Force

by Taylor Longford

  I turned the corner on Stout, heading for an alley where I knew there was a big dumpster behind an office building.

  The good thing about office dumpsters is they're relatively clean. And sometimes you can find some equipment that's old enough to be antique or new enough to be useful. Like an old adding machine. Or a broken laptop that's still under warranty. The bad thing is that most of the time all you're gonna find is paper and files and maybe a box of stale donuts. But I'm always hopeful so I tipped the lid open and peeked over the edge of the dumpster.

  "Just paper," I muttered and let the lid drop, almost turning away before I stopped and frowned and slowly returned to the big metal container. There was a lot of paper in that dumpster but there was something else, too.

  I wasn't exactly sure of what I'd seen. But I'd caught a glimpse of something dark brown, about the same color as one of those thick manila file folders. Only it wasn't shaped like a folder at all. It was shaped more like a…

  I lifted the lid and looked again. And found it again, half buried in the paper. Something with a tapered end. Maybe made of leather. Like a sheath for a big knife. And if there was a knife inside the sheath, it might be worth something.

  So I looked around to make sure I was alone, then flung back the lid so it would stay open. Then I hiked myself up onto the edge of the dumpster and climbed in.

  The white sea of paper slid and settled and I had to dig around to find what I'd glimpsed earlier. Eventually, I felt it rather than saw it. It certainly felt like a leather sheath of some kind but longer than I expected. And there was a handle sticking out of it. I couldn't work the sheath free so I pulled on the handle, hard. Harder than I needed to. And fell over backward, staring at the long sword in my hand.

  Yep, it was a sword, alright. So I'm thinking collectible replica, right? Those things are always worth a few bucks to Lord-of-the-Rings nerds. Maybe anywhere from thirty to fifty.

  Struggling back to my knees, I turned the long blade in front of my eyes, thinking it looked relatively plain but also kinda old. Convincingly old. And I'm not talking antique old. I'm talking antiquity. It's amazing how realistic some of those replicas can be.

  So I started to wonder how it had ended up in a dumpster in downtown Denver. I could just imagine some father getting annoyed with his teenage son and taking the sword to work so he could throw it away at the office, where the kid couldn't pull it from the trash the minute his back was turned.

  But my musings were cut off abruptly when a large hand exploded from beneath the thick jumble of paper and wrapped around my wrist. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a young male voice in a rasping lilt.

  Startled out of my wits, I screamed, then scrambled backwards into a corner of the dumpster, staring at the long fingers attached to my wrist.

  "Wh-what? Wh-Why?" I shrieked, both confused and disoriented. What was a hand doing glommed onto my wrist? What was a hand doing in a dumpster? Where was the rest of the person that belonged to the hand?

  The papers slid aside like the red sea parting and a golden head surfaced followed by a broad set of shoulders. Then I was staring into a stunning pair of steely gray eyes rimmed with charcoal that locked on mine and held me in their strong grip. Almost mesmerized by the power of that gaze, I couldn't look away. The eyes were breathtaking and…even beautiful. And the thick dark eyelashes were just overkill. "Because that's my sword," the stranger claimed in a strange accent.

  And of course, while all this was going on, I flashed on him. But what I saw was a little bit out of the ordinary. So brace yourself.

  It was an evening scene. And in that summery twilight, hundreds of candles danced in the quiet breeze, throwing a glow of warm color over the long wooden tables set out on the grass. Dozens of people—men, women, young boys and a few girls—sat or stood around the tables, laughing and talking (though I couldn't hear what they were saying, of course). Most of the older men wore long braids while the younger men wore their hair loose. Some of the women had tied their hair back. And all of the revelers were dressed in the sort of historical costume that's worn to the medieval festivals that are so popular nowadays.

  But all of that was pushed to the background of the stranger's attention. Because his focus was on the sword in his hand, the long blade reflecting the light of the many candles.

  Uh-huh, that sword in my hand was his most prized possession.

