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“Try and kick me out,” she said, forcing herself to ignore the rising panic in her chest that things were moving too fast. Way too fast for the dumpster-fire mess that was her life.
She heard the water running in the bathroom and closed her eyes, vowing to worry about that later. Right now, she was tucked into the bed of a man who had lit up her body like a Christmas tree—twice—and his pillowcase smelled like spicy pine laced with his unique scent. All she wanted to do was enjoy tonight. She’d think about the rest tomorrow.
A few minutes later, she felt the bed dip, and soon his arm was around her waist. She mumbled something, but it was too much work to open her eyes. Instead, she snuggled closer, holding his arm hostage with her own until at last sinking down into sweet oblivion.
***
Bryce was startled awake by the sound of someone yelling. A man.
Ryker.
The words were garbled and sounded like he was in the garage. She levered herself up on an elbow, the faint light from the windows in his tiny place confirming that she was alone in his bed.
“What time is it?” Grabbing her cell phone from the wooden crate that stood in for his nightstand, she checked the time. Two-fifteen a.m. Why was Ryker out of bed and in the garage in the middle of the night?
Fearing some type of family or car emergency, she fumbled on her shirt and underwear. Then she toggled on her cell’s flashlight, casting its illumination across the spartan apartment. She saw his dresser, the television on top, and the kitchen, which consisted of a teensy countertop, microwave, sink, and one lonely cupboard. No Ryker.
The door leading into the garage stood ajar. She padded barefoot to the threshold, pushing it open.
The garage lights were off, but it was partially illuminated thanks to the bright security halogens outside shining through the windows. Nothing moved, and she heard no sound. A quick check into Ryker’s tiny office showed it was empty.
“Ryker?” she whispered, shivering in the brisk temperature of the uninsulated garage space. She figured he might be on a phone call and didn’t want to be too loud and interrupt. There was no response, but she heard someone moving.
A clunking noise came from behind the VW front end. It sounded like someone had bumped an elbow or leg into the metal. She was starting to get freaked out. If Ryker wasn’t here, where was he, and who was in the garage?
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“Stop! Look to your left, your left! Get down!” Ryker’s shout filled the garage, his tone urgent, commanding. Scared.
Bryce jumped, then ducked, crouching instinctively at his warning. She hunkered by the entrance to the tiny office, half in and half out of the doorway. Her heart boomed as she looked to her left, adrenaline making her breath fast and her senses hyperalert. Shaking, she directed her cell’s flashlight in that direction.
Nothing.
Slowly, she traced the phone’s light in an arc to include the rest of the garage. Shadows fled under the bright glare, but she saw nothing menacing lurking under a vintage Mustang Ryker had on the lift, nor anything in the periphery.
Seeing no threat, she released her death grip on the doorjamb. Before she called out again, a sound came to her. It started out low, like a moan, then grew into a cry of pain and anger.
“Noooo. Tarun, stay with me, man. Where’s Paul? Shit! My leg…”
It was definitely Ryker. His anguished tone brought Bryce to her feet, and she was running toward his voice, behind the VW’s front end, before she registered the intent to do so. She dove around the edge, the cell phone’s light bringing the tiny area in full view, and what she saw stopped her cold.
Ryker lay huddled in the corner made by the front end being fastened to the garage wall. His big body was crammed into an impossibly tight package of limbs, as if he were a child hiding from the boogeyman. He wore no prosthetic, and both his hands were gripped around the scarred skin above his amputation, like he was trying to stop a bleed.
“Ryker, are you hurt?” She cast her light onto his leg, dreading what she’d see…but there was nothing. The flesh on his residual limb was intact. No blood. No sign of recent trauma or injury.
Ryker didn’t answer. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if he were watching a movie projected on the metal of the VW’s front end. His breath came in harsh gasps, and his hand shot from his knee to shake the bundle of blankets on the floor.
“Tarun? Paul’s not…he’s not moving. Tarun, damn it, open your eyes! You’ve got to stay with me, man!” He shouted the last two sentences, his voice straining until it gave out at the end.
He was dreaming, but it wasn’t like any dream she’d ever had, nor any nightmare, either. This felt like a horrible reenactment from his time as a Marine.
“PTSD,” she breathed. What should she do?
“Ryker?” she whispered, not wanting to startle him but hoping to wake him out of this state. “It’s me. Bryce. Are you okay?”
He looked at her then. His blue eyes were blank. Staring. While his expression never altered, the raw pain in his expression triggered tears of her own.
“Shh,” he said, staring at her but not seeing her at all, “as soon as they clear the area, they’ll be back for us. You need to stay awake, Tarun. Ah, God! My fucking leg…”
