Outsider: The Flawed Series Book Two

by Becca J. Campbell

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He let go, balancing on his good leg for a second, trying to get in a few good breaths. Then, as quickly as possible, he half-ran, half-limped down the hall. He spotted a back door and made a hobbling beeline for it. When he was almost to the door, he heard the girl shout.

  “It’s gone… Hey! Come back!”

  Josh threw his weight against the door, pushing it open and stumbling onto the pavement. The pain was excruciating, but somehow he made it to his car.

  ~

  That punk girl at the ER was a hell of a lot tougher than she looked. This was the worst pain Josh had ever felt. He lay across the couch on his side, agonizing with himself. Why had he done it? Why did he think he could handle this? It was torture. It was—

  A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts but didn’t dampen the pain. “Come in,” he managed to croak out, his voice shaky and weak.

  The door creaked open and clicked shut. He craned his neck—it was Alex. She was back in town. When she saw him, worry creased her brow, and she rushed over to him, kneeling on the floor beside the sofa.

  “Josh! Are you all right? What happened?”

  He moaned, grabbing the back of his leg, above the wound. “Dog bite.”

  “Where did you run into a dog?”

  He wanted to avoid her question, but the pain was too great and he couldn’t focus enough to put up a front. It took enough effort to keep from screaming aloud. He wished she didn’t have to see him like this. She must think he was a total wuss.

  A look passed over her face, and realization must have dawned. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Josh. You didn’t.”

  He answered with a moan.

  “Josh! You tried to help someone, didn’t you?”

  “It worked,” he said.

  “Do you know how bad it is?”

  “Torn hamstring. I got a rabies shot at the twenty-four-hour clinic.” The pain made him grimace.

  “Aren’t you taking any pain meds?”

  He shook his head. She wouldn’t understand. If this was his special gift and if he was going to be helping people all the time, he couldn’t afford side effects of the meds or the risk of getting addicted.

  Alex touched his arm. “Josh, you aren’t some superhuman hero. You’re a real guy. And you’re in pain. Please. Don’t you have some pain killers somewhere?” She stood up and glanced around the apartment.

  Arguing seemed like too much effort. “Bathroom,” he groaned.

  She left the room for a moment and returned with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. “Are these left over from your accident?”

  He nodded.

  After checking the label, she tapped a few pills into her hand and shoved them his way. “Here, take these.”

  Josh wanted to protest, but more than that he wanted an end to the pain.

  Screw it. He couldn’t get addicted because there was no way in hell he would do that again. He gulped the pills down and rolled onto his hip to take a sip of water. After setting the cup on the floor, he let his face plummet into the couch pillow.

  Alex put the pills away and when she returned, she sat down cross-legged on the floor next to him. He turned his head and looked at her through glazed eyes. She sat quietly for a moment, watching him. He wondered why she’d come over in the first place. But it hurt too much to speak.

  Josh closed his eyes, wishing he could pass out. He took several deep breaths, focusing on pushing the air in and out of his lungs, but he couldn’t relax. The pain was still sharp.

  When he cracked his lids, she was still watching him, head tilted to one side. Her fingers tapped lightly on her lap, creating a soft rhythmic sound that was almost soothing.

  The pain took the edge off any awkwardness, leaving him untroubled by the fact that she had been staring at him for the last ten minutes—and that he’d held the eye contact with unflinching half-open lids. Maybe if he searched those brown eyes long enough he could figure out what she was thinking.

  Alex reached out and touched his hair, her fingers combing gently over his scalp, soothing him. He blinked involuntarily. The pain medication must be taking effect, because he was feeling calmer now, almost lethargic. For a long while he just watched her watching him.

  His eyelids drooped and closed, the image of her face staying clear in his mind. Fuzziness settled over his brain.

