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As I reach Adams Street, I catch sight of a cab turning onto the road, and I practically hurl myself in front of it, desperate to make it stop. The driver hits the brakes and leans out the window with a shout. “What the hell is wrong with you, lady?”
I don’t answer. I just yank open the back door and slide inside, rattling off my address by rote.
He shoots me a suspicious look, like he’s thinking about telling me to get the fuck out of his cab. Then he grumbles something under his breath and pulls away from the curb.
It’s a short drive. I was more than halfway to my house when the meth-head pulled a knife on me. But my mind is buzzing as if it’s trying to receive a staticky radio signal, and my fingers drum out an errat
ic rhythm on the faux-leather seat beside me.
Those eyes.
One a pure, rich brown and the other a striking combination of summer blue and the same chocolate brown.
It was the dark-haired man from Club 47. And the same two men who were with him that night. All three rising up out of the darkness like ghosts from a fucking grave.
The man I saved. I know it’s him. I’m fucking sure of it.
It’s been over two years since I last saw him, but it would be impossible to forget his face.
Did he forget mine?
Does he know whose life he just saved?
My ride ends abruptly as the driver pulls up outside my apartment building. I grab several bills from my night’s tips and hand them to the driver with my shaking hand. As he pulls away, I race up the complex stairs and head to my apartment. Once inside, I immediately bolt the top lock, turn down the lights, and peek outside the window at the street below, breathing hard.
A shiver crawls up my spine as I wait in silence, wondering if I was being followed by more than just the meth-head tonight.
Wondering if I’ve been followed home.
* * *
Pain throbs at my side as I lie on the cold pavement, unable to move.
Each breath that passes my lips grows more and more shallow as I slowly bleed out from my wound.
My eyelids flutter closed and then open again at the warm sensation of someone touching me. I look up to see a man hovering over me, carefully checking my wounds. His hips settle between mine as he drapes his body over mine, cradling my face as the weight of him presses against my hips.
I know him.
I recognize him.
Two striking eyes stare back at me with a raw intensity that I’ve never forgotten. That I’ll never be able to forget.
His fingers brush away dark locks from my chest as he assesses the wreckage before him—my blood covered body, broken and destroyed.
My heart squeezes as a look of disappointment crosses his face. Beneath the gritty lights of the alley, his brown hair glows at the edges like an angelic crown fit for a king. Two men stand behind him. His sentinels. The other pieces of him.
His striking eyes search mine for answers to questions I’ll never know. He leans close and whispers in my ear, and just like I do every time, I strain to understand his words.
What is he saying? What does he want so desperately for me to know?
But the sounds travel into my mind without taking root. All I’m aware of is the feel of him speaking—the deep rumble of his voice and the way his breath stirs my hair.
He pulls back a little, and his expression shifts, a sliver of vulnerability rising to the surface, changing everything about his appearance.
When he lowers his head and claims a kiss, my whole body jolts at the warm sensation of his rough lips on mine.
The kiss begins slow like a waltz, but it quickly turns into a desperate race for something deeper. Harder.
