Jem crouched behind the kitchen counter.Anyone who wanted to get to the garage would have to walk past his hiding spot.He reached into his pocket and found the remote.
Stand up.Walk out of here.Go home.Go find Tean.
What are you doing?
I’m doingthis, he thought.
And he pressed the button on the remote.
The garage door rattled up.The sound wasn’t all that loud, but at this hour, with the house dark and still, it was loud enough.And when the door finished going up, Jem hit the button again, and the door clattered down.He breathed slowly through his nose—deep breaths into his belly.The black specks settled, but his eyes were still gummy.He blinked, for a moment, he thought he wouldn’t be able to get them open again.
And then footsteps came from the other end of the house.They were louder than Jem expected: shoes with thick soles on the floorboards.They came across the living room hard, fast, urgent.They passed Jem.No lights flicked on.Nothing.The door to the garage opened, and the light from the opener—the light that came on automatically when you opened or closed the door—turned the kitchen walls yellow.
Jem got to his feet.
He opened his mouth.
The tip of the tire iron scraped the tile.
Wendell spun around.
But he wasn’t Wendell.
Too tall.Too big.Strong across the chest and shoulders.Backlit by the glow from the garage, he was just a man with a short haircut.And then he turned his head, and enough light fell across his face to show the scar.
Zeb.
Kai’s best friend.His second-in-command.Probably—if Jem had to put money on it—his sometimes fuck buddy, even if they called it something else.
The shock on Zeb’s face lasted longer than it should have.Not too bright, old Zeb.The right kind of guy to hang out with if you wanted to convince somebody it wasn’t gay to slurp on each other’s schlongs, as long as you kept your socks on.
Jem, though.
Well, Jem was gasoline.And this was the match.
He was already around the counter and closing the distance before Zeb realized he was moving.Jem brought the tire iron back like a baseball bat and swung.
Zeb stumbled back, and the tip of the iron whistled past him.The blow had been too big, too exaggerated, and now the momentum carried Jem in the direction of the swing.The tire iron hit the wall, and drywall crumpled.The tire iron sank into the broken gypsum, and when Jem yanked on it, it stayed put—trapped in the wall board.
Zeb lunged forward.
Jem felt rather than saw the knife in his hand.Too many fights.Too many guys who fought dirty.He gave up on the tire iron and scrambled back.The knife tugged on his coat.Zeb kept coming.The knife darted in again, and Jem twisted.He kicked a kitchen stool into Zeb’s path, and it bought him precious seconds as Zeb stumbled.
And then Zeb kicked the stool into Jem.
It hit him in the knee, and the pain was a short, white shock, and then Jem’s knee just felt hot.He shoved the stool away.Whatever seconds he’d gained, he lost them getting free of the stool, and Zeb closed the distance again.The knife caught the ambient light from outside, and the blade looked like a silverfish in the dark.Jem dodged—
Tried to dodge.
His knee gave out, and he fell.
He rolled as he hit the floor, the movement carrying him into the living room.Panic clawed at him—he’s going to kill you—and Jem shoved it back down.He came up on his good knee, twisting his wrist frantically to uncoil the paracord looped there like a bracelet.The hex nut swung wildly as Jem tried to get enough of the cord loose for him to swing it.
Zeb charged.
It was a full-on sprint, with a big guy—a strong guy—behind it.Jem only had the paracord halfway free, but he swung the hex nut as hard as he could and tried to throw himself out of Zeb’s path.He felt the hex nut connect, but kneeling like he was, he couldn’t move fast enough, and Zeb crashed into him.
The knife was a hot wind on the side of his head.