  Just before he drifted off, he realized why she was looking at him that way—she must be feeling sorry for him. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be strong. He’d never be a hero like Cam or Logan. She would always see him as helpless and needy. The thought pierced first, then faded until it was only mildly upsetting. Sleep was so close…sleep was almost here…sleep…

  ~

  “Call.” Ox flipped his cards over, pinning them to the table with a thick, ringed finger. Nic eyed the pair of jacks with cool confidence. He had nothing to fear on this hand, though tonight didn’t seem to be his night overall. Ox’s eyes drilled Nic, hidden under looming brows. People didn’t call him “Ox” for nothing. A good three hundred pounds, with a shaved head and piercing black eyes, if he wanted to kill Nic, all he’d have to do was sit on him.

  If he weren’t so broke, Nic wouldn’t even be here, but Bud had invited him, and he couldn’t turn down an opportunity to make some easy cash. His prized BMW had been repossessed, and now he was literally living on the streets.

  He flicked his two pair face up. Ox cursed and thumped the table with a fist, making the chips bounce. Nic swooped in for the chips. Silently he tallied his total, arranging them with perfect precision.

  “Counting again? You’re still down,” Greasy said with a smug nod at his own tall stack.

  Nic bristled. With his magic eyes, he had skunked the other players time and time again. Tonight he’d lost ninety percent of the hands, and it was beginning to grate on him.

  “He counts them every hand,” Bud said. “Don’t you Nic?”

  “Shut up,” Nic growled.

  All night they had been calling his bluffs, and now he was down to practically nothing. And this time he really needed the money—all of their money.

  Bud rubbed his buzz cut and dealt out the next hand. The four players threw in their antes. Under the single, flickering bulb, Nic peeked at his cards. Pocket kings, not bad. He frowned and glanced at the other players. Ox’s lip twitched as he threw in two hundred. He was sitting on something good. Greasy hesitated, running his fingers through his long, black, oily hair and then swiping them over his mustache. His beady black eyes narrowed at the deck of cards, the telltale sign he needed to see the flop. He called, of course.

  On Nic’s turn he doubled the bet without flinching. Bud folded, shaking his head. Ox called Nic’s raise with bold confidence. Greasy waited a beat then reluctantly threw in his chips.

  Bud dealt the flop, three cards face up on the table. Nic watched the other players before checking the cards: queen, six, jack. Something flickered across Ox’s face. Nic knew the look—he’d paired up. It didn’t matter. Nic’s kings were still on top. Greasy, however seemed uncertain.

  Ox glanced not too subtly at Nic and bet a thousand. He must be sure of his hand. When the turn passed to Greasy, he was all too eager to fold—big surprise there. It was down to the two of them again. Nic doubled Ox’s bet. He saw a flicker of concern pass across the brute’s cold blue eyes, but then Ox called.

  Bud glanced between the remaining players, raised an eyebrow, and flipped the next card. A seven. Nic guessed he was still in the lead. Ox bet another thousand, and Nic called.

  Bud flipped the final card, an ace. Nic calculated in his head. His cash was running out, but he was confident he still had the winning hand. He put Ox on queens, possibly jacks. But either way, they would go pair against pair, and his cowboys would trump.

  Ox glanced at Nic, fixing him with a look like he was trying to get a read on him. He checked but didn’t bet—that was interesting.

  Nic eyed the la
rge man and glanced at his own chips. He had a measly thousand left. “All in.” He pushed the pile toward the center of the table.

  Ox took him in, a beat passing before he spoke. “Call.”

  They flipped their cards, Bud and Greasy leaning forward to see the hands. Nic was about to grab the pile of chips, when an outburst stopped him cold.

  “Ha!” Ox said, gesturing at the cards on the table.

  Nic blinked. The queen he’d assumed was there all right, but it was accompanied by an ace. A spark ignited inside him.

  “Two pair,” Bud said, shaking his head. “Ox wins. Nic’s out.”

  Ox threw his hefty arms around the pile of chips and pulled them in, snickering. “Thanks for the donation,” he said, sending Nic a taunting grin. “Don’t worry, it’ll go to a good cause. My ride needs an upgrade.”

