“Have you seen Gemma? Blonde hair, green eyes, around this tall,” I ask, holding my hand across my chest. “She’s been ordering virgin margaritas allnight.”
He smiles. “White floraldress?”
“That’s the one,” I reply with alaugh.
Gemma is the only girl who can pull off a floral dress in a war-torncountry.
He stops drying a glass and gestures his head to the entrance door. “She left a fewminutesago.”
My brows furrow. “She left?” Skepticism radiates from my voice. I normally have to drag Gemma out of any bars wevisit.
“Thanks,” I say, tapping my knuckles onto the wooden bar top before spinning on myheels.
As I walk to the double swinging doors, the churning hampering my stomach revs up a gear as the feeling of something not being quite right overwhelms me. My steps to the door become urgent, only hindered by the beer sloshing in my twisted stomach. When I emerge out the double wooden doors, a blast of humid air hits me in the face, making my stomach churn even more. My neck cranks to the right before drifting to the left. There is a handful of late-night, drunk partygoers scattered on the sidewalk, but Gemma is nowhere insight.
My head shifts to the side when a young blond-haired man stumbles out of a side alley. His face is ashen and his pupils wide. I lift my chin in greeting as I eye him with curiosity. I’ve never seen a kid look so rattled before, even after serving in Afghanistan for two years. The blond kid’s eyes stare into mine. His chest thrusts upwards as he battles to secure a fullbreath.
His eyes snap to the side at the same time a faint scream overtakes the hum of music pumping out of the bar. My head rockets to the side at lightning speed. I freeze and take a step backwards, winded like I’ve been sucker-punched in the guts. The shock of what I witness quickly converts to fury as the scene unfolds in front of me. I charge down the alleyway, my steps no longer impeded by the alcohol I drank. The blood rushing through my veins turns potent, blackened by the furyscorchingit.
“Get off!” I scream, my deep angry snarl bouncing off the stained brickwalls.
“Stop it! Stop it! Get off!” I screamagain.
Blinded by rage, I grab the first man I see and throw him against the trash can he is standing next to. His head connects hard with the steel edge, sending a stream of blood running down the side of his face. He stands, dazed and confused. Holding his wounded head in his hand, he staggers down the alleyway. I storm towards a group of men, dragging them away from a pair of fear-filled green eyes staring up at me, pleading for me to save her. A man I’ve seen before but misplaced his name stops in front of me. He cracks his knuckles and sneers at me. The sound of a bone being fractured bellows through the eerie quietness when my clenched fist connects hard with his jaw. When he falls to the ground, I grab another man, and then another, unleashing hit after hit in a haze of rage. Even outnumbered, the scent of fear never approaches me. I'm running on pure adrenaline, too enraged to stop the anger burning me from theinsideout.
My sweat-drenched shirt clings to my chest when I fist the shirt ofanotherman.
“Stop, Hugo. It’s me. It’s Brody,” says a voice quieter than amouse.
My wildly swinging fist freezes mid-air, inches from a terrified face. The same face of the man who stumbled out of the alley mere minutes ago stares up at me, terrified and confused. My clouded eyes dart up and down the alley. I unclench my fist when I find the alley empty of the men who were here ten minutes ago. My chest rises and falls as my body fights to rein in my usually carefreecomposure.
Any sense of normality vanishes when a painful sob shreds through my ears. My eyes dart down to Gemma, huddled against a brick wall. The roughness of the brickwork scratches her skin as she scrambles across the cracked, stained pavement. The strap of her dress is broken, her knees are bloody and bruised, and black lines of mascara are running down her pale cheeks. Her frantic eyes scan the area as her entire body shakes. I remove my blood-stained shirt, snubbing the trembling that has encroached myhands.
“Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me,” she stammers out, her voicewavering.
“It’s okay. I won’t touch you,” I say, crouching down in front of her to carefully drape my shirt over hershakingbody.
She peers up at me, wide-eyed and in shock. Her lips quiver as a mass of moisture swamps her eyes. I return her stare, allowing my eyes to silently issue the words my mouth is failing to produce. My apologies for what she went through, while also relaying that I won’t hurt her. When the sounds of sirens approach, Gemma leaps forward and digs her nails into my arm, clutching onto me for dear life, like I'm her safetyshield……
I’ve never forgotten the terrified sobs that tore from her throat thatnight.
I lunge for Brandon, grabbing the scruff of his shirt before he has the chance to react. Hauling him to within an inch of my face, my furious eyes scorch his. The mad beat of his heart pounds the edge of my clenched fist that is pinning him against the car. He eyeballs me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but not a sound seeps fromhislips.
“Who are you?” I query, my voice failing to conceal the shivers havocking my body as a flurry of memories delveintome.
Brandon’s eyes dance between mine, but not a word parts hismouth.
“Who are you?” I scream again, tightening my grip on hisshirt.
He stares into my eyes. “My name is BrandonJames--”
My teeth grit, furious he is trying to play me forafool.
“McGee,” headdson.
The air is vehemently removed from my lungs. I roam my eyes over Brandon’s face, studying him in precise detail. Same hazel eyes, defined nose, wonky smile; it was just the blond hair that lead me astray. I take a step backward, overwhelmed by a surge of emotions pummeling into meatonce.
“You’re Grabby McGee’s brother?” I ask, mistrust in myvoice.