  Quickly deciding I might be in trouble, I tried to yank my arm from his grasp but it didn't work. The guy had a grip like a shackle. And that just made me scared. But before I could work myself up to screaming for help, the stranger let go and whipped the sword from my fingers. And for the next several seconds I crouched in the corner and stared as I tried to catch my breath and calm my startled heart, which was trying to find a way out of my chest.

  But even in my state of complete startledom, I managed to check him out.

  His dark gold hair fell over one side of his face all the way to his chin, framing a very square, very full mouth that struck me as both savage and brutal…not to mention sexy as hell. Morris Samuels might have a Cam Newton smile but this guy had a mouth that screamed kiss-me-now. Not that I was interested or anything. Because (like I said before) at that point in my life I was convinced that you couldn't count on guys for nothin'. But that didn't mean I couldn't appreciate a nice looking face.

  Moving on, my gaze drifted down to his bare shoulders, which were hard to ignore because they were so wide and carved with muscle. Covering the rest of his upper body was a black leather vest worked with thick decorative welting that crossed his chest and disappeared behind his back. A thick band of roughly finished suede slanted from his shoulder to his waist and I assumed it was the strap for the sheath he carried his sword in.

  On his legs, he wore a loose pair of knee-length brown shorts, which were cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt. And hanging from the belt was a sheathed knife as well as a drawstring pouch…that gave him an odd sixties look. I'm not sure what the shorts were made from but they looked old and decrepit and not particularly clean, like they'd been used for mud wrestling more recently than they'd been washed.

  He wore no jewelry, which probably wouldn't have suited him; he was that tough looking. But he did have a blue tattoo on his neck, the color so bright it seemed to glow on his skin.

  Wh-what are you doing here?" I gasped, when I'd caught my breath.

  "I was just…having a quick nap," he growled, sounding a little defensive as he lifted his sword over his shoulder and dropped it into the sheath behind his back.

  "In a dumpster?" I questioned, even though I knew that plenty of homeless people took refuge in the big tin cans on wheels.

  "Is that what this is?" he asked, glancing around.

  "Uh-huh," I answered while privately thinking "definitely not from around here". And while I was doing that, I took a closer look at his leather vest. I'd never seen anything quite like it and wondered if he was newly hatched from some Eastern European country since I couldn't read his accent. To be honest, he looked like he'd arrived from another era, but I decided to go with Eastern Europe because (to put it bluntly) he looked that exotic.

  And he looked hungry.

  Sighing, I dug in my pocket and pulled out a couple of tens. "You look like you could use something to eat," I said and tossed the money at him.

  He narrowed his eyes on the bills sitting on the jumbled paper at his knees. "What's this?"

  "Money," I answered. "American money. Buy yourself some food."

  His brows pulled into a fierce frown and his gaze swung back to my face. "I don't need your help," he growled, clearly insulted.

  "And you don't know how happy I am to hear that," I muttered beneath my breath.

  He tilted his head and studied my face. "What?"

  "I'm sorry," I answered, getting impatient. "But you look like you need somebody's help."

  "I'm not a beggar," he said in a sliding rasp that made the hairs stiffen on the back of my
neck. "And I don't need your help."

  "Hey, I'm not the one sleeping in a dumpster," I snapped back at him.

  He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared. "And I'm not a beggar," he repeated without removing his eyes from my face.

  "I didn't say you were but…when's the last time you ate?"

  He opened his mouth as if to answer then stopped. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," he finally muttered.

  "Well," I said, pocketing my tens while eyeing the edge of the dumpster and thinking I needed to get safely out in the open before the stray decided to pull his knife (which might be real) and slit my throat. "What d'you say we get out of this dumpster?"

  "I'll give you a hand," he murmured.

  "That's not necess—" I started. But before I could finish my sentence, his strong hands were around my waist, lifting me to the edge of the metal container.

