Chapter Six

Brody

Fire burned along my cheek. I stumbled back, away from Rivers and his pal, Greg. Smacking my hand to my cut, I felt my blood gushing from under my palm, trickling down my face and neck. It sent my rage spiraling madly out of control.

"Mother fucker," I snarled, lunging at the knife-wielding asshat.

He slashed again, this time catching the blade along my forearm.

"Back off," Lindsey suddenly screamed from behind them. "Drop the knife."

I don't know which of us was more startled. Rivers and Greg spun around, Greg ready to use his weapon. I gaped past them, my fury shunted aside for the moment.

Lindsey, and yet not the Lindsey I'd just had breakfast with, aimed a gun squarely at Rivers's chest. A nine millimeter, I suspected, though I focused most of my attention on her face. Where I'd detected fear in her less than an hour ago, I now saw determination. And the willingness to shoot. Fear wasn't an option.

"Who the fuck are you?" Rivers demanded. "This isn't your business."

"I'm making it my business," Lindsey snapped. "Drop it or I drop you."

Greg, at least, believed she meant it. His switchblade thumped to the carpet I bled on. He lifted his hands in surrender. I think I'd be shitting my pants if she aimed a gun at me with that look on her face. Austin s hot a half glance at me before facing Lindsey again.

"You don't want to interfere, lady," he said, faking reasonableness. "I just want my shit, then I'll go. Peacefully."

"I don't have your dope," I yelled, making him half-turn. "Get it through your head, you stupid piece of shit."

Lindsey tilted her head slightly, yet still aimed down the gun's barrel. "Get out, Austin," she said quietly. Softly. "Leave. I'm not afraid to kill you and your friend."

"You know my name." Rivers gave me a long stare. "But I don't know yours. Who are you?"

For answer, Lindsey lowered the gun and fired. I wasn't the only one who jumped at the coughing bark of the gunshot. Without flinching, Lindsey aimed once again at Austin's chest.

"That went between your feet," she said as calmly as before. "It could easily have been between your eyes. You still want to play games?"

"We'll leave," Rivers said, his voice shaking slightly. "Don't shoot, okay? We're going."

Lindsey edged her way to one side, making sure several feet of air stayed between Austin and Greg as they walked slowly and carefully toward the door. She turned as they passed her, keeping the gun's barrel high, straight, and steady. Austin glanced back once before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

Neither Lindsey nor I moved until we heard the car's engine start and the sounds of tires laying rubber to asphalt. Only then did Lindsey lower the gun and turn toward me.

"Holy shit," I muttered.

"You need a doctor," she said without emotion. "You're not arguing with me."

I glanced down at the bullet hole in my floor. "Uh, no. I don't think I will."

Lindsey fetched towels from my kitchen, wrapped my gashed arm in one, then pressed another to my lacerated cheek.

"Hold that in place," she ordered, her voice as uninflected as before. "I don't want blood all over my seats."

More than surprised that none of the neighbors heard the gunshot, or if they did, chose not to call the cops, I let her usher me past my burned truck. She helped me into her car, then hurried into her house for her keys and purse. I looked around at the neighbors and saw none standing on their porches, watching, as they had earlier.

Lindsey joined me and backed her car from her driveway.

"Where'd you learn to shoot?" I asked, my adrenaline rush fading away. That brought my pain into my nerve endings, a burning throb in both my face and my arm that pulsed with my heart. As I hadn't taken my boots off my burned and sore feet before my visitors arrived, they, too, yelled in pain.

"At a range," she replied. "I had a good instructor."

"May I ask why you feel the need to have a gun and shoot really well?"

"No. Where's the hospital?"

I gave her directions, observing she exceeded the speed limit. I frequently glanced into the side mirror, yet saw no cops interested in stopping her.

The towels soaked up my blood until they were both saturated. I made sure none got onto her seats or the door, even if it meant I used my shirt and jeans to sop up any leaks. Though not normally squeamish, my head spun sickeningly at the sight of so much gore.

Lindsey stopped the car at the entrance to the hospital's ER. Helping me out, she supported me as the automatic doors hissed open. Not many patients sat in the waiting room, and those that did eyed me in some shock. A triage nurse didn't hesitate before rushing across the white tiled floor to us.

"Okay, let's get him in here," she said, her tone brisk, her arm under mine, helping me to remain steady on my feet.

"What happened?" she asked, sitting me in a trauma room, then began assessing my vitals.

"Attacked," I muttered. "Cut with a knife."

Lindsey stepped back to allow the nurses and doctors space to work, but she stayed in the room with me. I caught glimpses of her taut face past their shoulders, appreciated the fact that she was there. She saved my life. No way in hell could I pay that back.

"We should notify the police," the ER doc said, suturing my cheek.

"They already know," I replied, my voice thick from the injection to numb my flesh. "Dude set fire to my house and my truck."

