local no-tell motel to decorate it, but it was no Rockport Apartments either.
I sniffed. Nothing but the overpowering smell of brand-new vanilla plug-ins.
Yeah, okay, buying those had been a bad idea. I crept forward a step at a time. No one jumped out, no soft thuds of hidden lurkers echoed. No creepy sensation of anyone but me being there. I kept walking, but froze two steps into the living room.
The coffee table sat an equal distance between the couch and the two chairs, not pressed close to the couch as a makeshift ottoman like I'd left it. Yesterday's mail suffered from the same precision on the old desk, stacked largest envelope to smallest. And the throw pillows I'd bought in a moment of weakness were missing.
A burglar with OCD? Except the radio was still there, as was the change from last night's pizza delivery--stacked by size, same as the mail.
It could have been maintenance, prepping the "fully furnished" apartment for the next occupant. A kind old man who took a few minutes to spruce up the place for a new tenant--that wasn't too far out of the realm of possibility.
Yes it is. No one's that nice.
I eased a few steps sideways and peeked down the hall. The bedroom door that refused to stay closed--no matter how hard I yanked it shut--was closed.
Cold sweat broke out above my lip. Last time someone had been waiting for me at home, I'd suffered a bad night in the emergency room.
Moving slowly, I retreated toward the hall closet. My go-bag was exactly where I'd left it in all its pink-and-blue-striped glory. I picked it up carefully, not shifting the contents or rattling the zipper, and backed away. This time, the front door closed silently.
My hands shook as I locked it.
Walk away like nothing is wrong.
If anyone had followed me, they knew which way I'd come in. If they were watching the back stairs, they'd spot me on the way to my car.
What makes you think your car is safe?
Right. If they were in my apartment, they could have my car surrounded by now. I couldn't assume anything was the same as it had always been, not if they had indeed changed tactics or goals.
I'd never bought a car that wasn't disposable, but I'd never had to abandon one before. I'd miss the old clunker, mildewed trunk and all.
Heart racing, I headed for the elevator on the opposite end of the third floor--the reason I'd rented this place. It opened up out of sight of the stairwells and near the lot where the delivery trucks parked. It was also my best option back to street level unless I suddenly manifested parkour skills.
The moment the elevator doors closed, I pulled a pink sunhat and flowered beach cover-up out of the go-bag and put them on. I rolled up my pants legs as far as they would go. Tight on my thighs, but high enough to hide under the hem of the cover-up. The lock picks went into my back pocket for now. The knuckledusters stayed put on my clenched hand.
One more floor.
I moved against the front wall of the elevator, putting my back to the buttons. The door chimed and slid open. No one entered. I wrapped my fingers around the door edge and peeked out.
The parking lot sat on the right. Safety beckoned on the left; a path leading through a peaceful courtyard filled with palm trees and hibiscus bushes off the pool area, sparse enough to make lousy cover, but enough to shield me from anyone watching the building. To them, I was just someone heading down to the pool. A side path cut through the bushes and emptied out on the street by a juice bar with a back door I'd scouted my first day here.
Here goes nothing.
I sauntered out. No quick movements, no nervous actions, nothing that would draw the eye of anyone on a stakeout. Just a gal going for an evening swim--who was ready to kick ass if someone got in her way.
Three blocks away, I darted into a convenience store across from a Fast Auto Fix and bought two bottles of water, a packet of tissues, a bottle of aspirin, and a bar of chocolate. The chocolate I ate in the bathroom, letting the sweetness soothe my frazzled nerves. One bot
tle and the tissues went to cleaning up the scrapes and cuts Frisco's parking lot had gifted me with, though my jeans had taken the brunt of most of it. I'd have bruises tomorrow for sure.
I opened the other bottle of water, swallowed some aspirin, and tossed the trash away. Okay, so they had finally found me. They usually didn't get this close, but it wasn't unheard of. It had been super close in Atlantic City, too, but Dad had been prepared and sneaked us out of town safely.
I could do the same now. I didn't have to go back to my apartment. Everything of value was in my go-bag, my emergency stash was still safe, and it wouldn't be the first time I'd replaced my ridiculously limited wardrobe. I loved those lacy tank tops, though. And the leather jacket I'd gotten in Baltimore.
I gulped the water dry.
Dammit, I'd never find that jacket again. There's was a lot here I'd never find again.
The cab company's number was already saved on my phone, but I scrolled right past it and stared at another name and number I'd also saved.
I hesitated. Debated more chocolate. Then tapped it anyway. The phone rang twice.
Libby answered. "Hola, Grace, what's up?"
"Hey. Sorry to bug you, I know you're getting ready to take off," I said in a rush while I still had the nerve, "but my car died and I could use a ride. Possible to pick me up? Pretty please?"
A short pause, but not long enough to suggest fetching me was the last thing she wanted to do this evening. "Sure, I'm not leaving until tomorrow morning. Where are you?"
I gave her the address of the auto place across the street. "Thanks, you're a life saver."
This was the best and worst idea I'd ever had. You didn't stay around when the Pretty Boys found you--that rule had kept Dad and me alive. But Cavanaugh's list might hold answers about Mom, and more than that, it might hold a clue to why things had changed and that might keep them off my back once and for all.
No more running. No more hiding. A real life with real friends like Libby.
Dad wanted me to run, but Libby's apartment was as good as a safe house for now, probably better with someone to watch my back. If the Pretty Boys could change tactics, so could I.