  "Wait there," he commanded, then vaulted from the box in one fluid motion that reminded me of a big cat. Like a panther. A big golden one, if there is such a thing. Or maybe a lion.

  Normally, I'd have hopped down to the ground at that point but I was so stunned by his gallantry (not to mention his commanding tone) that I didn't get around to it. So I was still perched on the metal edge (though I'd had the sense to swing my legs around) when he landed lightly on his feet and reached up for me.

  I mean, I know I was sitting on the edge of a battered dumpster with stained sides and rusted corners, but for a second (only a second) I felt like some kind of princess. I was…what's the word? Flustered. Yeah, I was flustered. Nobody had ever treated me like that before. And because I wanted to keep that feeling going (not to mention feeling his hands on my waist again), I let him lift me to the ground.

  Hey, don't judge me. You don't know what my life has been like and you weren't there when all this unexpected gallantry was going down.

  Back on my feet again, I sidled away from him before we headed down the alley toward Stout.

  "Where's your stuff?" I asked him when I noticed he wasn't carrying anything…which was unusual. Most homeless people have a few things they cart around with them. Even people who are "traveling through" usually have a backpack with clothing, or a guitar slung across their back.

  "Stuff?" he countered.

  I glanced down at his bare feet. "Don't you have a bag with your clothes and shoes or something?"

  "Nay," he answered. "I left all that…back home."

  "Where's home for you?"

  "England."

  "Really?" I questioned him. "You don't sound English."

  "What do I sound like?" he asked.

  "Hell if I know," I answered. "How'd you get here to Denver? Did you stowaway on a boat or something?"

  "Normally, I fly," he hedged, like he didn't know how to answer my question.

  "What?" I exclaimed, deciding to mess with him a bit. "In the wheel-well of a plane? You can get killed doing that, you know. You can freeze to death. And there isn't much oxygen up at 30,000 feet."

  "Nay, I didn't know that," he said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "But I'll keep it in mind."

  I watched his mouth, hoping it would do that twitching thing again because it looked really good on him. But I got the feeling he was the sort of guy who didn't smile very often. "How long have you been here?" I asked next.

  "All together?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh," I answered, thinking his question was strange.

  "A few months," he answered after some thinking. "But most of the time I was…pinned down. So I haven't gotten around much."

  "I see," I said and slanted a quick look up at him. "What's that on your back?"

  "A sword," he answered.

  "Yeah, I recognized the collectible. I mean what's that sling you're carrying it in?"

  "It's called a baldric," he answered hesitantly. "Aye, a baldric."

  "So you left home with a baldric and sword and didn't think to bring your clothes along?"

  "Congratulations," he murmured. "You're very observant."

  "Sounds like you didn't plan this trip very well."

  He stopped and looked down at me. But there was a distant look in his eyes, like he wasn't seeing me. "Actually, I didn't plan it at all. It was very sudden."

  "Why's that?" I asked him.

  "We were running," he explained. "From some dangerous…"

  "People?" I supplied when his voice trailed away.

  "Not exactly," he answered.

  Okay, that was another strange answer but I ignored it for now. "We?" I queried.

  "My family and I."

  I threw a glance over my shoulder, to the other end of the alley. "Where did the rest of your family end up?"

  "I'm not sure," he admitted. "We got separated. I've been trying to look for them. But so far…" His voice trailed away again as his stomach rumbled…which pretty much confirmed my suspicions that he was hungry.

  "Do you…have a job or anything like that?"

  He considered me before answering. "Nay. Nothing like that."

  I knew I shouldn't get involved but I couldn't help myself. Because he looked so strong and acted so tough, like he didn't need anyone's help. So it seemed especially sad that he was so obviously hungry. "Listen," I told him. "I have some things I could let you have. Some clothes."

  "I don't need your help," he said, looking me up and down. "And I don't think you'd have anything that would fit me."

  "I have a pair of jeans that I think would work. They're not mine."