"Sounds like you should take a long vacation," he murmured, "say to Greece."

"Don't I know it."

My cuts stitched, an antibiotic injected, prescriptions filled, I slid woozily off the gurney. As though she'd signed up to be my rock, Lindsey slid her hand under my arm to help me. She hadn't said a word throughout the hospital ordeal. Not knowing her at all, I'd no idea what went on behind those stunningly beautiful sky-blue eyes.

Nor did she speak as I hobbled slowly to the reception desk to sign forms. As I hadn't any clue as to what to say, I, too, said nothing. The tight bandage over my arm, and the other fastened to my cheek, added to my pain, discomfort. In her car, I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. I longed desperately for a dose of painkillers, a glass of whiskey, and a very long, safe, sleep in my bed.

I wondered if I'd get any of it.

Much less the safe sleep part.

When Lindsey helped me from the car, I fully expected to stride stiffly yet firmly to my house. That was until she gripped my arm tight enough to leave finger marks and steered me into her home.

"Uh," I protested, gesturing weakly, "I live over there."

"I know."

Lindsey, even without a gun in her hand, was a force I couldn't reckon with. I soon stood near her couch as she stripped me of my bloody garments, then urged me to lie down. I obeyed her. I certainly hadn't the strength nor the willpower to fight.

Lindsey covered me with the same blanket I'd used earlier. "I'll bring you pain medication," she murmured.

"Got any whiskey?"

"Just wine, sorry."

As she straightened, I took her hand. I certainly couldn't grip tightly, not with that weak right hand connected to the gashed, painful, and bandaged arm. Still, a flicker of fear, of terror, crossed her expression. There and gone in a flash, yet I saw it. No doubt at all. She'd faced Austin and Greg like a damn army commando, yet I take her hand and she flinches.

"Thank you," I murmured, pretending I didn't see it. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"I don't, either." A tiny smile creased her sensuous mouth.

Disentangling her fingers from mine, Lindsey left the room. I shut my eyes and pondered her reaction. Why would being touched cause her to instantly panic? I shut my jaw. Abuse. Someone in her past, most likely a man, a boyfriend/ husband, hurt her. Hence the gun, the training, the fear that hung over her like a curse.

"Here."

I opened my eyes to find her holding a glass of water and a prescription bottle. I hadn't heard her approach. I must have dozed off or blacked out. I accepted both and drank the water to the dregs. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"Except that I am. Sit. Talk to me."

Lindsey, her reluctance written over her countenance, sat on the coffee table. I took her hand again, more slowly this time, and held it. "Why are you helping me?" I asked. "You saved my ass today."

"I don't know." With her head bowed, I couldn't see her face very well. "I saw them, I knew they were there to hurt or kill you. I couldn't let them."

"I'm sure glad you interfered."

"Don't read too much into it," she murmured. "I'm moving out."

"So you said."

"You don't want me to."

"Nope. I sure don't. Whatever you're facing, I want to help you. You don't have to be alone. I'm here."

She met my gaze. "Why? You don't know me."

"You don't know me, either," I growled. "Why did you march into my house with a gun?"

"I had to."

"No, you didn't. You could've walked away, pretend none of this happened. Live your life without putting it in danger alongside mine."

"Yeah. I suppose."

"So why did you?"

"I don't know."

"You must have had a reason."

"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter now. You can stay here until you're stronger, then I'm gone."

"I could say that since you've saved my life, you've an obligation to keep looking after me."

That earned me a harsh laugh. "That's so bullshit."

"At least I got a smile." I grinned. "Sort of."

Lindsey's smile faded only a little. "Get some sleep. I've got work to do."

She left me alone to ponder how I might milk this situation. Play the weak victim game until I found the means to persuade her to not pack up and disappear. I thought about it until the pain meds kicked in and I drifted to sleep.

***

Playing the pain wracked and weak victim of a violent attack wasn't a game at all. When I woke after the sun had gone down, I didn't have to fake the weakness nor the pain. I hurt so badly I thought I might hurl. Lindsey, turning on a light across the room from me, took a single look at my face and rushed to my side.

"Brody? You look like a ghost."

Her hand touched my brow, her fine mouth puckered in concern. It cupped my wounded cheek as she gazed into my eyes. "You don't have a fever."

"Sick," I muttered thickly. "I feel sick."

"I don't doubt it. Think you can hold down some soup?"

"No."

"Okay. Just rest. Try to go back to sleep."

I shut my eyes, trying to will away the nausea and pain, to drift into slumber, to leave all the nastiness behind for even a little while. I listened to Lindsey move around the room, closing curtains. I heard her stop, her sharply indrawn breath.

She peered through the same window she sat beside my first night on her couch. She'd parted the curtain only a small way, her body hidden by the wall. Alarm sank its claws into me, making me instantly forget my pain and sick gut.

"What's going on?" I demanded, my tone harsh.

"Your pals are sitting in their car down the street."