by B. B. Reid
“And you,” he pointed out.
I breathed in the cold night air, which then shuddered out of me when I realized he was right. I doubt they cared if I was a casualty of whatever vendetta brought them here.
He rounded the front of the Expedition and bent to pick up the now shredded orange jacket.
Good.
I’m glad it was dead.
It was fucking hideous.
He sighed before wordlessly crossing the street and disappearing inside the shop. I was still deciding what to do and where to go when he emerged less than a minute later without the coat and then locked up the shop.
My heart skipped a beat when he hopped into his car without a “See you later” or “Sayonara.” I knew it was going to hurt to watch him drive away, but I had no idea why. The car started with a roar as fierce as its owner, but instead of driving off down the street, he pulled up next to me. I didn’t move an inch as he leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
“What?” Surely, he didn’t think I was going anywhere with him? I was almost killed because I got too close, not to mention I’d only just met him, and he was clearly into some deep shit.
“Lets. Fucking. Go.”
“No way.”
“Did you hear me asking?”
I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the snow now falling steadily. “I’d rather die,” I said with a snarl. “Wait, it seems I almost did!”
Before he could respond, the wind carried the sound of sirens closer. Shit. I quickly reached for the door handle, but he slammed his hand down on the lock just as I tugged on the door. Sure enough, it was locked.
“What are you doing?”
“Say please.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Unlock the door!” I tugged on the handle, willing to tear it off if I had to—although that would get me nowhere.
“Say ‘Please, Wren. Rescue me, Wren. I need you, Wren.’”
So that was his name. Wren…
Silently, I tested his name with a wistful sigh. Aloud, I growled it. “Wren.”
“Almost. I didn’t hear please.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not what I’m offering,” he casually retorted. His arrogance only infuriated me more.
“Fine.” I let go of the handle and tapped my lip with my finger. “I wonder what I’ll tell the cops when they get here. After all, I did witness everything.”
His only response was to sit up straight, allowing me to see the gun that magically appeared in his lap. The warning was clear, and even though a chill worked its way down my spine, I somehow knew he’d never use it. At least, not on me.
“Please, Wren,” I begged halfheartedly. He smiled when I punctuated my plea with an eye roll.
And just as the first patrol car turned onto the street a couple of blocks away, he popped the lock. I wasted no time diving inside. I barely got the door closed when the car shot forward, and we got out of dodge.
I nervously watched out the back window as two patrol cars parked next to the totaled Expedition, and four officers emerged with guns drawn. Only when we rounded the corner did I relax and sink into the leather bucket seats. I couldn’t help admiring the interior. He’d kept everything classic and vintage and looking like he had just driven it off the lot days ago.
“What year is this car?”
“’66.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Why?” he sneered. “You thinking about getting one? Maybe turning it into a summer home?”
“Maybe I am,” I snapped back. Wren snorted, which was clearly another dig at my homelessness. “Asshole,” I hissed. He pretended not to hear. “Where are we going?”
Silence.
“Wren?”
He signaled before cruising down another street. I eyed the door handle and considered hopping out. As if reading my thoughts, he sped up.
I whipped my head around and glared until the seeping hole in his jacket caught my attention. “You’re hit.” Panic spread through my chest.
“Trust me, I’m aware.”
I reached out a trembling hand before thinking better of it and letting it fall into my lap. “Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?”
“I’ll handle it,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Better than an actual doctor?”
Once again, he didn’t respond, and I was getting sick of it. “Fine,” I said as my arms crossed, and I pouted. “Bleed out. Die. I don’t care.”
A crooked smile graced his lips. “It seems like you do.”
I shrugged and crossed my arms. “You’re my ride.”
His deep-throated laugh sent the butterflies in my stomach scattering—fucking hormones. I never hated being fifteen more than I did right now. Not even when I realized I had no say in my own life for the next three years.
I whirled on him. “How old are you?”
Wren hesitated before mumbling, “Seventeen.”
So I’d been right. He was young although I’d pegged him for at least twenty-one. He looked the part of seventeen, but I didn’t need his story to know he’d grown up fast. Judging by the gun still in his lap and the near assassination, I’d say too fast.
“Which school do you go to?”
“Not in school.”
I frowned. “Graduated?”
“Dropped out.”
“Me too.” I sighed. “Currently.” Every time I was dragged to yet another foster home after days, sometimes weeks, on the streets, I was thrown back into whatever public hole would accept me.
“Why?” He voiced it in a way that instantly put me on the defensive.
“Why did you?”
Rather than answer, he shook his head as if disappointed.
I felt my teeth grind. How dare he judge me when he was no better?
I couldn’t stand the silence, so I reached for the radio to play whatever cassette he might have, but his hand shot out and gripped mine before I could. It was like a thunderbolt had struck us both. The hairs on my skin rose as my body temperature skyrocketed, and my next breath stalled. I knew he felt it too even though he recovered much quicker than I did and refocused on the road.
“Don’t,” he said, and it was almost a plea.
“Why not?”
“I like the silence.”
