But Josh stood his ground, at least the ground that wasn’t littered with groaning bodies. The bodies began to try to get up which only brought the avenger into a low-crouching, ready-to-fight stance, eager for round two.
“Well, come on then,” she challenged. “You want more? Fine by me. I’ve had a shitty day up to now and you four are the icing on my cake. Come on, let’s go another round. What do you say?”
But to Josh’s astonishment, instead of fighting back, the leader of the pack simply held his head in his hands and groused, “Shit. This bitch is nuts. I don’t need all this trouble for a lousy eighty bucks. I’m outta here.” The tall guy, who no longer held a sharp knife in his fist, was the first one to gain his feet. With an incredulous, disbelieving look on his bleeding face, the man who’d had the biggest mouth, all but ran out of the alley, leaving his buddies to fend for themselves even though they were still laid out flat on the cement.
The avenging angel went over and kicked at a shoe. “You guys playing dead or something? You gonna get out of here or what?” she demanded in the direction of the prone body count.
But sensing their leader had turned tail, one by one, each bad guy began picking himself up off the pavement. Eventually, Josh’s assailants all followed suit and fled. They didn’t even bother to stop to pick up the switchblade.
But Josh’s avenging hero did.
In awe, Josh watched as she tossed the six-inch blade back and forth from hand to hand as if determining its weight and value before tucking it neatly away inside her boot. Because she no longer held the baton-slash-light saber, he realized she’d already slipped that away inside the long, black leather coat she wore.
It was about that time Josh felt the burn in his left shoulder, saw the blood soaking through his Polo and running down his shirtsleeve before trickling down to his bare arm. The woman saw it too, She gawked while the red ooze dropped into a muddy puddle at his feet. She followed the track with her eyes, narrow as slits, up his body until she located the source.
“Damn. Got you in the shoulder, didn’t they?”
“Looks like. I didn’t feel it though.”
“Should’ve been quicker. Sorry about that. Thought maybe they’d just take the cash and go. Leave you unharmed and standing at least.” She shook her head. “Should’ve known better. Street gangs always try to jab you to make a point. Pun intended.”
“What the hell are you doing out here this time of night behind Gull’s?” Josh asked, right before he started to sway. This time he didn’t think it was from the alcohol.
She inched closer to inspect the gash.
“Isn’t squirting, so he didn’t nick an artery. You should be fine until you get to the ER.” She threw an arm around his good shoulder. “Lean on me. I’ll take you as far as the back door then you’re on your own. Someone inside will get you to a doctor.”
“No.” He couldn’t say why, but he didn’t want her to leave him. “Take me home. I don’t live that far. Walking distance.”
“You’re kidding?” She narrowed her eyes, this time taking a closer look at the guy. His long black hair was mussed up. He had after all just survived an altercation with four thugs. He wore a pair of wire-rims that even now sat on his nose at a slightly skewed angle. Behind the glasses he had eyes so gray they looked almost silver. Gentle. Kind. Soft. And they were glazed over. She liked to think she could judge a man by his eyes. And at the moment his told her, he was sauced.
“Why don’t you tell me your name?”
“Bleeding in an alley and you want my name?” She asked in disbelief. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” But willing to indulge the drunk, she replied, “Skye. Cree.”
“Sky? Like—?” He pointed a thumb upward. “Like that?”
She rolled her eyes for the second time and tapped his chest for emphasis. “Yeah. No stupid jokes about my name though. I’ve heard all the lame ones.”
“It’s beautiful.”
She smirked at the wobbly man. “From where you’re standing, I guess it is.”
Even though she was several inches shorter than he was, he leaned heavier on her just because he could. “You’re beautiful. My beautiful avenging angel, Skye Cree.”
She snorted—her lips curving somewhat—and the small gesture transformed her face. “Skye. Just Skye. Don’t go making it out to be something more than it is. Four lowlifes armed with a switchblade thought they’d found an easy mark, nothing to it.”
