Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Ghost
I told him to stay out of trouble.
So why in all that is holy was that blond-haired, gray-eyed little pipgeek wandering through the Buffalo streets, looking for trouble?
And no, it’s not an excuse that he was sort of unconscious at the time. He heard. Ears always be hearing. That’s what they do. Every time I spoke that night, his face turned a little more in my direction.
It was kinda endearing.
The kind of thing to make a guy like me obsessed.
Which was exactly why I left.
But this wasn’t about me. This was about him and how I told him to behave.
Did he listen?
Considering how I’d just watched him stroll into a dark alley reeking of bad deeds, I’m going with hell no.
I kept a close distance, haunting the shadows while watching him get stupider with every step. At least he had the decency to look a little on guard, body tense and eyes alert. But really, what was he going to do? Beat someone with his library card? Recite the dictionary and bore them to death?
He was obviously looking for something. I’d been following for a while now, and this was the second Rat Boulevard he’d slunk into. The first one was just as sketchy as this one, and he would have gotten mugged if I hadn’t dropped the weasel that practically crawled out of a trash can to rob him.
What’s worse? He didn’t even notice. Just kept creeping around like some urban Dora the Explorer on an epic quest. And he didn’t even have a backpack.
Dumpster funk lingered in the air, a combination of spoiled food, damp cardboard, and the faint hint of piss—all of it ripe with bad decisions and regret. At this point, my guy could see a neon sign that read: Murderers ahead! Turn back! and he’d still keep going.
Had those thugs taken something of his that I hadn’t noticed? Something he was willing to risk his safety to find?
Impossible. I wouldn’t have missed something like that.
His sneakers scuffed when he halted, head tilted like he was listening to a sound no one else could hear. “Come out,” he beckoned, the sound of his voice silencing my thoughts. He didn’t yell or demand, just spoke as though he knew someone was there.
Slowly rotating, he searched the shadows and then, softer than before, repeated, “Come out. Please.”
He’s looking for me.
The realization was like a bullet between the eyes, jumbling my brain and stalling my heart. A surge of adrenaline brought me back, punching through my limbs and making my heart thump unevenly. Training allowed me to ignore the urge to step out of concealment, but my eyes never left him.
In that moment, the city seemed to hush, or maybe I was so focused on him that nothing else registered because his little huff of frustration seemed loud to my ears. I was part flattered he was looking for me, part pissed he would put himself in danger to do it.
After all, he had no idea who I was. What I was capable of. He was playing with fire, strolling through danger-laden places, chasing a ghost.
He never even saw me the other night, not even a glimpse. His eyes didn’t once flicker when I hauled him into a motel room, cleaned him up, then came and went as I washed his clothes and replaced the meal he’d lost.
I would have been worried if not for his steady breathing and the way he gravitated toward my attention when I was in the room. How long had it been since he’d had a good night’s sleep? Clearly, too long if he somehow decided rest trumped trusting someone you’d never met.
Angry I didn’t answer his plea, he pushed off the balls of his feet and strolled deeper into the alley, passing a dumpster through a cloud of steam rushing out of a vent in the building beside him.
A few feet down, a side door opened, the unoiled hinges screaming in the cold. A man carrying a large trash bag appeared, door banging shut behind him as he moved. Cans and bottles rattled as he hauled it toward the dumpster, footsteps stopping when he realized he wasn’t alone.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Pip answered, his voice rising a little at the end.
The man cocked his head, instantly suspicious. “You trying to sneak into my bar?”
“What? No,” he replied, hair ruffling with the adamant shake of his head.
Bar guy dropped the trash and stalked forward, his bald head making it easy to track his movements. “You that punk that broke in here last week?”
Still shaking his head, Garrett took a step back.
Bar man kept advancing. “That kid was scrawny just like you.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Think you found an easy place to score? Hoping to do it again,” he accused, arm shooting out to get a fistful of his coat and drag him forward. “Big mistake. You got away last time, but now you’re mine.”
The second he put his hands where they absolutely did not belong, I moved, silently slipping from my camouflage.
I went low, striking the area between his hip and knee.
He collapsed like a folding chair on rickety legs, his grunt echoing through the narrow alley.
As he struggled to his feet, I deployed a singular blow to his jugular, effectively stunning the carotid artery and vagus nerve.
Immediately incapacitated, he slumped onto the pavement.
Loser.
“I knew you were here,” Garrett said from behind, his voice breathless and unafraid. Did he not just see me go all kung pow on the bald dude?
Clearly, what God gave him in good looks, he took back in common sense.
I spun, roughly pushing his chest into the nearby building, blanketing his slight body with mine to pin him in place. Instead of struggling to get away, he craned his neck, trying to look over his shoulder.
“Don’t,” I warned, pressing so close I could feel the erratic beating of his heart against my chest as I quickly mapped his body beneath me.
Huffing, he turned back to the brick, dropping his cheek against the unforgiving stone. Tsking, I pushed my hand between his face and the wall. He was going to reopen his wound.
The way he nuzzled into my gloved palm made my dead heart spit sparks, trying to revive itself.
Dead hearts don’t come back to life.
“Stop looking for me,” I growled, mouth hovering mere centimeters from the curve of his ear.
His teeth chattered lightly, a prelude to the full-body tremble that swept its way down his spine, his body wobbly beneath mine. “Why?” he challenged, hoarse tone tightening my groin.
Shifting, I flattened my palm on the wall beside his head. “I’m dangerous.”
“You saved me. Twice,” he rebutted, once again trying to catch a glimpse of me over his shoulder.
My lips grazed his ear, his sharp inhale forcing his back closer against my chest. He smelled like me, and I knew, rationally, it was because he was wearing my hoodie beneath his coat.
But rational thought was no match for instinct gone haywire, and I was wholly consumed with thoughts that he smelled like me because he was mine.
“I told you to stay out of trouble,” I murmured, battling for control.
“Why did you help me?”
“I won’t do it again.” I ripped away from his body and turned to go.
“Thank you.”
His words caught me off guard, stopping me in my tracks.
Even turned away, his sincerity was palpable, probably because it was rare.
Twisting, I looked over my shoulder, expecting the full weight of those beguiling gray eyes.
Surprisingly, he was still facing the wall, posture rigid, hands fisted at his sides as if forcing himself to stay took extreme effort.
Soft and obedient.
Not yours.
This time, when I turned to go, I felt him rush after me.
“Wait!”
I should have kept going, but I stopped, though I didn’t turn around.
“Your hoodie,” he said, and my brain instantly brought up the image of the too-long hem flirting with me from beneath his coat.
“Keep it,” I rasped and escaped back into the shadows despite him calling out for me to stay.