“Yeah, well…I’ve had enough to last a lifetime.” He didn’t ask, and I didn’t elaborate. Those days before my parents took off had been harrowing but mostly…confusing. The only clue among all the silence had been their nervous energy. “So is that why you bought the oldest car you could find? Because it has no radio?”
“It was a gift.”
“From who?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. He didn’t seem like the type to allow someone close. With one glance, I knew he was a lone wolf—like me.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “He’s dead.”
“That’s pretty morbid.” He tried to shrug but grimaced, clearly forgetting his wounded shoulder. “How are you not in pain right now?”
“You’re distracting me,” he said, almost like an accusation.
“I’m sorry. Should I let you concentrate?”
His lips twitched before he muttered, “Smartass.” His tone was amused, almost whimsical—as if he were already used to me. The snow started falling harder, so he pushed the lever that controlled the windshield wiper and tried to hide his wince from using his injured shoulder.
I bit my lip and shoved my hands under my legs to keep from wringing them. “Do you need me to do something?”
His head cocked curiously. “Like what?”
“I don’t know…try to stop the blood?” Anything to get your hands on him, right, Lou?
“It’s just a graze. Looks worse than it is.”
“Oh.”
“You were pretty quick.” It almost sounded like he was in awe.
“A lot of good it did.” I felt my cheeks heat at the worry in my voice.
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Especially when he said, “I’ll be fine.” His tone was gentle and assuring. A far cry from the way he’d spoken to me when we met.
I simply nodded, but it didn’t stop the ache in my chest. I barely knew this kid. And he was a kid albeit a dangerous gun-toting one who someone clearly wanted dead.
“Why were those guys after you?”
“Fuck if I know,” he spat. I wasn’t buying it for a second, though.
“If we’re going to be friends,” I said with more confidence than I felt, “we can’t lie to each other.”
He glanced at me then through wide eyes. “Who says I want to be your friend?”
“I saved your life. You’ve yet to return the favor, so until the debt is paid, you’re stuck with me.”
“Or I could just kill you right now and be done with you.” His gaze never strayed from the road as he threatened me for the third time in half an hour.
“But you won’t,” I said confidently, and I felt my heart warm in confirmation. I had no idea how I could be so trusting after what I’d just witnessed, but I knew nothing Wren said or did would make me believe that he would ever hurt me.
I’d had just about enough of my hormones for one night.
This time, his gaze lingered when he looked my way. “You think I’m a good guy?”
I studied him long and hard. Beads of sweat trickled from his hairline, over his sculpted cheek, and down his clenched jawline. He was clearly in pain but was too macho to admit it. “I think you’re not as bad as you think.”
He suddenly seemed uncomfortable and looked away. “Jesus, you’re stupid,” he spat. “And naïve.”
I forced a laugh to hide the feeling of being punched in the gut. “Nice try, but I’m not going to cry and run the other way because you hurt my feelings.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled, and I found myself hiding a smile. The longer we talked, the more his attitude seemed adorable rather than intimidating. A few minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of a two-story brick home. The small front yard was overcome by a trampoline, a big wheel, a pink bike with training wheels, and other toys.
“Who lives here?” Had he brought me home? Did he have siblings? Would his mom like me? I covertly ran my fingers through my hair to straighten it.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“You don’t think I should? I met you five minutes ago.”
“It’s been longer than that,” he smartly retorted before hopping out.
I rolled my eyes before following him to the door. I waited quietly although nervously as he knocked rather obnoxiously.
“They could be sleeping.”
“So?” He knocked again even louder.
Seconds later, the door was whipped open, and a hulking man with a bald head and a scowl that rivaled Wren’s stood on the threshold with a gun in one hand and a cigar in the other. I took small steps back until I was hovering behind Wren and clutching his jacket lightly in my fist. Dude looked like Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now.
“What the fuck do you want, Harlan? It’s late. My kids are sleeping.”
“Those gremlins you call children aren’t sleeping, you dense fuck. I bet anything Georgia is sneaking cookies out of the kitchen right now.”
Sure enough, a little girl sporting pigtails and Minnie Mouse pajamas ran from the kitchen with a fist full of crumbled cookies.
I was prepared for the man to shoot us both right then and there. Instead, he turned and shouted at his giggling daughter to go to bed as she ran up the stairs. He then walked away without inviting us in, and when Wren moved to follow him, I quickly released him. I didn’t get a chance to say “I’ll wait in the car” before he grabbed my wrist and dragged me through the open door.
“Who’s the girl?” the colonel questioned as he plopped onto the couch, reaching for the remote.
“No fucking clue,” Wren answered.
“And you brought her to my home?” he roared. I could have sworn I heard the plastic crack under his meaty fist.
“I need you to fix my shoulder,” Wren explained although he didn’t sound the least bit sorry.
“It had better be life or death,” he threatened.
Wren shrugged his uninjured shoulder and headed for the bottle of rum on the wooden coffee table. I was still standing in the foyer, feeling seriously out of place, when the bear of a man stomped over to me and demanded my name.
