Page 90 of Spock’s Snare

The driver takes one look at my face and throws open her door.

“What the hell?” she demands.

The two other women climb out. The passenger is short and curvy, with a cloud of natural curls and large gold hoops. The woman sliding out of the center seat is tall and athletic, with dark hair twisted into a bun and bright red glasses framing her eyes.

“Get back in the truck, Nia,” DeShawn warns as he reaches the street. “This ain’t your business.”

The driver—I’m guessing it's Nia—plants herself between the men and me.

“It became my business when this woman almost got flattened by my truck.”

The curly-haired woman moves to Nia’s right. “Why are you three chasing her?”

“She was spying on us, Tasha,” Rico says.

The tall woman in red glasses takes my arm and gently pulls me behind them. “I’m Marisol,” she tells me quietly. “Stay close.”

A front door opens across the street.

“What’s going on out here?” a woman shouts.

Two more women hurry toward us. She’s about the same age as the others, with long black hair tied back in a bandana. The other looks a few years older.

“Denise, call the police,” Tasha says.

“Don’t nobody need to call the cops,” the younger man says. Up close, I see a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. “This is a misunderstanding.”

“Shut up, Mateo,” the older woman snaps.

Denise—the woman in jeans and a tank top—pulls out her phone.

DeShawn raises both hands, though his expression hardens. “Y’all need to calm down. She came onto my porch and looked through my window.”

“So you chased her into traffic?” Nia demands.

“She saw something that wasn’t her business,” Rico mutters.

The older woman steps forward until she’s nearly nose-to-chest with him. “Then use your damn head, Rico.”

His brows draw together. “Keisha—”

“No.” Keisha points past him at me. “Look at her.”

All three men turn.

I shrink closer to Marisol. My legs shake so badly I can barely remain upright.

“She’s barefoot,” Keisha continues. “Her wrists are bleeding. Her face is bruised, and she looks scared out of her mind.”

“She’s running from something,” Tasha says.

“Or someone,” Denise adds, her gaze shifting toward Steven’s house.

The men exchange uneasy looks.

DeShawn glances at me again, his anger fading as he finally seems to notice my condition. “Did that prick Steven do this to you?”

My mouth opens, but terror closes my throat. I lift one trembling hand to my head and nod.