Chapter 2
LENA
Our escape from my apartment is a blur. I keep my head down, my body as low to the ground as I can, going exactly where I’m told.
Bullets follow us through the cramped space, the final few coming terrifying close to hitting us just before we get out into the main corridor.
I’m still listening for the sound of shots as we race down the emergency exit stairwell and onto the street.
Thank God I’m still wearing my coat. The night air is freezing and we’re moving quickly, hand in hand, my mystery attacker-rescuer hauling me along so fast I have to jog to keep up.
Probably a good idea, since someone is shooting at me.
Holy shit. Someone is shooting at me.
And my aunt’s house blew up.
And my last remaining family member is dead.
We come to an abrupt stop just inside an alley as the reality of what’s happened threatens to knock me unconscious. My feet feel too heavy to move. I trip, pitching forward on the crumbling asphalt, but the man holding my hand hauls me upright before I hit the ground.
My student housing isn’t in a great part of the city.
Professionals with fancy jobs, families with young kids, and affluent grandparent-types have found themselves homes in the well-kept parts of town.
Where streetlights work, parking laws are enforced, garbage is collected, and the sidewalks are kept crack-free.
I’d love to live in one of those places too, but with my college loans and minimum wage part-time job I can’t afford to. So, it isn’t a surprise that the mystery man has to step over a pile of week-old garbage and squint beneath a burned-out streetlamp to give me a head-to-toe scan.
“You okay?”
I stare down at where our hands are locked together, emotions playing bumper car against my skull. “What does it matter to you?”
His tone stays flat, clinical. “I need to know if you can walk on your own or if I need to carry you.”
“You aren’t carrying me.” I shouldn’t even let him hold my hand, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need it right now. Shock is officially setting in, and I can feel my body systematically shutting down.
Like he can read my mind, the nameless man tugs me closer, the tip of one gloved finger landing under my chin. With just the slightest touch he forces me to meet his gaze.
It’s evening in winter, the sun long gone. There are no passing cars. Not even any flashing police lights illuminating the night sky, despite all the shots fired (like I said, it’s not the best neighborhood). But the urban ambient glow is enough that I can make out some of his facial features.
Angled jaw, roughened with dark stubble.
High cut cheekbones that would be borderline pretty except for the crooked angle of his nose between them.
I follow the line of that long-healed broken nose down to the sharp bow of his lips.
Lips that shouldn’t look so entirely lickable given the circumstances.
Dark eyebrows and wickedly long eyelashes frame deep-set eyes, the color almost as murky as the inky winter sky above us. It’s the furrow between them, the visible sign of concern that lends his ridiculously rugged good looks some semblance of humanity.
Those eyes make me unreasonably curious about what he’s thinking.
Which, in turn, makes me wonder what the fuck I’m doing right now. I tug my hand free and stumble back, hoping he doesn’t notice how my legs have started to shake. “Who are you?”
“Not important.”
“It is to me.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It shouldn’t be. Not right now.”
“Oh?” He’s so dismissive. It’s really pissing me off. Which is good. Anger I can handle. Far better than fear. “And why not? You broke into my apartment. Maybe this isn’t the first time. Maybe you’ve been stalking me. Maybe you’ve been stealing from me—” He snorts. I ignore him.
Anger is making me increasingly reckless. And almost entirely oblivious to how the shaking has spread from my legs to my arms and torso.
“Maybe you’ve been plotting something worse.
” I prop my hands on my hips, trying to make myself look bigger, and take in a sharp breath when a stabbing pain bursts across my right side.
“All I know,” I say through clenched teeth, “is someone shot up my apartment tonight and you were there when it happened. The two can’t be a coincidence.
So, I’m gonna ask again and I expect an answer. Who the fuck are you?”
I’m panting by the end of my tirade, my skin clammy all over. A buzzing sound has started in my left ear, making it hard to hear.
The mystery man’s mouth moves. I squint at him, thinking it might make it easier to understand. “You’re hurt.” He points at my side.
“No. I’m fine.” I shake my head, indicating he should keep his distance even as a burning sensation ignites at the spot he’s indicated to on my side. “If you’re not going to answer my question, leave. Just leave me alone.”
My teeth are chattering now and it’s hard to get my throat to work around the lump lodged there. “Th-this has been one of the worst nights of my life. I’ve lost…”
The last person I considered family. The last house I even remotely thought of as home. My shitty apartment. My only shot at my dream job. My past and my future, all in the span of a few hours.
But I can’t say any of that to this man, this stranger, standing in a dirty dark alley in the middle of a frigid Chicago night.
I simplify. “I’ve lost pretty much everything tonight. I feel like shit. I need to find somewhere to go. And I need you to not follow me, not tackle me to the ground, not attract any rampaging shooters in my general direction. Got it?”
I’m swaying on my feet now. I have to pull my hands from my sides to keep my balance. When I do my right one comes away streaked with red.
My vision is going lopsided as well, but I swear the furrow between mystery man’s brows gets deeper as he sees the blood painted across my palm.
Hold up. Blood?
With one long stride he’s in front of me, pushing back my coat to look at the shirt beneath. “My name. It’s Rem.”
I blink my eyes open, only just realizing they’ve fallen shut. “Huh?”
“You asked who I am.” Somehow, he’s found a light. He shines it on my side and mutters something I can’t understand. Then, wrapping my coat tightly around my chest, he presses a hand to my side as he taps a message on his phone with the other.
“Say it again.”
“What?” The glow from his phone illuminates his face. Even with my wonky eyesight I can see the way his mouth twists down. He’s pissed. Or worried. Or both.
“Your name. I c-can’t remember. Want to know…who got...” I pause, each inhale getting more painful. “W-who got…my apartment…shot.”
“Rem,” he repeats. “Call me Rem.”
Little black dots dance across my eyes. Ah, that’s why I shut them. The dots make me even dizzier. I lean toward him, seeking warmth since every part of me feels so cold. “I had more questions too.”
“Not questions. Assumptions.” He’s growling now, eyes jumping between his phone and where his hand is keeping me upright.
“A-am I wrong?”
“About a few things.”
“T-t-tell me,” I chatter.
“I didn’t steal from you.”
“T-t-to be de-determined.”
“I’m not the reason someone was shooting at you.”
“Lie,” I whisper. Words are hard to find but somehow it feels important that I don’t stop talking.
“I’m not the reason someone was shooting at you,” he repeats, “but I sure as hell was trying to stop you from getting shot. Not well enough apparently. Fuck!”
His curse sounds miles away, muffled by three tons of cotton. My knees seem to have dissolved and I slump forward, gravity almost winning the fight just before the man called Rem hauls me up against his chest. He’s warm, so warm.
Shaken, sad, broken woman that I am, I burrow my head against his warmth and forget why I’m supposed to be afraid of him.
Somewhere in the distance there’s a screech of tires. The opening of car doors.
Rem talking to someone, his voice low, urgent, the words foreign.
He moves and pain claws from my right side all the way around my waist and back again. I curse at him, he curses back. I think. Words don’t mean much anymore.
Then the cold air is replaced by heat. The smell of leather. I’m still tucked against Rem and am so ready for sleep.
But something’s niggling the back of my brain, insistently piercing the fog, refusing to let me go.
“Remmmmm…” My voice is faint, shapeless, even to me. I feel Rem’s head move, his cheek brushing mine as he leans down to hear me better.
His questioning hmmmm reverberates through my less painful side.
What was my question again…? Ah, right. “H-how do…y-you…know my…n-n-name?”
The man holding me sighs. His answer slips into my consciousness just as everything goes black. “Shhhh, Lena. Let’s just take this night one fuck-up at a time.”