His shoulder might be hurting like a son of a bitch and he was more than slightly sloshed but he recognized irritation and beauty when he saw them come together in one gorgeous female face.
Plus that narrow, Native American face with its high cheekbones had his libido ramping up, even in his inebriated state. Her wide Julia Roberts mouth showed no evidence of lipstick or gloss. Not a hint of makeup covered her cinnamon skin. But the cold coupled with the fight had pinkened her cheeks with a natural glow that made him want to reach out and touch. But her demeanor told him that might be a very bad idea.
It was hard to tell how tall she stood, especially with the pair of military-style boots she wore, or how much they added to her height. Slim. Fit. Athletic. If he wasn’t hallucinating she had violet eyes. Violet. No hint of eye shadow could improve on those dazzling Elizabeth Taylor baby blues. Probably contacts, he decided as he studied the mass of hair stuffed under a dark purple watch cap. Her hair reminded him of soft, midnight silk. Raven black in color, it offset the bright-colored hat. But when the glimmer of light hit her bangs just so and with the loose strands twisting carelessly out every which way, it looked as though that raven black glistened around her face.
Josh thought his avenging angel fairly glowed.
“So, I’m the easy mark?” he tossed out with the same cheerful tone as any grateful victim might who had survived an altercation with four muggers. “You saved my life, Skye. Where did you learn those moves? You were fucking awesome.”
This time she chuckled. “You are in shock.” Or plastered, she decided. Just what she needed, a drunken frat boy who had to have a nursemaid in order to get home. Suddenly, she pulled the knife back out from her boot. She yanked up his fancy shirt and cut off a hunk to use to wrap up his shoulder to try to stop the bleeding. “There, that should do till we get you home, although you may leave a blood trail. You sure you can walk? You pass out on me and it’s gonna piss me off.”
“No, I can make it. My place is close. I’m Josh. Josh Ander. I’ve never seen anyone take on four guys like that before—and win.”
“You want to stand here and go over the play by play? Socialize later,” she hissed. “We need to get that wound patched up. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” As she threw his good arm around her shoulder and took on some of his weight, she muttered. “Getting you there’s gonna be a problem. Your place better be close, else I might just decide to drop you in the nearest doorway and leave you to fend for yourself.”
She’d been on the hunt and now it seemed she had to babysit a helpless, wasted schmuck.
CHAPTER TWO
It took almost twenty minutes for them to walk six blocks to the Pike tri-area. But in the cold and damp chill of midnight it seemed to take a lot longer. They didn’t say another word to each other mainly because it took everything in Josh to keep from passing out. And Skye, Skye didn’t seem the chatty type, especially with most of his weight draped heavily onto her.
While the pain was bearable, the blood loss got to him. He wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t. As they made the trek through the empty streets, like an idiot Josh suddenly recalled how once upon a time his mother had set her heart on his becoming a doctor, specifically a surgeon. Now that the sight of his own blood made him feel woozy, the idea of dealing with anyone else’s on a daily basis seemed fairly ridiculous. He found that incredibly funny and started chuckling.
But his mirth only earned a snarl from his avenger. It occurred to him then that she knew he was drunk. She’d known all along, and knew
that’s why he hadn’t been able to help her fight.
In the way of the very intoxicated, he started laughing even harder.
When Skye simply shot him another daggered, infuriated look, Josh wondered aloud, “What? No sense of humor?”
“Maybe when you share the joke,” she snapped. It wouldn’t take much more of this doofus for her to lose patience entirely, she decided. Her sympathy was stretched already about as far as it would go before it erupted into full-blown temper. If the man weren’t bleeding from a knife wound…
Josh abruptly stopped walking. As one, they stood in front of a converted building built in 1909. Skye knew the date because a plaque attached to the edifice said so. She realized the structure wasn’t just a historical landmark—but very fancy digs.
While he attempted to pull a card key from his pocket, Josh leaned even further into Skye. “Damn, I left my raincoat back at the pub. No wonder I’m so fucking cold.”
