People are hovering around the entrance, waiting to be let in.
In my car, I turn the music up. I’ll keep the energy up even though the night was a failure. The music is always good. At least that part was fun.
Maria would’ve looked great on that dance floor with you.
Why the hell are my thoughts teasing me like this?
Is it because I’ve been stuck in a house with her for days?
Must be.
She is a foxy little kitten, though. A cute little baby bird with her sweet innocence.
I bet she’s a tiger in bed.
Even with the music so loud, I still hear the screeching tires as a car skids toward me.
Instinct has me accelerating, and I’m lucky I do, because whoever is in that car only just manages to nick the back bumper instead of wrapping me around their hood.
Gunfire erupts, and bullets smack into the car door.
“Fuck!” I shout as one of them grazes right over my thighs. “Fucking armor-piercing bullets?” I scream, pushing my foot harder against the accelerator.
Someone’s got an attitude tonight, and I don’t like it.
The car behind me gives chase as I race down the main road, swerving past other vehicles. I’m grateful it’s so late, and the streets are quiet.
I’m also grateful I know this city better than anyone. Because it’s my city, I own these streets.
Taking a sharp turn, I leave the main road and my car scrapes against the side of an alleyway. Too fast, but I made it anyway.
The car behind me isn’t so lucky. They turn too late and clip the corner and roll.
Perfect.
The chase ends just as quickly as it started.
Just to be safe, I take a few more tricky turns and make sure no one else is following me before I get back onto the main road.
The sign on the street corner says Montrose Beach. I take the turn, about five minutes from home.
My leg is sticky with blood, and the car smells like iron.
Fuck, I hope it’s not deep. I hope I don’t need stitches. Do I have duct tape at home?
Pulling into the estate, I park the car outside the front steps and turn the engine off. My heart is racing. I flick the light on in my car to examine the wound, and my leg is bleeding worse than I thought. The bullet sliced right across the top of my thigh, pretty deep.
Pushing the door open, I climb out and tug my shirt off, tying it tightly around the wound to try and stop the bleeding.
Stagger up the stairs to the front door. I cringe and groan in pain. Shit. That hurts.
Joseph would definitely have a first aid kit, but the last thing I want to do is tell him that I got attacked and injured. It’s a weakness. The alliance wouldn’t like it.
I’ll scratch around and see what I can find without alerting anyone else.
Again, I’m grateful that it’s late and the house is quiet.
There’s a storage space behind the kitchen, in the pantry, where I vaguely remember seeing first aid supplies.
