5
Okay, so maybe Clay wasn’t entirely dead, after all. His muscles still seemed to work, weak though they were, his synapses fired excitedly, and if the adrenaline seeping through his veins was any indication, he’d held on to some of his protective instincts, as well. He was shaky, which was to be expected after all that time spent in recovery, but the physical therapy and the strength training had worked, apparently.
Right now, though, it wasn’t himself he was concerned with. It was the doctor. And God, it felt good, this sensation of standing above her, keeping her alive and well, with those two crank-cratered fucknuts moaning at his feet.
It was a damned good thing he’d decided to come back out for a run tonight.
“The fuck outta here,” he told the addicts, and though it was clear they hurt, they obeyed immediately. That was one advantage to looking like a tough motherfucker. It had been a while since he’d used force, given orders. Done anything useful, in fact—and it felt good. Better than good. It was life-giving.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping over to the doc, who had pushed herself up to all fours. She looked at him kind of squinty eyed, like she didn’t quite trust him, but took his hand, eventually, and let him pull her to sitting on the curb, where he squatted beside her.
“How many hands I got up?” He held up three fingers.
“You mean fingers?” she asked, smart as a whip.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile.
She gave one back, a smile at the edges of a mouth so pink he could see it under the streetlamps.
Shit, that was sexy. He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her lean into him, just a little. “Good. Anything hurt, Doc?”
Gingerly, she turned her head, stretched her neck, rolled her shoulders, then made as if to get up, but he tightened his fingers, stopping her. He ran his hand from her shoulder down her arm to pick up her hand and check the palm for scratches.
It was a weird moment right there, under the busted-out streetlight. Clay couldn’t quite muster up the energy to let her go, and she didn’t seem anxious to get rid of him. Instead, they sat, looking for all the world like a couple waiting for a parade that had passed a good twelve hours before.
She leaned on him for a few seconds and then rose with him. After a brief tightening of his fingers on hers, he finally let her go, and the connection was broken. After that, the calm seeped out of Clay’s brain.
Actual calm. How fucking strange. He wanted to grab her hand and get it back.
“Wanna call the police?”
She shook her head, and he sighed with relief, not questioning the decision. “I recognized them. Local kids and… The girl needs help, and I don’t think putting them all in jail is the way to do that right now.”
Clay tended to disagree, but he also didn’t need to get involved with the law right now, so he kept his mouth shut.
Pop! The sound hit Clay with a start. He threw an arm around the doctor and ducked before he could identify which direction it came from. What the fuck?
Another pop, more aggressive this time, had Clay’s pulse revving uncontrollably.
“I can’t…” He squeezed his eyes shut, then turned, attempting to locate the shooter. “Stay down. We’re under—”
“Mr. Blane.”
He pushed her behind him, reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, turned again. Fuck. He’d heard a Harley in town earlier, had told himself it was nothing, and had done his best to ignore it. And now the bikers were here. Where the hell were they hiding?
“Andrew,” the woman said, looking totally unafraid. “It’s the fireworks.”
He blinked a couple of times before taking it all in: the wash of blue, the spray of color piercing the night sky.
Fireworks. Fucking fireworks on the Fourth of July. Jesus, was it possible to overdose on adrenaline?
Like those ravers from the nineties, whose repeated use of ecstasy had depleted their serotonin levels, Clay’s mind insisted he’d had too many rushes to be terrified, and yet, here he was, shivering, again, in the aftermath. And then he wondered if it wasn’t the opposite; maybe repressing the fear for so long, pushing it into places it shouldn’t have to hide, had given him an overabundant supply of the stuff. For all those times he’d stared down some trigger-happy speed freak, the cold barrel of a gun burning a hole in his temple…
The doctor stood, watching him, her quiet stillness notable in a world that trembled so desperately.
“You okay?” she asked, putting out a hand to…touch him, maybe? He stepped out of her reach.
“I’ll take you home,” he said firmly.
