I ignore him and limp forward, gritting my teeth with every step. He swears, and I swallow a squeak as he grabs me from behind and tosses me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “What the hell?” I hiss.
“Moving too slow.” He jogs to the next street and sets me on my feet as he pushes out into the open. “You’re going to have to walk. We’ll draw too much attention if I carry you.”
Nodding, I put my foot down, wincing as pain vibrates up my shin. “I’m parked about ten blocks away.” He stares down at my feet, and it hits me—we don’t have to stick together. “You know what? Never mind.” I wave a hand at the street in front of us. “Go. Disappear. Watch out for black SUVs with super tinted windows.”
A bullet zips past, leaving behind a burning line of pain along my right thigh. He curses, scoops me up, and runs down the street, dodging people trying to get away from the gunfire. He veers off through the nearest door. It’s a bar, and all I can say is it’s dimly lit and not even half full. “Back entrance?” he barks. The bartender silently points to the far wall, and my target—for one fleeting second I wish I knew his name—dashes through the bar to the back. He eases the door open, and I stick my head out to scan the alley.
Some of the gunmen are at the far end, facing away from us. Likely searching the street to see if we’ll pop up there. I withdraw my head. “Opposite end of the alley. Four of them.”
Shouts from the front of the bar push him through the door, catching it before it can slam shut. He keeps close to the building, using the shadows as cover, pausing at the next door to try the knob. It doesn’t budge. He moves from doorway to doorway, each second that passes with us out in the open bringing us closer to a date with the wrong end of a gun.
We’re running out of doors. He tries another doorknob. It twists easily under his hand. He nudges it open with his foot, and we slip inside as shouts sound in the alley.
When he puts me down, my ankle throbs in protest. Bright spots flash in front of my eyes, pain streaking down my leg. This fucking hurts. Blood seeps through my jeans, soaking the heavy fabric.
He fumbles with the doorknob, muttering under his breath. “See anything we can put in front of the door?”
I shake my head, too distracted by my ankle and the bullet wound to my thigh to notice much of anything. Turner would be telling me right about now to push through it. I swallow hard. “I can walk. I’ll find some place to hide out for a little while.” The faint wail of sirens sends a wave of relief through me, weakening my knees, and I slide to the floor. Sirens mean cops. Cops mean whoever those bastards with guns are will be clearing out.
Derision’s clear on his face as he looks down. “You can walk?” He leans over, grabs my hands, and hauls me to my feet. “Maybe if we’re lucky this place has a first aid kit we can use.”
The sirens scream closer. It’s a comforting sound, which is strange. It’s never been a comfort before. I grip his arm as I limp forward. “Looks like some kind of storeroom.”
He doesn’t respond, just guides me through the dim hallway. We find a small room off to the left, outfitted with a busted couch, a table, and a few chairs, lit by a bare bulb that sputters a couple times before staying on. “Go lie down. On your side. Take your pants off first.”
The fog of pain lifts for a minute. Attractive as he is, I’m not letting this guy see me without my pants. “How about not? If there’s a first aid kit around, fantastic. I can clean myself up. You can sneak out or whatever.”
He levels his gaze at me. “Take off your pants.”
The temperature in the room rises about ten degrees. “I can take care of my own injuries, thank you. Your concern is touching but unnecessary.”
The button on my jeans is undone in a blink, his fingers lowering the zipper, inch by inch. What the fuck? I swat at his hands, pull them away. “Stop it.”
“Pants off, love. You’re going to need some help with that bullet graze.” He brushes his fingers over the exposed skin above my panties, and the heat of his touch, one simple touch, blanks my mind. He peels them over my hips, working his fingers into my pant leg to pull the fabric from my skin where it’s sticking with blood. Embarrassment catches up with me as he kneels to untie my sneakers and free my ankles of their denim bindings. The hottest guy I’ve ever seen is taking off my pants, and the only reason he’s doing it is because I can’t bend over and take care of it myself.
The offending clothing item is in a heap at my feet, and he picks me up again. The couch makes an ominous creaking sound as he lays me on my side. “Thought I saw a sink nearby.”
I’m half naked. Cold. Cold and getting colder, the adrenaline rush draining from my body. He’s prowling the room, probably searching for the elusive first aid kit. Those things are damn hard to catch in the wild. I bite down on my lip to keep the giggles inside and listen for the sirens. They’ve stopped. Hopefully that means the police are out on the street, rounding people up.
The target holds up a white box. “Found it.” He opens the kit and sifts through the contents. A packet of gauze, an Ace bandage, some tape, what looks like a couple of wipes, and a tube of ointment end up on the table next to the box. After washing his hands, he dampens some paper towels from the holder over the sink in the corner and returns to my side, kneeling next to the couch to wipe the blood from my leg.
The first touch stings like hell. I dig my fingers into the couch cushion. What’s that phrase? Lie back and think of England? Think of something else. Anything else. The e-mail to send to the client, declining the job. The conversation I’ve been putting off with Turner. The research paper on nineteenth century poets I haven’t started. That stupid sociology paper. “What’s your name?” I gasp.
“You can call me Nick.” His focus never wavers from my thigh.
Crap. I didn’t actually mean for that question to come out. “Nick.” Knowing his name will make it harder to kill him. Fantastic. “Thanks for this. You really didn’t have to stick around.”
“Right. Do I look like a monster? Those men would have eaten you alive. Besides, I owe you.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
He tosses the used towels on the floor and gathers the stuff he set out. He squeezes the edges of the wound together and reaches for a bandage. Warm. Way too warm, his hand on my leg, the rest of him close enough I can smell him. Cinnamon. Unusual. Intoxicating. “Do you think we’ll be able to get past the cops? I mean, if they’re still out there? I’ve got a paper to finish.” Maybe if I focus on my assignment I won’t notice how good he smells.
“A paper?” He glances over, our eyes locking for a brief moment. “You’re a student?”
“Yeah. I’ll graduate in the spring.”
He smooths the first of the butterfly bandages over the wound. “UCLA? USC?”
“UCLA.” I shut my eyes, giving in to the fatigue and pain clouding my mind.
“Thought you looked young,” he muttered. “What’s your name?”
Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow. The wound burns more the longer he pinches the edges together. He can’t get those bandages on fast enough. I open my mouth to lie, and the truth falls out. “Cassidy. Cass. I go by Cass.”
“Cass.” He strokes a hand down my leg, closing it around my swollen ankle. “Shift onto your back for me, and we’ll get this wrapped.” He lifts his head enough to meet my gaze. “Then you can tell me how a college student gets through a gunfight unfazed.”
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Meet the Author
When she’s not plotting ways to sneak her latest shoe purchase past her partner, Amanda Byrne writes sexy, snarky romance and urban fantasy. She likes her heroines smart and unafraid to make mistakes, and her heroes strong enough to take them on. Amanda lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and no, it really doesn’t rain that much. Visit her website at Amandakbyrne.com, find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authoramandakbyrne, on Goodreads at www.goodreads.com/By
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