“You’re fucking freezing because you’re more than likely going into shock. And I’m sure your damn raincoat will still be there tomorrow,” she puffed out as resentment bubbled up inside. Despite his injury, empathy was dwindling to a good case of hostility. The man obviously couldn’t take care of himself if you spotted him a flamethrower.
She didn’t have a whole lot of tolerance with numbskulls who were too timid or too drunk to defend themselves. On top of that, his expensive loft gave her pause. The place made her tiny dot of an apartment look like a dump.
“I should have thrown you through the back door of the pub when I had the chance and let your friends deal with you,” she barked. “What were you doing in that alley without your coat on, obviously drunk, and all but wearing a sign that you were waiting to get mugged?”
“Fresh air,” he grumbled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” That brought on another round of drunken laughter.
In response, Skye jerked the card key out of his hand and ran it through the reader, handed it back to him in a snit. She heard the lock click open. As one, they stepped into a stylish lobby decorated with a rectangular mahogany sofa table and a couple of French provincial wing chairs on either side. Proof once again, the digs were upscale. Very. The rich, tan-colored wall adorned with paintings by local artists, along with crown molding, and a regal collection of bric-a-brac told Skye the place reeked of money.
She let out a low, muffled humph. She couldn’t stand French provincial or anything with bric-a-brac or crown molding.
As they made their way to the elevator on the left, Skye swallowed down more bitterness. Once she got him into the car, aggravated at getting pulled into this entire situation, out of patience, Skye, once again, jerked the card key from his trembling hand and swiped it through the slot to get the thing moving. The sooner she got the drunk into his apartment, the sooner she could doctor his shoulder, dump his ass, and be done with Josh Ander.
“Which floor?”
“Eight. Penthouse.”
Should’ve known, she thought sourly as she pushed the button. So typical.
When the door slid open, she half dragged him into a stylish open layout with polished oak-planked wood floors. Compared to her five-hundred-square-foot hole-in-the-wall, the place looked like the fucking lobby at the Four Seasons.
A wall of windows flanked one side of the living room with what she was sure during daylight hours was a high-rise view of the harbor. The other wall held a bank of electronic gadgets and enough stereo equipment to stock a small appliance outlet, not to mention the biggest flat-screen TV she’d ever seen in her life.
Skye might not know firsthand her way around a tastefully decorated home but she knew an Aubusson rug when she saw one. Several were scattered over the hardwood flooring. She bypassed the masculine brown leather couch, and headed straight for the matching plush, cushiony side chair, immediately dropping his butt down into it.
“Got a first aid kit? Where’s the bathroom?”
By this time Josh was more than a little ready to get off his feet. Groggy, he slumped and fell back on the chair, pointing the way to the bathroom without so much as turning his spinning head. “There. Down the hall. You’ll find whatever you need there.”
Skye took off in that direction.
He shut his eyes, tried to set the pain aside. As he listened to her footsteps retreat, he absently wondered if the woman ever did anything leisurely. She seemed to have so much nervous energy she all but hummed whenever she moved.
His warrior came back carrying the first aid kit, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, and a pair of scissors. She dumped everything on the coffee table and knelt in front of him. On bended knees, she ordered, none too gently, “Take off your shirt.”
“I’ve been waiting six blocks for you to say that.”
“And you can wait another six years,” she returned flatly. “Want me to cut off what’s left of the Polo? It might be less painful,” she pointed out.
“Sure.”
With that, she snipped the material from the ragged edge the knife had made at the tail up to the buttons at the neck. She stretched the blood-soaked fabric back to get a better idea of how bad it was. A closer look at the pain on his face though had her using a gentler hand as she helped him sit up so she could get rid of the shirt altogether. After studying the wound, she headed back to the bathroom. A few minutes later she returned with several hand towels, and a sewing kit she’d found inside a very tidily arranged drawer that looked as if an obsessive-compulsive had directed everything line up just exactly so.
