But also, please don’t.
The guy, Becks, keeps pace with me as I race out of the woods and down the street toward my house. I can’t look at him as we go. The cold air does nothing to cool my flushed cheeks, and with the gun in my hand, I don’t need to keep checking on him. I feel better, safer, with the weapon, even though I don’t know how to use it. I’ve never shot, let alone held a gun before, and it’s probably obvious.
But it’s just point and pull the trigger, right? How hard can it be?
A mix of relief and fear hits me, making my knees a little weak, when I spot my house up ahead. Our blue bungalow. Small, cozy, just two bedrooms, but it’s fine for me and my parents. We’ve certainly lived in worse. I stumble a step, and Becks’ hand shoots out to catch me before I fall.
I mumble, “Thanks,” and go to tug free, but he holds firm, keeping me in place.
My heart rate spikes. Maybe I was wrong to feel safe around him after all?
But when I glance over at him and give my arm another pull, he lets go.
“Hold on. You’re going to scare them half to death barging in like that,” he says, gesturing to my face.
I’d completely forgotten about my split lip, and when I gingerly reach up to prod it, it’s still wet with fresh blood and starts to throb. When I wince, his mouth presses into a hard line.
Reaching down, Becks grabs the hem of his shirt. Pulling it partially up, he stretches it so he can dab at the blood on my chin, revealing his crazy set of stacked abs that mesmerized me before.
I snap my gaze to his face to keep from falling under their spell again, but it doesn’t help much. His face has to be symmetrically perfect. He’s so good-looking it borders on unreal.
Who is this guy and why isn’t he making millions modeling?
You’d think nearly getting killed would kill my hormones too. Apparently not.
This is ridiculous.
Heat rises to my face again and I step out of reach. What Becks doesn’t realize is that my parents are probably already at DEFCON 1. It’s not going to matter much that I look like I’ve been attacked, when I’m sure they’re already envisioning the worst.
I appreciate the thought though.
“Look, it doesn’t matter—” I start, when a screen door opens and then slams shut.
“Maybe we should wait a few more minutes,” I hear my mom call out, worry clear in her tone.
My dad is just jogging down the front steps, his hurried paces bringing him to his beat-up SUV.
“It’s been over a half-hour,” he answers. “Something’s not right. I’m going to look for her.”
“Wait! I’m here!” I call, rushing forward just as he yanks open the driver’s side door.
His shoulders sag in relief when he hears my voice, but when I jog over to him and the porchlight hits me, tension creases his face.
“What happened?” he asks, rushing to meet me.
Footsteps sound on the porch steps and then my mom gasps.
Maybe Becks was right about getting cleaned up first.
“Honey, are you all right?” my mom asks, cupping my face as her eyes dart over the blood and dirt smeared there.
“Come on. Let’s get her inside,” my dad says as he slings an arm over my shoulder and tucks me into his side.
He starts steering me toward the front door, then Becks clears his throat. I’d almost forgotten about him. Both parents immediately tense and jerk in his direction as Becks steps into the light.
Dropping his arm, my dad maneuvers in front of my mom and me. “Who are you?” he demands.
“A friend,” Becks answers, which is a stretch. “Your daughter is in danger. I need to take her?—”
