“Back up!” I screamed, my voice cracking, when they kept standing there. I really, really hoped it was my neighbor on the ground and not one of the other guys, or else getting in and out of my house was going to be real awkward for a long time.
Why wasn’t anyone out here helping? I wondered one more time, not understanding why no one else had come out. They weren’t exactly being quiet.
My heart was beating a mile a minute, and I was already sweating like a pig. I was on my own; terrified even as adrenaline pumped through me, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Stand there with my thumb up my butt?
“Back up!” I yelled again with more balls behind my tone, pissed beyond reason that this kind of shit would even be happening in my neighborhood.
There was a single harsh whisper, and then one of attackers took a step back toward the man on the ground and kicked him hard before pointing. “This isn’t over, motherfucker!” he hissed.
As cowardly as it was, I couldn’t help but feel more than a little thankful when two of the jerks jumped into a car together and the other got into the second vehicle without a second glance in my direction, tires peeling onto the street.
The man on the ground barely stirred as I stepped closer to him, my legs trying their best to imitate noodles. The guy was on his back, his heels dragging back and forth across the grass as he writhed in pain, silently. His arms, both covered in tattoos to the wrist, were around his head. I was crossing on to the yard when his head tipped up. He didn’t take much time rolling onto his side, then finally to his hands and knees, pausing in that position.
I dropped the bat on the lawn. “Whoa, buddy, you all right?” was the only thing I could think of to ask as I went to my knees right next to my more-than-likely neighbor. His attention was still focused on the ground. His breathing was choppy and uneven; a line of saliva and blood trailed from what I could only assume was his mouth to the grass. He coughed and more rose-colored fluids dribbled out.
Distracted and, honestly, pretty damn close to panicking, I noticed the hands holding him up were covered in tattoos too, but it was the splotches covering both sets of his knuckles that were a telltale sign he’d tried to fight back at least. Maybe he didn’t know how to fight, but he could get an E for effort.
“Hey, are you all right?” I asked again, slipping my gaze over him, searching for some sign that said he was okay even though chances were he probably wasn’t. I’d seen how much they had hurt him. How could he be fine?
His choppy breathing got even rougher before the man bowed his back and spit; his exhale afterward rattled and sounded painful.
I looked him over; the fluorescent street light made his hair look dark blond. The T-shirt he had on was spotted with blood. But it was his bare feet that said everything; he had to be my neighbor. Why else wouldn’t he have on shoes? Had he opened the door expecting everything to be okay and then gotten jumped?
“What can I help you with?” My voice was shaky and low as he started trying to get off his hands and solely onto his knees, either not realizing I was there or not caring. I moved closer and was caught off guard when an arm reached up toward me.
I only hesitated for a second before taking his wrist, sliding my shoulder under his arm as the blades of grass rubbed against my bare knees. His weight came down on me as his inner elbow settled around the back of my neck. A hint of some kind of liquor hit my nostrils as I slung my arm around his lower back. Anxiety prickled my belly at his closeness. I didn’t know this fool. I had no idea what he was capable of, or what kind of person he was. I mean, who got jumped outside their home? That wasn’t some random, being-in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time crap. It was personal.
It didn’t matter. At least a small part of me recognized that it shouldn’t matter. Three against one were shitty odds even if they were deserved.
When he tried getting to his feet, I did too, huffing and struggling a lot more than I’d like to admit as he used me for support. “Pal, I need you to tell me if you’re okay or not,” I told him, swallowing the heartbeat knocking around in my throat as I pictured him keeling over on me from internal bleeding. That would make my night. “Hey, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
“I’m fucking fine,” was his wonderful answer as he spat out more saliva.
Uh-huh, that wasn’t really believable when he sounded like he’d tried running a marathon he hadn’t trained for and bailed halfway through. But what was I going to do? Call him a liar even as he leaned half his weight on me? “Is this your house?”
“Mm-hmm,” the man grumbled the response deep in his throat.
Keeping my gaze low, I glanced around the lawn, trying to ignore what was probably close to 200 pounds using me as a crutch. Just like nearly every other house in the neighborhood, the one we were in front of had a deck built three steps up leading to the front door. I raised my free hand and pointed toward it. “I need you to sit down for a second, all right?” My back was about to give out.
Out of my peripheral vision, he seemed to nod or gesture in agreement, but I only caught a glimpse of a jawline covered in a thick beard that belonged on a hipster or a lumberjack. Thankfully, he must have sensed my spine was about to snap in half because he took weight off me as we walked forward ten feet that felt like half a mile. His body was slightly hunched, his breathing rattled. At the steps, I turned to lead him down so he could sit, letting me get a good look at him up close.
At first glance, I realized he was older than me. Maybe ten years, maybe twenty years, some men were hard to guess, and he was one of them. His cheeks had pink-colored patches highlighting spots across them. There was a big split along his eyebrow, and a smaller but just as bloody cut on his bottom lip. I couldn’t put my finger on what shade his skin tone was with only the crappy night lighting to illuminate the area we were in, but it was obvious he was a little pale. He was good-looking under normal circumstances, all right. But it was his eyes that had me staying in a crouch just a foot or two away from my new neighbor. Red streaks stretched out along irises whose color I couldn’t figure out, a sign that he’d been drinking.
