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Eventually they loaded Tray in the ambulance. His trainer ignored me and gave the EMTs brisk instructions before hopping in the back at Tray’s side. I wasn’t allowed to go, because I wasn’t family. Neither was Timmins, to the best of my knowledge, but he got to go and I didn’t.
I’d have to find another way.
Numbly, I walke
d out of the building and across the sidewalk to where the cabs should be. Snow clung to my lips, and the subdued voices that spilled out of the warehouse barely intruded into my consciousness. Blood smeared my hands and face, but I wasn’t going to wash anytime soon. I couldn’t bear to rinse any part of him away.
Heavy footsteps pounded up behind me, too close for comfort. Normally I would’ve whirled and prepared for a confrontation.
Tonight I’d just hand over my wallet and cell phone. I no longer cared.
“Hey.”
I kept walking, shoulders hunched. Where the hell were the cabs? The hospital was too far away to walk. Carly had a license, but we didn’t have a car.
Go get Tray’s Corvette out of storage.
A high-pitched laugh burst from my lips, puffing into the cold air. The footsteps behind me came to a halt.
“Hey. Are you Mia?”
That brought me up short. I turned warily and glimpsed a tall guy in bike shorts and a hoodie with shaggy brown hair and furious eyes. I had no idea of their color in the darkness, but I could tell from his squint he was pissed. Or it could’ve been the way he stood with his fists balled and his hips thrust out, daring me to challenge him. Hoping I would.
I’d seen him in Tray’s corner. He must be his friend. That didn’t mean he wasn’t my foe.
“Who are you?” I returned, matching his stance.
He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “I’m Slater. Tray’s best friend. Are you Mia?”
So Tray had mentioned me. Hope quivered in my chest before the glow from a streetlight highlighted the brutal set of Slater’s jaw. He didn’t like me.
Yeah, well, get in line. I wasn’t too thrilled with myself.
“Yes.” Rather than elaborate, I turned and continued walking up the street, away from the crowds and the questions and the judgment. I needed to get to Tray.
“Where are you going?”
Was this guy stupid? “To the hospital.” I continued walking.
“You think you have any fucking right to be there?”
I came to a halt. No, I didn’t have any right. Luckily Brooklyn Presbyterian didn’t segregate by moral code so I’d still be able to drag my tarnished ass through the white glass gates.
But I also didn’t owe him a response. He’d know I was at the hospital when he saw me there. If he chose to waste valuable emotional energy on poking at me, that was his choice. I wasn’t making the same one.
“What the fuck? Don’t you speak?”
When I started walking again—without speaking—the footsteps behind me sped up in a manner meant to intimidate. Poor guy didn’t realize I didn’t intimidate easily.
I spun around and caught him off-guard, raising my arm near his face. He was taller than me, but not by much. “Get the hell away from me. I’m not your problem.”
His exhales cut through the taut, cold air between us. I’d barely breathed for the last half hour. His glacial expression warmed, just a fraction. “You really did punch him.”
“What?”
“You punched Tray in the jaw. I didn’t believe it. He was still bruised all to shit tonight.”
My eyes stung. Great, more tears. I couldn’t break down here. Not in front of this stranger.
