Low Pressure

“He’s gone.” She came quickly to her feet and closed the distance between them. “You’re bleeding!”

“Hey! What’s going on?”

“I saw him. That asshole shoved the woman to the ground.”

Diners, having noticed the commotion from inside, were pouring out of the exit and rushing toward them. Dent looked around, but his attacker had vanished. “Get us the hell out of here,” he said to Bellamy, straining the words through gritted teeth.

God bless her. She didn’t do that female thing. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t scream or screech or upbraid him for putting her in this situation. No, she just placed her arm around his bloody waist and half carried him to the passenger side of the Vette. She opened the door and helped him into the seat.

Then she grabbed the ignition key from him, slammed the door, and ran around the hood. She called out to the well-meaning bystanders. “I’m okay. A misunderstanding. That’s all.” Then she got into the driver’s seat and started the motor.

“Can you drive a six-speed?”

By way of answer, she wheeled out of the parking lot and by the time she fishtailed into traffic, she was already in third gear.

“Did you see him?” Dent asked.

“Only a blur as he ran away. Was he robbing you?”

“No.” He craned his neck around to look out the back window. “Do you see a pickup in the rearview mirror?”

She glanced into it. “I can’t tell. Only headlights. Would he be following us?”

“I don’t know. Drive in circles.”

“I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No.”

She whipped her head around and looked at him. “But you’re bleeding. All over.”

“Yeah, onto my leather upholstery. What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I pushed you down. I was—”

“I know. You wanted me out of the way of him. Scraped palms, but otherwise I’m okay. Better than you.”

Unleashing a stream of profanity, Dent popped all the buttons on his shirt and used the tail of it to scrub the side of his face, which was still damp with saliva.

“Where should we go?” Bellamy asked.

“For now, just drive.”

She did, with concentration and surprising skill, weaving in and out of traffic adroitly but not recklessly enough to attract the notice of a traffic cop. After ten minutes and a switch from one freeway to another, she whipped across two lanes of traffic to make an exit, and when she brought the car to a jarring stop at the bottom of the ramp, they were the only car in sight.

With her hands keeping a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, she turned her head and looked at him, her question clear although unspoken.

“I think I was introduced to our redneck friend with the souped-up truck.”

Ray was furious.

His ears echoed with a sound as irritating as a buzz saw. Maybe he was hearing his blood as it surged through his veins. His heart was pumping hard and fast with fury and frustration.

He’d come this close to opening up Dent Carter’s belly. This close. The charmed bastard had narrowly escaped, thanks to her and her cry of alarm, which had drawn the attention of people inside the restaurant.

Carter had been bleeding, but not enough to kill him. Ray could’ve finished him off. But he hadn’t waited this long to get revenge for his brother only to mess up in the final moments.