Or did the bloodshot eyes mean something else? Shit.
“Are you all right?” I asked him again. I wasn’t a doctor; I didn’t know what different symptoms meant.
An ink-covered throat bobbed with what I could only assume was a swallow as he opened and closed his eyes slowly like he was disoriented or something. He was looking at me, but it was almost as if he was looking through me. Could he have brain damage?
“Hey, should I call an ambulance or the cops?”
That had his eyes snapping up to me. His answer was sharp and a little ugly. “No.”
I watched him. “You’re bleeding.” Just as I said it, a line of red trailed along his temple from his eyebrow right in front of me. Jesus.
“No,” the stranger repeated, his forehead lining with a frown that had me forgetting he was attractive because stupidity wasn’t cute. It just wasn’t.
“You are.” I’m sure my eyes were going wide in a “are you fucking kidding me” look. He wasn’t even bothering to wipe the blood away as it made a path down his cheek.
“I told you. I’m fucking fine.”
I had to choke back the urge to snap at him for talking to me like that. The only thing that kept me from opening my big mouth was that I thought about how I’d feel if I’d gotten beat up, and I probably wouldn’t be very nice either. But I still sounded grumpier than I had a second before as I gritted out, “I’m trying to help you. They were kicking you. You might have a broken rib… or a concussion….”
The trail of blood made its way toward his ear. How the hell could he tell me he was fine?
“You’re bleeding right in front of me. Look. Touch it if you don’t believe me,” I told him, tapping my index finger against my face in the exact spot I wanted him to do the same, like hello idiot, listen to me.
The man shook his head, letting out a slow, painful exhale as he finally re
ached toward his face and wiped at the blood, making a bigger mess. He glanced at his stained fingers and frowned, his mouth drooping at the sides like he couldn’t believe he’d been injured after everything that had just happened. “No cops. No hospital. I’m fine,” he insisted, his tone getting ruder by the syllable.
Jesus Christ.
Men. Fucking men.
If it were me, I would have already been on an ambulance wanting to get checked out. But I could already tell from the expression on his face—I could smell a stubborn-ass a mile away; I could recognize my own kind—there was no way I was going to talk him out of his decision.
What a dumbass.
“Are you sure?” I asked again, just so my conscience could be sure I’d done what he had requested even if I thought he was being a fucking idiot.
His blink was slow as he looked at me one more time, a slight grimace pinching one cheek before he could mask the fact he was human and hurting. “I said yeah.”
I said yeah.
This asshole was about three seconds away from me finishing off the job the other guys started if he didn’t keep that tone to himself. But the blood all over the front of his shirt had me keeping my mouth closed for maybe the fifth time in my entire life. He was hurt. He seemed to have trouble breathing. What if he had a punctured lung? What was I supposed to do?
The answer was: nothing. I couldn’t do anything unless he wanted it.
He was a grown man. I couldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to.
I should go back to my house. I’d already done enough. I didn’t want to deal with this, but… I knew I couldn’t go back inside until I was sure pretty sure he wouldn’t pass out on the lawn.
“All right, come on then. If you’re going to lie and say you’re fine, at least let me help get you inside your house,” I pretty much muttered, frustrated that I couldn’t just say “okay” and let him go on about his business. I was even more frustrated that he was blowing this off like it was nothing and that there wasn’t a chance there was something genuinely wrong with him.
His eyelids hung low over his eyes for a moment before my neighbor nodded, flicking his gaze in my direction. Another rattling breath came out of his chest, all reluctant and stupid.
I held out my hand to help him up, but he ignored it. Instead, it took him a moment to get back to his feet, while my hand waited in midair in case he changed his mind. He didn’t. Slowly and on his own, he climbed up the stairs, and I followed behind him, there to break his fall. With his back to me, I realized he wasn’t just heavy, he was a pretty big guy overall. Even without him standing straight up, it was easy to tell he was around six feet tall and definitely a lot heavier than me. He grunted under his breath as he took one step after another up to the deck, and I had to tell myself that, if he didn’t want me to call the cops, I needed to respect his wishes.
Even if I thought he was being a giant idiot and there was a chance he could die from his injuries.
I couldn’t keep my mouth from opening one last time, anxiety riding me hard. “You really should go get checked out.”
“I don’t need to get checked out,” he insisted in what was the rudest tone I’d ever heard.
You tried, Di. You tried.
There was a metal security door blocking a regular wooden one, and my neighbor reached out to open the first and then the second, going inside with me following after. All of the lights were off as he stumbled in, him grunting in the process. I couldn’t see a single thing as the drunk and beaten-up man stumbled forward. My bare feet were on carpet, and I prayed he didn’t have needles lying around or anything. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a thud and then a double click before a side lamp flickered on.
It was one of my worst nightmares.
His house was a mess.
