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“Carl,” I gasped, rushing forward toward him, across the overlapping, multicolored carpets on the floor that helped reduce the noise in the studios.
It wasn’t until I was right on top of him that I realized it wasn’t that he’d collapsed. Or, perhaps, not just that he’d collapsed.
There was blood on the floor under him.
“Carl!” I cried again, lowering down as my gaze went to his chest, feeling a small amount of comfort at the steady rise and fall of his chest.
On the ground, he started moving, making a quiet groaning sound.
“Hey, you’re okay. You’re alright. Stay with me,” I said, fingers pressing into his neck, feeling for his pulse.
It seemed a little fast to me, but I thought that might make sense if he’d had a heart attack and hit his head on the way down.
Wait… no.
No.
He couldn’t have hit his head on the way down.
The blood was on the back of his head.
Maybe he fell backward, then rolled a bit as he started to come to again?
“You’re gonna be okay,” I assured him, but the hitch in my voice couldn’t have sounded too soothing right then. “I’m gonna call an ambu—“ I said, reaching back for my pocket, before remembering that my phone was on the spot I’d cleared for it on the desk.
Damnit.
It was then that Carl’s eyes fluttered open, looking at me with confused eyes.
“Lex?” he asked, voice groggy.
“Yeah, it’s me. You texted me, remember? Said you weren’t feeling well. Think this is a little bit more than not well, old man,” I said, trying to put some levity on the situation as my heart fluttered.
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Ah, yeah, it is,” I said. “I have to go get my—“
“I didn’t…” he said, squinting at me, trying to put his thoughts together. “I don’t—“
It was right then that a shock of understanding shot through me.
Because, no. He didn’t. He almost never texted. He would read texts, but he rarely responded via text. He hated texting.
Those damned tiny buttons and my big sausage fingers, I’d heard him say dozens of times when one of us would complain about him always calling instead of shooting us a text.
And when he did manage to text on occasion, it was riddled with typos.
The text I’d gotten today was perfect. Even the capitalization and punctuation.
There was no way Carl had sent me that text.
And if he hadn’t texted me, he hadn’t summoned me.
Someone else had.
Using his phone.
As if sensing my finally putting it together, there was a low laugh behind me.
Carl’s eyes widened as his gaze focused behind my shoulder.
I didn’t turn to look.
There was no reason to.
Someone was there.
Someone was there, and I knew down to my bones that it was the same man who’d attacked me in the woods, who’d broken into my home.
Looking would do nothing but waste precious time.
Instead, I flew to my feet, and made a mad dash toward the raised platform where a musician’s drum set would be placed.
It was empty now.
Nothing to help me on it.
But I knew these rooms like the back of my hand.
And right on the other side, lined up against the wall, were mic stands.
Not the greatest weapon in the world, but something. Something long that would keep my attacker at a distance.
I didn’t have to fight him off, not really. I just had to keep him far enough away from me to get to the door.
They didn’t lock for safety reasons, so I would only need to rip it open and burst into the room next door. Where Macchiato Murder was practicing.
If there was one thing I knew about death metal guys, with their long hair, tattoos, piercings, and generally scary exteriors and music, it was that they were gentle giants. It was like the music purged all of their ugly, leaving big puppy dogs with hearts of gold underneath.
They would protect me.
I just had to get to them.
Instinct said to scream.
But common sense said we soundproofed these rooms so you couldn’t hear anyone screaming through them. Hence why I couldn’t hear Macchiato Murder, despite knowing the lead singer was probably screaming loud enough into the mic to make the small blood vessels in his vocal cords rupture.
It wasn’t uncommon for a metal singer to leave the studio saying they wanted to go get a beer to wash down the taste of blood.
No one would hear me scream for help.
Besides, I didn’t want to give this bastard the satisfaction.
My heart leaped up into my throat as my foot caught the edge of the stage funny, sending me flying forward.
I barely had time to throw my hands outward to brace my fall, the impact sending pain shooting up through my shoulders and through my knees.
“Fuck,” I hissed, trying to scramble up, or at the very least forward.
But that low, dark chuckle was right behind me again.
