Callie Hart [Dead Man's Ink Rebel (epub)

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.I tell him I love him too and hang up the call.My role as voyeur is at an end.I drain the remnants of my coffee, shove my ear buds back into my ears, and begin the long walk across downtown Seattle to the bus depot.It’s not often that snow sticks here since it’s so wet.I feel like a little kid again as I trudge through the four-inch covering that carpets the sidewalk, tucking my face into my jacket, trying to keep warm as I listen to Robert Plant sing about letting the sun beat down upon his face.I pass a homeless guy hunkered over in a shop doorway, the only person out on the streets in this frigid weather.I come from a family where giving is second nature.The ten-dollar bill I pass to the man vanishes quickly into the many folds of jackets and shirts he’s wearing as protection against the cold, his quick, distanced eyes blinking thanks at me as I hurry down the street.I’m almost halfway to the depot when I can no longer hear Robert Plant singing anymore, and the ground feels like it’s shaking apart beneath my feet.A convoy of motorcycles sweep down the street, engines snarling, drowning out all other sound.You don’t get many packs of motorcycles traveling through the city.The sight is bizarre enough that I stop and watch them pass, until the very last of them disappear around a right-hand turn at the intersection behind me.They’re gone from sight, but the sound of their rides echoes off the tall buildings for at least another twenty seconds.Dad calls men who ride motorcycles temporary citizens.He’s seen so many fatalities over the years, so many decapitated heads still inside crushed helmets.He swears blind if he ever catches me on the back of one of the things he’ll ground me for life.The patients he’s dealt with in the past are usually riders of sports bikes, though, aerodynamic things designed for going way too fast.The men who just passed me—at least twenty of them—were on machines constructed from polished chrome and exposed engines, handlebars way too high, exhausts way too fat.Society tells me they are criminals.Perhaps they are.I carry on toward the bus depot, my iPod shuffling through songs.The streets are clear by the time I find myself closing in on my destination.Everyone’s playing it smart tonight, already inside, enjoying the warmth and a hot meal.That’s exactly where I’ll be soon, and I cannot wait.I’m getting ready to cross over the street when a tall man with silvered hair staggers out of the darkened side alley beside me.I don’t hear him—the music blocks out any sound he makes—and the sight of him suddenly emerging from nowhere has me jumping out of my skin.My heart slams against my ribcage, adrenalin fires through me.There’s blood in the snow.He’s bleeding.I tear the headphones out of my ears, and then he’s lurching toward me, one hand outstretched.“Help…please help…me,” he gasps.I skitter away from him, clutching my hands to my chest.It’s a natural reaction most people would have, I think.A terrifying old man, dressed in a torn great coat, and covered head to toe in blood comes flying at you from out of nowhere, and your first instinct is to run.Not people like my father or my sister, of course; they would run straight toward someone like that.It takes a heartbeat to get myself together before I realize this guy needs me to be like my dad.Or like Sloane.“What…what happened?” I hurry forward, unravelling the scarf from around my neck, preparing to use it to staunch the bleeding, wherever it’s coming from.The old man’s eyes grow round.Suddenly he’s not staggering toward me anymore; he’s backing away.“No…” His voice comes out in a ragged, wet rasp.“No!” The look on his face is sheer terror.And he’s staring at something behind me.I’ve seen enough films to know what comes next.The hand that clamps over my mouth.The iron grip of the arm that wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides.The weightless, stomach-churning sensation of being lifted off the floor by someone much bigger and much stronger than me.I try to scream.Pain rips down my throat, but I barely make a sound.The hand covering my mouth captures my cry and shoves it back inside me, effectively putting me on mute.My heart’s racing.I can’t…I can’t see properly.Black spots dance in my vision.I’ve never been good with small spaces, and being trapped inside this person’s arms is a very small fucking space.I react.I’d like to say I remember the training I received from the on-campus security team, showing us how to protect ourselves when out walking alone late at night, but that’s not what this is.This is the panicked flailing of a twenty-one-year-old girl gripped in the deepest throes of fear.I bite down on the hand and taste blood.A loud hiss from the man behind me lets me know I’ve caused him some discomfort, but the bastard doesn’t let go.My feet are still off the ground.I lash out, kicking backward.My heels hit shinbone and strong muscle, but the grip around me doesn’t falter.“What the fuck you doing with that bitch, hijo?” a voice demands.The accent is strong and thick.“Get her off the fucking street.”I’ve been too terrified to take in much, but now I see the bloody man, on his knees, staring off up the street.He looks devastated, like he knows this is the end.His abject hopelessness hits me like a wave; this man, whoever he is, knows he is alone right now and no one is coming to his rescue.Which means no one is coming to my rescue, either.He looks up at me, his mouth hanging open, and shakes his head.“I’m sorry,” he tells me [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Pokrewne