“Leave her alone,” Wren said before I could answer.
The man grunted and stuck out his hand. “Call me Shane.”
I shook his hand and started to offer my name when I caught the subtle shake of Wren’s head. Since Shane had his back turned, he didn’t witness Wren’s objection, but the warning was clear.
Don’t trust him.
“Pleasure,” was all I said.
Shane growled his displeasure, eyed me up and down, and then disappeared upstairs, probably to silence the pitter-patter of little feet coming from above.
“Why don’t you—”
“No,” Wren interrupted.
My lips snapped shut, increasing my frustration. If Wren didn’t trust this guy, why come here? “Well, can I ask for a glass of water, at least, or will that get my head blown off, too?”
Wren’s nostrils flared before he shot up from the plush couch and stalked into the kitchen. I smiled as I listened to him open and slam cupboards and drawers and then, eventually, there was running water from the faucet. When he returned, I couldn’t hide my shock when he handed me a tall glass of water and a peanut butter sandwich.
“Thanks.”
He walked away without a response, and I followed him into the living room where he watched me closely as I ate. Shane returned just as I was taking the last bite of my sandwich. It only took a few seconds since I couldn’t remember the last time I had something to eat or drink.
Shane ordered us to follow him into the kitchen and set a large case on the table. When he popped open the lid, I saw all kinds of medical instruments and medicine. It wasn’t your typical first aid kit, that’s for sure. I might have assumed he was a doctor if he hadn’t answered the door with a gun in his hand looking like he’d use it and sleep like a baby afterward.
And I doubt they’d swear as colorfully as Shane did when he peeled the jacket and shirt from Wren’s body. I gasped as a sense of foreboding crept up from fingertips until it seized my entire body. All I could do was gape as my mind raced to understand, to accept, and then to plan a fucking escape. The nasty wound on top of his shoulder didn’t turn my stomach nearly as much as the tattoo etched into the skin of his nape—a bold X with the number nineteen in the left angle, an eighty-seven in the right, and the notorious motto underneath.
I am not led.
Exiled.
Wren was Exiled.
And everyone in the city knew what that meant.
I didn’t know how to even begin from here. I’d already guessed that Wren was dangerous. Those guys wielding automatic weapons meant business, which told me Wren was no angel.
But this…this was a death sentence. And I was guilty by association.
Wren glanced over his unwounded shoulder, and I could feel him watching me, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t give him one. I pretended my wide-eyed horror was for his wound even though the bullet had only grazed him just as he said. He lied when he claimed it wasn’t as bad as it looked. A shudder shook my body as I imagined how much pain he must be in. How he’d been able to pretend otherwise, I’d never know, but right now, he looked seconds from passing out.
When Shane finished cleaning the wound, he dropped the bloody cloth on the table, and I noticed Wren paled and turned his head in disgust.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like blood,” I blurted with equal parts hostility and incredulity.
He stared back at me but didn’t respond.
“Makes him queasy,” Shane supplied. “Last time, he threw his guts up all over my floor. Bethany bitched for a week.”
“Last t
ime?” I squealed. “You mean he’s been shot more than once?”
“This makes three,” Shane informed with a misplaced sense of pride.
I swayed on my feet as if someone were pointing a gun at me right now. Wren had been shot three times? But he was so young. Why would anyone want to hurt him? Was it because he’d hurt them first? Sorrow, fear, anger…it all overpowered my girlish infatuation.
“You’re going to need stitches,” Shane grumbled as he set about sterilizing supplies.
Wren simply nodded, and I realized he was still watching me even as he took a swig of rum.
Despite my inner turmoil, I couldn’t stop my feet from moving or explain why I grabbed his hand, but when he held mine for dear life, I knew there was no way I was letting go. His warmth comforted me as much as mine must have soothed him.
I didn’t miss a single wince or clench of his jaw as Shane sewed his flesh back together. My stomach turned at the same time my heart pounded with worry. Wren’s pain felt like my pain. I only wished I knew why.
After Shane finished dressing the newly stitched wound, he pressed a couple of painkillers into Wren’s hand and ordered him to take them when the alcohol wore off. Wren defiantly popped them both in his mouth and swallowed. Shane chuckled and shook his head as he cleaned up. I wanted to scream at this monstrous man who’d taken part in corrupting him, but Wren’s hand squeezed mine, effectively keeping me silent.
“You and the girl can take my spare for the night.”
“We’re leaving,” Wren announced.
It was all I could do not to run for the door. The danger of icy roads and hypothermia was probably ten times safer than a night spent under Shane’s warm roof.
“Not in this storm, you’re not. That’s an order,” Shane quickly added before Wren could object.
Wren glared at Shane and freed his hand from mine as he stood. “Fine,” he said.
I wanted to scream that it was not fine. With a jerk of his head, Wren ordered me to follow him. I did, slowly, while wondering if anyone would object if I left to brave the storm alone. I never got the chance to ask.
The moment we left the kitchen, Wren, as if reading my mind, looked over his shoulder and trampled my hopes with three words.
“You’re not leaving.”