by Toby Neal
“You can’t buy love,” her mom dropped the cheap thing into Melody’s palm. “But you sure can buy some fun.”
After the divorce, her mom sold the yellow diamond and bought an antique Porsche, also yellow. That flashy car sat in the garage downstairs now. The Porsche only liked to run when it was in the mood, and it was the worst possible vehicle for escape. But if this guy Dante didn't show up, it was going to be Melody, Abigail, Barkley, and her hiking gear in a yellow, antique Porsche, headed for Idaho.
Melody stepped out of her apartment, holding the dogs tight. Their small hearts beating behind their ribs grounded her. She would keep them safe.
Melody watched the crowd approach, staying hidden in the shadows of the entryway. Behind the mob, a matte black Escalade with dark tinted windows and off-road tires appeared. That must be him! Her pulse sped up.
Melody stepped out onto the street and stared through the crowd, trying to see into the vehicle, but the tint on the windows was too dark.
He was stopping behind the mob. He was pulling away.
“No, no, no!” He couldn't leave! Melody headed for the SUV, trying to navigate through the mob at a run. She would just barrel right through that crowd—they wouldn't be able to stop her. Their smell hit her: alcohol and sweat, fear and excitement. The energy in the air was vibrating, an excited glee with a terrified undertone, like a rock concert combined with a protest combined with an after-Christmas sale—and the deals were to die for.
Melody looked straight ahead, her eyes locked on the Escalade, running as fast as she could with the puppies tight against her body and her backpack thumping with each stride.
He must’ve seen her coming, because the big vehicle stopped. Thank God.
She was going to make it out of here.
An arm like a vice came out of the crowd, pulling her up short by her neck, yanking her to a stop. Her breath squeezed off, and she struggled as a second arm encircled her waist and she was squeezed back, her backpack squashed between her and a solid male body.
Melody had practiced for this kind of attack—she attended self-defense class once a week and boxed regularly. She was a beautiful woman in a big city, and Melody had not survived five years in Hollywood and a lifetime of unwanted male attention to be taken out by some scumbag on the street during a riot.
She stomped on her attacker’s toe, digging the heel of her hiking boot into his soft shoe.
The man let out a grunt. His breath reeked of cigarette smoke. Abigail began to squawk as Melody brought her arm up before she jammed her elbow back hard into the man's stomach. Another whoosh of air, the stink of rotten teeth mixing with that cigarette stench.
He wasn’t letting go, and she didn’t want to drop the puppies.
Gunfire nearby made her jerk with surprise. Over the ringing in her ears, Melody heard screaming and pounding running steps as the crowd dispersed, but she concentrated on writhing out of her attacker’s arms.
Suddenly the man was off her. Melody lost her balance, staggering. Stars danced in her vision—she’d lost more air than she thought. Melody held onto the dogs. She wasn’t going to let them go—they needed her.
“Melody. Come with me.” A low flat voice. A new hand on her arm. She glanced up. This had to be Dante.
He had flawless olive skin. Thick lashes hid his eyes, and shiny black curls escaped from under a camo hat. High cheekbones caught the low light of the day. Dante’s chiseled face wore an expression of grim determination as he pulled her along, a pistol in the hand that wasn’t gripping her arm. His body was leanly muscled and elegant; there wasn’t an ounce of waste on this blade of a man.
“Thank you,” Melody wheezed, as he opened the passenger door and tossed her into the seat. Classical music thundered from the speakers. She put the puppies on the floor and pushed her pack into the rear seat as Dante got in on the driver’s side. He threw the big vehicle into gear and the tires screeched as he pulled a U-turn, and she was able to slam her door.
Barkley wriggled up between the seats and put his little paws on Dante’s thigh, his curly tail wagging frantically, whining to be picked up.
Dante looked over at Melody, making eye contact at last.
His eyes were deep gold—but his glance was cold, hard, and brief.
“Get this dog off of me.” His voice was the same low, flat tone he’d used when he told her to come with him.
Uh oh. Not nice, after all.
Continue the story by purchasing Burnt Road HERE.
