Chapter 2
TWO
Christian
I follow him. Of course, I fucking follow him. I didn’t spend all night stalking this girl just to give her away to the first asshole who asked.
He’s dragging her by her hair now. Her legs stagger against the pebbled rock of the alleyway, but she can’t find her footing.
Whimpers of pain follow him with every scrape of the road against her flesh.
Her arms flail messily above her head, but she’s too out of it to make contact with his hold on her locks.
Thanks to me.
“You’re lucky I found you. That guy drugged you, you fucking slut. And you would have spread your legs for him even if he didn’t.” It’s then that he throws her down to the ground. A crinkling of cans catches her fall as she lands on three black trash bags next to a rusting dumpster.
I watch him from the shadows. As does a homeless man on the other side of the dumpster. Big, worn-out brown eyes watch the bastard as a clicking of metal tells us his belt is now undone.
He pauses and bends at the waist. And then flips her over, lifting her hips so her ass is high in the air for him. The thin black sundress wrinkles around her waist, exposing the smooth skin of her curves for him.
“You’re going to regret what you did this morning, baby,” he whispers with a nasty smile cutting up his dry lips. “I’m not going to be gentle with you anymore.”
There’s a silence in my chest where my heart demands to pound with the building magic and rage in my veins. The tips of my black shoes catch the shine of the yellow light overhead.
The homeless man’s eyes widen even more with every slow, prowling step. I take my time, waiting for this asshole to make his move.
And then he does: he pulls himself from his jeans, and only then do I burst from the inside out. The flapping scatter of bat wings is heard. A rush of wind swirls chaotically around me. It’s a flash of blurring colors, and then I stand on two feet once more.
Right. In. Front. Of. Him.
Long fingers snatch around his thick throat. Sharp nails cut into soft flesh. My muscles tense, and then his back hits the wall hard. Dust and broken bits of brick fly out from around the force of his body hitting stone.
“ Hey, buddy ,” I whisper with a curling smile tilting my lips.
My thoughts blaze like fire through my mind: both painful and blinding. Before I can process more than his gurgling gasps, my hand slips between his big body and mine. My fingers curl around flabby flesh.
“No. No, n—nnno,” he pleads as I twist hard against the pathetic thing he calls a cock.
How many times has he hurt her with something so piteous?
That single thought alone seals his unfortunate fate.
I rip it away from him. Blood sprays over my palm, and his screams are this annoying, high-pitched sound scratching across my already messy thoughts.
I have to shut him up.
The flabby flesh in my hand is shoved over his lips, and I hold my bloody palm to his mouth as he gags on his own shitty choices in life.
I lean into him and speak as slowly and articulately as I can for his little brain to fully understand.
“You’ll never hurt her again. I fucking promise.”
Then his lashes flutter, the whites of his eyes winking before his head lulls to one side.
And I let him drop to the hard ground. His body thuds over my shoes, and I have to kick him off of me to get to her.
The girl lies soundless and untouched.
The homeless man still remains seated at the other corner of the dumpster, his mouth as wide as his brown eyes at this point. I consider him as I pick the girl up and throw her carefully over one shoulder.
A soft humming sigh slips from her lips and does something strange to my chest.
I ignore it. I’m still waiting for the guy to react to what he just saw. But he doesn’t. The man watches us and never once says a word. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t scatter away from the violence.
He just . . . exists.
Sometimes that’s the hardest part of the day. Even when shit like this happens.
With one hand, I reach into my pocket and pull out all that I have.
A band of mortal dollars lifts between him and me.
I have no idea what the value of the bills in my hand actually are.
It isn’t important to me. But it is to this man.
I offer the money toward him. Blood smudges the printed green faces of old men.
It stains my hands. It’s sticky against my neck even.
But I offer it kindly. He takes it too.
“Thank you,” he whispers on a dry, exhausted voice.
And that’s what it comes down to: a fucking exhausting night.