With fifteen feet still left between me and Noelle, a motorcycle comes roaring towards the intersection.
At first, I’m certain it’ll stop. It has to. Noelle is clearly in its path, and any sane driver would stop, or at least swerve to avoid her.
But this driver seems to be oblivious.
As it nears, the reverberating thump of bass accompanies it. Someone listening to music as he rides, at best guess a young guy who hasn’t realized that blaring music isn’t the best way to impress women.
“Noelle!” I shout.
The motorcycle draws closer.
My pulse jumps.
Adrenaline surges.
Shit.
It’s too close.
Finally,finally, Noelle looks up from her phone. She sees me rushing towards her—not jogging or walking, but outright sprinting—and then she turns towards the oncoming motorcycle.
Her expression shifts from one of shock to horror.
Calling on my years of training in the Army and the hours on the treadmill I still do now, I put on an extra burst of speed as I lunge towards her.
The moment I’m close enough, I wrap my arms around Noelle and pull her out of the way, turning her so I hit the ground while she’s safely above me. Then I roll the two of us across the road while the motorcycle roars past only feet away.
With a squeal of tires, the driver finally stops. His motorcycle wobbles. Then he yanks his helmet off, revealing a boy whocouldn’t be much older than eighteen. “Shit!” he cries. “Shit! Ah, shit. I didn’t even see. I’m sorry. I didn’t?—”
“Stop. Talking.”I glare at the teenager, and he withers beneath my gaze. In the same commanding voice I used to use when I’d give orders in the Army, I say, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll deal with you later.”
Then I turn my attention back to Noelle, who’s still lying beneath me, wide-eyed and pale. Her shirt and shorts are smudged with dirt, and she has a reddening abrasion on her arm.
Shit. Guilt swamps me. Despite the situation, I should have protected her better. Kept her from being injured at all.
“Webb,” she says in a tremulous voice. “What?—”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I ask roughly. The guilt makes it hard to speak normally. My gaze keeps going back to the scrape on her arm. A scrape that I caused by knocking Noelle to the ground. I brush my thumb across her abraded skin, grimacing as I do it. “Shit, I’m sorry, Noelle. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She stares at me for a second before shaking her head. “You didn’t hurt me.” She goes quiet, and I can see her doing a mental inventory of herself, checking for injuries. Then she scoots out from beneath me and sits up. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”
I crouch beside her, taking the time to do another assessment. I’m not a trained medic, like Indy, but I’ve been through enough first aid training to run a quick triage.
Her eyes seem focused, and there’s no sign of a concussion. No bones appear broken. Aside from the scrape on her arm, there aren’t any other visible wounds. But still. I worry.
“Are you okay?” Noelle asks. Her hand brushes my cheek and comes away with a smudge of dirt on it. “You hit the ground first. Did you get hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “But are you sure you’re okay? Really?”
“Are you going to sue me?” the teenage driver asks nervously from behind us. “I didn’t mean… The light was green. It should have been okay?—”
I jerk my head towards him. In a cold tone, I snap, “A green light doesn’t mean you just go blindly through an intersection. You pay attention. If someone’s there, you stop.”
“I’m not going to sue you,” Noelle replies quietly. “It was my fault. I…” She shudders. “I got distracted. I’m sorry.”
My heart squeezes at how small and vulnerable she sounds. And I’m seized with an overwhelming urge to hold her. To fix whatever upset her so badly she froze in the middle of the intersection.
But that would probably be weird, given the situation.