  Greasy snorted, spitting some of his whiskey across the table. Spittle flew across Nic’s face, stoking his anger.

  “I can’t be the first one out. I’m never the first one out!”

  “Looks like things have changed.”

  Nic thought of the witch who’d caused this and so many of his problems. His face flamed with heat. He could feel his blood surging like a hot river, the veins in his neck pulsing. His hands balled into fists, and he glared at the group of losers he’d once called friends.

  Nic watched Ox take his chips, restacking them in a haphazard mix of denominations. Ox caught Nic’s expression and piled a fifty chip on top of a hundred, leering as he did so. The SOB was doing it on purpose. At that, something inside Nic exploded.

  He cursed and shoved his seat back, sending the metal chair clattering to the ground behind him. His fists met the table, scattering chips.

  The trio looked at him, visibly amused. Ox was still fingering the chips and chuckling to himself, Greasy’s eyes twinkled as he took a swig from his flask, and even Bud’s baby face wore a satisfied smirk.

  “You go ’round doing enough damage yourself,” Bud said.”Guess it’s Karma.”

  “It’s about time somebody showed you how it feels,” Greasy said.

  Nic reached behind his back and felt for the Wilson shoved into the waistband of his pants.

  “Yeah,” Ox said. “Maybe you should learn to take a dose of your own med—”

  Bang!

  The bullet went straight into Ox’s thick chest. A dark red stain bloomed on the front of his tightly-stretched white shirt. He looked down at the wound, his face frozen with shock.

  Bud and Greasy looked from Nic to Ox, confused. Before they could take in what was happening, Nic sent two more rounds barreling their way.

  Bud slumped in his chair, head falling forward. The force of Greasy’s bullet made his small frame slam into the back of his chair, tip, and fall to the floor.

  Ox was still conscious. He blinked, staring at Nic dumbly. The beast refused to go down easily.

  “What did you—?”

  Bang! Bang!

  Nic shot him two more times in the chest. The bullets shook him, leaving him with his mouth open, the look of surprise frozen on his dead face. His black eyes stared at nothing, finally as empty as his head.

  Nic cracked his neck and straightened. He surveyed the three bodies, feeling the venom fade and calm slowly return.

  He walked over to the dirty table in the corner of the room and opened the metal cash box. Bud always insisted on collecting the money up front.

  Nic stuffed the money into his pocket. He turned to exit, but an irritant nagged at him like a splinter in the eye. He stopped, turned back to the table, and pulled out the wad of cash. He precisely organized the bills, smoothing them between his fingers and stacking them by denomination. Then he folded the stacks together and placed them into his pocket. Much better. He returned the gun to his waistband.

  Magic eyes or no, the game was his. Always his.

  Early Friday morning, Alex threw on a light jacket and tied her tennis shoes. She jogged down the stairs and across the parking lot, glancing around. A few people were out enjoying the sunrise, but most hadn’t emerged from their homes. She waited until no one was watching and took off.

  She sprinted like a flash, her legs catching wind and launching her forward. It was almost like riding a ski boat out on the ocean, especially with the cool fall air prickling the inside of her nose. She whizzed by a couple meandering along the street, and they glanced around when her breeze flapped their jackets. They probably thought it was just a gust of wind.

  Her ability allowed her a large range of control, but when she ran for exercise, she liked to push her speed to the limit. There was little danger of her being spotted as anything more than a gray blur, and when she ran her fastest, she was as good as invisible.

  Running felt good. It helped her think more clearly. Today her mind darted periodically back to her trip home, but mostly she thought about Josh.

  She’d actually gone to his place with the intention of letting him know she wanted to spend more time with him, maybe lead in to a suggestion that they go out for dinner sometime. When she’d found him suffering and in pain, her intentions had suddenly felt selfish. She had been impressed at his bravery, that he’d sacrificed his own well-being to help someone else. It made her admire him more.

  Her feet pounded out her frustrations on the cement. He was suffering, and she was helpless to make him feel better.

