No Saint (Wild Men 6)

It’s Ross. He’s lying on the asphalt with a bunch of guys bent over him, working him over. He’s trying to get them off him, to roll away, but it’s four of them. He stands no chance.

For some weird reason, my chest feels tight, my eyes hot. But old instincts, honed through years of fear, keep me quiet and hidden. I’m frozen in place, watching as they kick and hit him, until he’s rolling on the street, spitting blood, a grimace contorting his handsome face.

The four guys keep punching and kicking him, and worry eats at me. Why won’t they stop? How long has this been going on? Should I call the cops?

He deserves this and worse, I tell myself. Back at school, his sharp, wicked words broke me, cracked me wide open, made me feel worthless. Done for. His little fan club, shoving me, blocking my way, destroying my locker, tearing my books and notebooks to pieces so small I couldn’t glue them back together—breaking me into pieces until I couldn’t recognize myself. Sent me running away from my home, my family.

I shouldn’t care.

I don’t. Okay? I don’t give a damn.

But Ross never hit you, a voice in my mind pipes up. He never touched you. He only fought guys his size, when they got into arguments. And he did save you the other night, didn’t he...

No. Stop. What’s happening to him is only fair. Maybe now he’ll understand what pain is. He brought this on himself. It’s retribution.

So I don’t really comprehend why I step back out, letting the door bang behind me—ready to scream my lungs off, pull the thugs off him with my bare hands, if need be.

But before I open my mouth to yell at them, they stop, the only sound their labored breathing.

“Who’s there?” one of them calls. “Hey, who’s there?”

“Oh shit, let’s go,” someone else mutters, and then they’re running away, not even looking back as they vanish around the corner.

Leaving me standing on the street, adrenaline pounding through my blood, torn between rage and fear.

Ross.

I turn to him and he’s lying on his side, breathing hard. I can see the movement of his chest. I want to go to him, but hesitate. He hasn’t seen me yet.

He doesn’t know that I almost rode to his rescue like an idiot. Good. This is good, because... then I don’t have to spend my days later wondering what I’d have done for him. How far I’d have gone.

Besides, he isn’t in need of rescuing anymore. It’s over. He’d probably be annoyed if he knew I’d seen him getting kicked about.

Time to go—but then he groans and I turn back toward him, my pulse spiking, new doubts assaulting me. What if he’s badly hurt? What if he needs a doctor?

Before I make up my mind, a bark startles me.

It’s a stray dog, an ugly little thing, not yet an adult, with pointy ears and filthy, matted fur. The dog scampers up to Ross and starts licking his face, where he’s lying in the dirt.

I half-expect Ross to shove the animal away, kick it.

But he doesn’t. Instead he lifts a bloodied hand and pats the dog on the head. “Hey, don’t you worry, buddy,” he rasps. “I’ll be all right. And you can stop eating my face now or I won’t have any left.”

Somehow, now my heart is racing worse than before. I step back into the doorway, into the shadows, feeling like a voyeur, watching this strange scene unfold. My thoughts are frozen, tangled up like balls of thread.

Watching as the dog gives a happy yip and snags Ross’s T-shirt sleeve and tugs, as if trying to get him to move, until he pushes himself up to sit and spits a gob of blood onto the asphalt.

“You’re right,” he mutters, the words barely audible. “I should get going. Gimme a sec, okay?”

The dog barks, a joyful, expectant sound. So this isn’t a random meeting, I’m guessing. They know each other. He’s Ross’s dog? I wonder where he lives. If it’s still in the house close to the river. Close to mine.

You don’t care, Luna. You shouldn’t care. Stop caring.

He’s facing away from me, so I can’t see his expression. It’s a good thing, I tell myself, because he can’t see me, either. Can’t know I’m here.

I should leave.

But as the dog dances around him, I find I can’t, not yet. I want to see what he’ll do. I need to witness this. Something tells me it’s important, even if I don’t get why just yet.