She inspected the open gash again. The knife had carved about four inches of tender flesh. It looked jagged but not that deep. Good thing this wasn’t the first time she’d had to stitch up a cut or play doctor to someone who’d been stabbed with a knife. She could handle a little slice to the shoulder.
Digging into the kit, she pulled out white tape and a roll of gauze. She threw open the sewing kit and selected the longest needle at least three inches in length, an ugly-looking thing she would use only as a last resort.
But when Josh’s eyes zeroed in on the needle, he visibly blanched and a wave of nausea hit him. Since he’d already felt like a wuss once tonight back in the alley the moment he’d been rescued by a woman, he sucked it up.
It didn’t go unnoticed by Skye. “You feel like puking, let me know now. We’ll do this in the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” he gritted out. Since he had no intentions of appearing even weaker, he kept his head back and his eyes closed and hoped like hell his angel knew what she was doing.
As if reading his mind, she told him, “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before. Got nicked with a blade once myself when I got a little too close to a wino going through the DTs. Anyway, I’ll use the butterflies before I resort to the needle. How’s that? It just depends on whether or not I can get it closed without too much trouble. The needle’s just for backup. How much alcohol have you had?”
“Not enough for stitches.”
“Where do you keep the liquor? And I need something to hold tap water.”
“Scotch. I want Scotch. Cabinet. Kitchen. You’ll find bottled water in the fridge.”
She shook her head and patted his knee. “Tap water will do just fine for cleaning out the wound.”
“Shouldn’t you use peroxide for that?”
“Plain water’s better for now. With a deep gash peroxide can sometimes trigger gas bubbles in the bloodstream.” She grinned when she saw him go a little paler.
“Really?” The wave of nausea hit him again. He swallowed down bile and wondered if maybe he should have opted for the ER after all.
“Don’t be such a baby, Ander. I’ll find what I need.”
Something told him she would. She seemed more than capable of taking care of herself. She’d certainly taken care of him along with four guys in an alleyway. He still wasn’t sure of what he’d witnessed. His avenger, his warrior goddess, could be a dream. It might all be a dream, except for the bloody gash in his shoulder made by
a six-inch switchblade knife that hurt like someone stuck him with glass shards. The searing pain made this all too real.
As soon as Skye hit the kitchen light, she blinked in admiration. What French provincial couldn’t manage to do in his lobby, Ander’s shiny stainless steel appliances did in spades. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to live in the man’s kitchen and never leave. The room was the size of her entire apartment with rich oak wood cabinets that made her drool like no fancy dress ever had.
What would it be like to cook a meal in this kind of setting? she wondered. Her fingers automatically reached out to skim the sleek marble countertop. She itched to open every drawer, explore every nook and cranny, to peek through his walk-in pantry.
When her eyes landed on a state-of the art coffee machine, she all but purred with envy. If she didn’t have a man bleeding in the other room, she would have loved to spend several hours in here seeing what kind of meal she could whip up in this professional, chef-inspired kitchen.
She had to force herself to hunt down the Scotch. Grabbing the bottle, she poured a generous amount of the liquid into a goblet then ran tap water into a stainless steel mixing bowl she found in one of the cabinets. After loading up a tray with all of it, she took one last reluctant look around the room before flicking off the light.
The minute she got back to the living room, she handed Josh the crystal with the booze.
“Down this.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. What the hell had taken her so long anyway? He took the glass and drained it. On top of what he’d already consumed the Scotch didn’t take long to work.
As soon as the alcohol kicked in and his eyes glazed over, Skye kneeled down and went to work. Using gauze and the plain old tap water in the bowl, she methodically began to dab the skin to clean the wound and surrounding area.
At the pain of having his shoulder worked on, Josh stirred again, looking down to check the gaping wound.
Knowing he needed a distraction, she used her voice to walk him through it. “I’m only cleaning out the dirt, checking to see how much damage the blade did, making sure I have everything I need to get the job done. Relax. Trust me.”
The Bones of Others Page 3