There were piles of clothes that may or may not be clean on the couch and two recliners in the living room. A giant television was mounted to the wall, lines of cables dangling out from the bottom, linking it to two gaming systems I recognized. Cans of soda and beer were all over the side tables; balled-up napkins, receipts, socks, wrappers for fast food, and who knows what the hell else covered the floor.
He was huffing in pain as I kept looking around, catching sight of a baseball in a dusty glass case and an equally dirty trophy on the console table to my left. This whole place reminded me of the first apartment I’d had with Rodrigo. We’d been pigs after we had moved out of our parents’ place, but that was because our mom was a clean freak, and for once in our lives we didn’t have to pick up after ourselves religiously. Nowadays, with two boys and a job that was over full-time hours, I was pretty lenient with what I could live with.
But this place had me side-eyeing everything, scrunching up my toes.
The guy—man—let out a long groan as he slowly lowered himself onto a recliner, one hand gripping the side arm.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”
He let out another “Uh-huh” as he laid back, his head dropping against the headrest, his colorful throat bobbing with a swallow.
“Sure?”
He didn’t even bother replying.
I hesitated as I took in the red stains on his clothing and the swelling spots on his face, and thought about him getting kicked again. “I can take you to the hospital. I’ll just need a few minutes.” The idea of waking up Josh and Louie was an awful one, but if I had to do it, I would.
“No hospital,” he murmured, swallowing hard again. His eyes were shut.
I stared at him for a minute, taking in the sharp lines of his profile. I hated feeling useless, I really did. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
My neighbor might have shaken his head, but the movement was so restrained it was hard to be sure. “No. I’m fine.”
He didn’t look fine to me.
“You can leave now,” he muttered, those hands of his gripping his thighs so hard the knuckles turned white.
I didn’t want to be in his house with him, but I knew I couldn’t just skip on out either. The idea of being in a strange man’s house at night alone sent about a thousand alarm bells ringing in my head. This was the kind of stupid shit women in movies did that got them dumped into a deep hole in some psycho’s basement. But bailing wasn’t the right thing to do, and if it made a difference, people didn’t usually have basements in the Texas Hill Country. I looked around and kept my question about whether he had a first aid kit or not to myself. “Do you have anything I can use to clean your cuts?”
The man’s eyes were closed, and from his lap, a couple of his fingers on his left hand wiggled in a dismissive gesture that had me narrowing my eyes.
“Do you know how many germs people carry around on their hands?” I asked him slowly.
I wasn’t a fan of the look he slid my way with only one opened eye.
And he wasn’t a fan of my persistence. “I’m not joking. Do you have any idea?”
He stared at me for all of maybe a second before closing his eyes and making another dismissive gesture that insisted he was going to be an idiot about this. “I already said I’m fucking—”
“What the hell is going on?” an unfamiliar voice spoke up out of nowhere, just about scaring the shit out of me.
Standing in the space where the living room transitioned into what was either a hallway or the kitchen was a half-naked man. A half-naked man rubbing at his eyes and frowning.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” The grumpy idiot on the chair couldn’t even talk without groaning.
The sleepy man kept frowning and blinking, still obviously out of it. He reached an arm out toward the wall behind him, flicking the overhead fan light on.
And God help me.
God help me.
The new guy, the not-beat-up dumbass, was only in black boxers. It was obvious even from the ten plus feet between us that he was tall, maybe even taller than Beat-up Dumbass. His hair was cut nearly to the scalp, his face was stubbled but not r
eally bearded, and he was built like those long-limbed male models with brawny chests, six-packs, thighs for days, and a giant brown and black tattoo that seemed to cover everything from his upper arms, across his pectorals to the notch at his throat and continuing to arch up above his trapezius muscles, disappearing somewhere on his back.
He was built like a porn star. The really attractive, muscular porn stars.
Or I guess a male calendar model.
I’d obviously been watching too much guy-on-guy porn lately for that to be the first kind of body I associated him with.
I knew the exact moment his tired eyes noticed I was there because he stood straight up and all of those muscles went tight. “Who are you?” he asked slowly, dryly, his voice rough with sleep.
Dropping my hand from where it was over my heart—I didn’t even remember reaching up—I caught the ragged breath in my chest and held up my palms so that they faced toward him in surrender, taking in his features that weren’t from the neck down. His face was all angles and sharp lines like a gangster in a Russian mafia movie. Not exactly handsome but there was something about it… I coughed. Focus. “I just helped him outside,” I explained, standing there like a deer caught in the headlights.
Wasn’t that obvious? The beat-up guy was bleeding. Why else would I be standing there?
The half-naked stranger stared at me, unblinking, unmoving before his gaze switched back to the man on the recliner. “What happened?”
Beat-up Dumbass shook his head and lay back against the couch, waving his fingers dismissively. “Nothing. Mind your own fucking business and go back to sleep.”
Was I…? Should I…? I should go. I should probably go, I decided. I cleared my throat and luckily neither one of them glanced at me. “All right, well, I’m going to head out now—”
“What happened?” the half-naked man asked again, and it didn’t take a genius to know the question was directed at me… because his gaze was locked on mine, all hooded eyelids and a frown that made me uncomfortable.
Wait for It Page 2