  His eyes narrowed. "Whose are they?"

  "Nobody's," I answered. "I picked them up cheap to resell online. They cost me next to nothing. You could pay me back when you…"

  "When I what?"

  "I don't know. When you get a job maybe. I know some people who might need help. But they won't hire you in that getup."

  He scowled down at his decrepit shorts.

  I followed his gaze. "Don't get insulted but you're not exacting rocking the height of fashion in those shorts."

  Now he was scowling at me. "Thanks for pointing that out."

  "So…do you want the clothes? Or not?"

  "Alright," he answered.

  "Alright?" I repeated slowly, lifting one eyebrow and giving him a questioning look.

  "I'll take the clothes," he muttered. "And pay you back when I get a job."

  Fine, I thought. That's settled. By that time, we'd reached the end of the alley, and I turned to face him. Even though I was pretty sure he was a perfectly harmless homeless guy, I didn't think I should let him know where I lived. Not until I knew him at least a little better. So I told him I'd gather some clothes and meet him back at the alley in about an hour.

  "I'll be here," he said.

  I checked out his wrists, looking for a watch. Of course, he didn't have one. And he didn't have any pockets so that meant he didn't have a phone because a phone wouldn't have fit in that pouch he was wearing on his belt. "How will you know the time?" I asked pointedly.

  He glared down at me. "I'll be here," he repeated in a growl.

  So I figured he wasn't going to leave the alley while I was gone and I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him that he had no where to go.

  I know that a lot of people wouldn't spare much sympathy for someone like that. They'd probably think it wasn't their problem. But I know first hand that sometimes things happen that you can't avoid…and can't fix without a little help from someone else.

  And (perhaps unwisely) I had just appointed myself "someone else".

  Chapter Three

  I headed home, talking to myself the whole way there and telling myself it was insane to get involved with someone like that—good-looking and homeless. If I wanted to get involved with eye-candy, why not stick with Morris? At least he had a truck (with a winch). And a home. And a family that wasn't missing. The stray I'd found in the dumpster had I'm-cute-but-you're-gonna-have-to-support-me-for-the-rest-of-my-life written all over his fine face.

  Uh-huh, I
knew how this thing worked.

  They bring you flowers or lift you out of a dumpster then BAM, you're making dinner and bringing beers to them for the rest of their lives while they take up permanent parking on the couch in front of the television…or while they're off racing cars in Kansas or Illinois.

  Handsome equals unreliable, I reminded myself.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get going, going, gone, I added.

  But evidently, the little talk I had with myself on the way home didn't do much good. Because back at the apartment, I dug into my pile of brand-name jeans and pulled out several pairs, holding them up to see if I thought they'd fit my stray's long legs. Eventually I decided to go with a pair of faded blues. There was a tear on one knee but I knew they'd look really hot on him. I picked out a few dark T-shirts to go with, raided Darryl's closet for an older pair of shoes I thought he might not notice were missing, then stopped in the kitchen and made a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, stuffing them into plastic bags and dropping them into a paper sack.

  It was kinda ridiculous how quickly I made my way back to where I'd left the stray. And I couldn't help but wonder what was up with that. But I figured I was just in a hurry to get those sandwiches to a guy who was hungry. I hate to think of people suffering or going without and I try to help out whenever I can.

  Pretty noble motives, right?

  But there was something else that quickened my step on the way back to the alley.

  "Animal magnetism," I muttered beneath my breath. "He has that whole animal magnetism thing going on. He's like a lion with magnets for eyes." Then I snorted at myself because it all sounded so lame.

  But when I got to the alley, I couldn't see him. Anywhere. Which surprised me because I was sure he had nowhere else to go. I don't know why I felt so panicked over the fact that he wasn't there. I could have called out his name if I'd known it but I didn't. So I headed for the end of the alley and lifted the lid of the dumpster to peek inside.

  "Why are you looking in there?" a voice said, close to my ear.