Then he was gone, and Noah was alone.
Ugh, except for Junior lurking around outside.
Trying to get comfortable was impossible, and Noah tossed and flopped all over the bed while he waited. He checked his phone a dozen times, finding there were still no replies from Uncle Patrick, Landon, or anyone else. He stretched out across the mattress, certain there was no way he would be able to relax until Alistair returned.
When the door opened again, his heart skipped, and he bolted right up. “Fuck, you kept me waiting forever!”
But it wasn’t Alistair.
“Medina?” Noah squinted. “What the fuck do you want? What are you doing in here?”
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said, slowly approaching the bed. “When I cruised you that night at the club, I had no idea who you were. Thought it was kinda funny once I figured it out, but hell.” He snorted. “You have been nothing but trouble.”
“No shit.” The hair on the back of Noah’s neck was standing up, and he scooted his back against the headboard. “Hey! Junior! You still out there? It’s your favorite buddy, Crisco!”
“He’s not here.”
“Uh… so.” Noah glanced around warily, eyeing his phone a few feet away on the bedside table. “Where is he?”
“Busy.”
“Where’s Alistair?”
“Busy.” Medina was edging closer.
Noah saw something in his hand, and his heart clenched. “What, uh, what do you got there?”
“No hard feelings, okay?” Medina smiled.
“Huh?”
Leaping onto the bed, Medina pounced on top of Noah and tried to pin him down.
“The fuck!” Noah frantically tried to push Medina away, kicking and growling. He had to get up, grab his phone, andrun. “Get off of me!”
“Shut up! Just fuckin’ shut up!” Medina lifted his arm high above his head.
That’s when Noah saw what was in his hand—a knife.
Medina swung the blade down at Noah’s chest, aiming right for his heart.
Chapter 22
“No!” Noah shouted, jerking his elbow up and smashing Medina right in his face.
Snarling in pain, Medina’s head whipped back, but he still tried to bring the knife down.
Noah managed to get one of his legs up and kicked Medina off the bed to the floor. He snatched his phone, rolling over quickly to put the bed between them and bolt to the bathroom.
Had to run. Had to lock the door. Call the police.
He couldn’t die like this. He had too much to do—all those black and white movies to watch with Alistair, stupid shit to learn about cooking and fancy wine—and his heart ached to think of what he was going to miss out on if Medina killed him right now.
No, he was going to get away. He was going to survive. He was moving as fast as he could, and yet it felt like his legs were dragging through mud. Pushing against the resistance, he pumped his legs harder. He had to run, run, run!
Medina was on his way, knife in hand, charging at Noah, but something stopped Medina dead in his tracks.
Alistair!