  After twenty miles or so, she’d circled one area of the city and was finished. It had been a short run, but she couldn’t get her mind off Josh. She decided to check up on him to see how he was doing—right after a shower.

  Back at her apartment, she rifled through the stack of mail on the counter and found an envelope from her dad. A smile crossed her face as she opened it and found a card wishing her a happy birthday. Apparently Karen’s presence in his life hadn’t made Alex’s dad forget.

  It was going to be a weird birthday, Alex thought, tossing the card onto the desk in her room and jumping into the shower. She hadn’t ever mentioned to Chloe when her birthday was, and telling her it was today would just be awkward, so she decided to ignore it. She didn’t expect her few new friends to buy her gifts, and if they found out, they might feel obligated. Her dad sending a card was special enough.

  After towel-drying her curls and pulling on some clean clothes, Alex grabbed her keys and headed for the door. In the hall she bumped into Chloe, who had a bag slung over her shoulder.

  “’Morning,” Alex said. “Heading out?”

  “Yeah, I’m late for class.” Chloe looked Alex over. “What do you have going on today?”

  “Class at ten, band practice this afternoon.”

  “You look like you’re going somewhere.”

  “Just heading over to Jo—” Alex clamped her mouth shut, realizing that Chloe might not know about his latest injury.

  “Wait. You’re going to Josh’s? Why?” Chloe narrowed her eyes.

  “Um, no…?”

  Chloe planted a hand on her hip. “Why are you lying to me? You suck at it, by the way.”

  Alex sighed. “Yeah, I’m going to see him.”

  Chloe’s puzzled expression lasted only a moment. “Whoa, wait a minute. Did something happen to him? Did he do something stupid?”

  “I…he…okay, listen, Josh sort of got hurt again.”

  “What?”

  “It’s okay, Chloe. It’s not as bad as you—”

  “He promised me he wouldn’t! That little…” Chloe ground her teeth in frustration, then pulled out her phone to check the time. “Crap, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m already late. Just tell him he’ll hear from me later.” With that she huffed out of the apartment and left Alex to lock up.

  Alex didn’t see how a nail appointment was more important to Chloe than her own brother’s well-being, but it was probably a good thing she was leaving, seeing how upset she was. Once Chloe had a chance to cool off, maybe they could talk it out.

  There was a lot Alex didn’t get about Chloe, like why
makeup was a necessity and why her stuff had a problem staying confined to her room. She chalked it up as part of being a fashionista in training, eyeing the half-clothed mannequin in the corner next to the sewing machine. Alex shook her head at the mess of fabrics and trims covering their small living area. This mess from the girl who’d complained about Alex’s drums.

  Alex shrugged it off and went to Josh’s place. She gave a light rap on his door, unable to help but use a complex drum rhythm. When she heard him answer, she tried the handle.

  He was lying on the sofa in the same t-shirt and sweats as if he hadn’t moved since last night. She felt guilty for noticing how, even with his hair a tousled mess and dark-circled eyes, he still made her heart skip a beat. He was probably in a lot of pain.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Groggy eyes blinked up at her. He pushed himself up with an elbow. “Hey.”

  “How are you feeling today?”

  He thought for a minute. “Better.”

  “Does it still hurt a lot?”

  “Not as much.”

  “Good. You want something to eat?”

  “I’m kind of hungry. But you don’t need to get me anything.” He tried to sit up but winced when his leg came down off the sofa.

  She put her hand on his arm, pushing him back down. “Stay here. Let me get you something.”

  He didn’t protest, but a small groan escaped as he fell back onto his stomach.

  She went to the tiny kitchen and rifled through the cabinets. There wasn’t much food, and nothing remotely healthy. Even she knew when to say no to the junk food.

  The best she could come up with was a peanut butter sandwich with strawberry jam. Realizing that he probably hadn’t eaten dinner the night before and remembering the amount of food her male friends could intake in a sitting, she made him two. She poured him a glass of orange juice and grabbed the bottle of pills that was still sitting on the counter from the night before.