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Six Months Ago – Winstable Bay, Miami
* * *
BRAD
* * *
Red. It’s everywhere.
Eyes open, eyes closed.
Red.
Blood, pain, gunshots.
Her hair.
Red.
I duck, the sound of guns firing, bullets flying.
But I still see red.
And then . . . green.
Green eyes looking up at me full of relief. Of hope. I tell her she’s going to be okay. She nods. It’s weak, it’s jerky.
Red.
This time, it’s not blood I see. It’s not vibrant, glossy, shoulder-length waves.
It’s a red mist.
Anger.
She looks down at the crook of her arm, and I follow her eyes to the needle hanging out. Then up the pipe toward a bag. There’s a hair tie halfway up, knotted around the tube, blocking the flow of drugs to her veins. Her jaw tenses, and she yanks it out. Blood sprays the mattress, and I look over my shoulder, seeing Danny hauling a blonde girl up from another bed. Goldie is watching the door, James has another girl in one arm, a gun in the other, and Ringo is carrying a brunette. Every taste in women is covered. Sick bastards.
“We have one more,” I yell. The weight of the other unconscious girl on my shoulder becomes heavier. “Fuck.” I jerk my arm, shifting her up more as I round the bed. “She’s awake,” I call. Smart. She’s smart. And so fucking young. I ask the girl—because that’s what she is, a girl—if she can walk. She gives me another jerky, strained nod as I offer a hand, and her delicate, pale limb reaches for me. She holds on to me so tightly as I help her up off the dirty mattress, the strain on her face painful to watch. The strap of her tank slips off her shoulder.
Purple. Yellow. Black.
So much fucking red, I’m forced to blink back the mist clouding my vision, anger crippling me. Her hand feels for the strap of her tank, missing it, her movements clumsy and disorientated. “Here.” I wince, lifting it back into place, covering her bruised breast. My teeth grind. What the fuck did they do to her? I hold out my hand again, but she doesn’t take it. I look at her. She looks at me. And for a moment, I’m lost, no longer dodging bullets and running for my life. Instead, I’m tumbling into a gaze so expressive. So hopeful.
So fucking beautiful.
Falling.
Just staring.
I feel my forehead furrow and shake my head mildly, trying to realign my focus. But her eyes. I’m a prisoner to them. I need to get her out of here.
And yet for all the will in the fucking world, I can’t move. Can’t even feel the weight of the other girl on my shoulder anymore.
Bang!
It takes that gunshot to break the spell. The girl startles, and I blink my vision clear of the red, looking back. More gunshots ring out, and mumbled yells of panic come from the young women who are drugged up to their eyeballs. “Fuck. We’ve got to go, sweetheart.” She’s quickly tucked into my side, clinging to my torso, both arms wrapped around me to hold herself up as she staggers along beside me. “You okay?” I ask, checking on her constantly, as well as our surroundings. James is raining bullets with no mercy or break, a machine gun in each hand, his face a picture we’re all used to.
