Another shot goes off and I flinch, but there’s no new pain. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Lucifer is the last man standing.
He’s panting almost as hard as I am, staring at the gunman on the ground in front of him. Ex-gunman, I guess, because Lucifer has his gun now. And Ex-gunman is not moving, just lying there in a slowly-expanding pool of something dark.
The other men are still moving, but they sure aren’t threats. Lucifer looks at the gun in his hand and then at the other three guys lying around him, rolling and rocking on the ground in self-pity, moaning and cursing.
I can see the thought go through his eyes.
Kill them? Or leave them?
He glances at me, seems to come to a decision, and wipes the gun down methodically on the bottom of his sweater before putting it back into the hand of the dead guy.
Because I guess that’s what he is, now: dead.
Asshole jumped the line.
Lucifer is looking around again, and my heart lifts as he looks at me. But he turns his head back as sirens sound, coming closer. Those cold eyes flicker as he assesses the situation.
He should leave. Leave me with a dead body and three other still-living-and-pissed-off guys.
But with quick steps he comes to me where I’m still slouching against the wall, huffing for every breath. “You okay?” he asks, leaning up against the wall over me.
“I think I’m having a panic attack or something.”
He looks me over. “Looks like. You saved my life.”
I don’t correct him. I mean, I guess technically Ididsave him, but I didn’t jump at that guy out of the goodness of my heart.
No. Part of me honestly thought it was my turn tonight. My turn to die.
And then I realize Lucifer isn’t standing the way he is to mirror my body language and build empathy or some shit. He’s leaning up against the wall because he’s really fucking hurt. He was already down when I found him, and now he’s taken them all on in round two, and he’s not a superhero.
I mean, Iassumehe’s not a superhero. I look closer at his face. He’s death’s-head white.
“We need to get out of here,” he says. “Now.”
The sirens are getting ever-closer.
I really wish I were stone-cold sober right now. I take a deep breath and pull my shit together. He doesn’t complain when I get my shoulder under his armpit and pull him into me. He’s taller than me but lanky, so he’s not heavy. We begin to help each other forward, down the alley, and the guy buries his face in my neck as we come to the exit .
I give an involuntary shiver, wondering if he’s actually still into me despite having just shot someone—whowouldn’tbe into this fine ass, after all?—but then I see the real reason for his sudden display of affection.
There’s a camera near the end of the alleyway.
As soon as we’re out of its range, Lucifer lifts his head again.
Looks like no one this side of the block heard the shot, butsomeonemust have around the back, because those sirens are getting closer and closer.
There’s a line of taxi cabs starting to form on the other side of the street; it’s about that time of night when inebriated and high young gays sally forth from the club with their choice of lay for the night. I pull the guy towards one of the taxis.
“No,” he mumbles, but it’s taking all his concentration to stay conscious for now, and there are no more arguments when we reach the cab.
“He’s really drunk,” I say with a wide smile at the driver. “Sorry.” And I bundle the guy into the car. The driver just grunts and throws a paper bag at us.
“He pukes, you pay triple.”
“Where…” the guy mumbles as I gets into the back seat beside him.
