Falling For My Deadly Bodyguard

Mia

“Text me when you get home,” Kaitlyn says over the muffled thunder of bass spilling out of the club behind us.

I lift my hand in a lazy salute. “Yes, Mom.”

She narrows her eyes at me, which would work better if her eyeliner wasn’t smudged and her hair wasn’t sticking to her lip gloss. “I’m serious, Mia.”

Beside her, Isabel is already half inside the Uber, one heel in the car, one still planted on the sidewalk. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? You can crash at my place.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s late,” Kaitlyn says.

I glance up at the sky like that might help my case. It is late, but the night is clear and warm, the city washed in silver streetlights and leftover summer heat. The kind of night that makes everything feel softer than it is.

“I’m fine,” I tell them. “My car’s only a few blocks away.”

Kaitlyn’s mouth twists. “A few blocks downtown at two in the morning.”

“I didn’t drink that much.”

“You had two drinks.”

“Exactly. And the walk will sober the rest of me up before I drive home.”

Isabel leans forward from the backseat, her face appearing between Kaitlyn and the open door. “Stay at mine. We’ll order fries.”

That almost gets me.

Almost.

But then I think about the animal shelter tomorrow morning, the early shift I stupidly volunteered for because Bruno, the three-legged bulldog, only lets me clean his kennel without acting like he’s being led to war. I think about waking up in my own bed, showering in my own bathroom, putting on old jeans and heading out before the rest of the house is even awake.

“I can’t,” I say. “I have the shelter early tomorrow.”

I smile and step back from the curb. “I’ll see you both at school on Monday.”

Kaitlyn points at me. “Text. Me.”

“I will.”

She still looks unconvinced, but the Uber driver glances back like he’s wondering whether we’re planning to have this entire conversation on his clock. Finally, Kaitlyn sighs and gets in.

“Love you,” Isabel calls.

“Love you too.”

The car door shuts. I wave as they pull away, their faces briefly lit blue by Kaitlyn’s phone before the Uber merges into traffic and disappears around the corner.

For a second, I just stand there.

The club pulses behind me, all heat and bodies and music too loud to think through. People spill onto the sidewalk in glittering little groups, laughing too loudly, leaning into each other, cigarette smoke curling around bare shoulders and leather jackets. Someone shouts for their friend. Someone drops a phone and swears.

Normal sounds.

Normal night.

I pull my purse higher on my shoulder and start walking.

My car is parked on a side street a few blocks away, because of course I refused valet, because of course I insisted I was a normal person who could find parking like everyone else. The decision felt independent three hours ago.

Now my feet ache and my head feels light, not drunk exactly, just tired and warm and ready for my bed.

The streets thin out the farther I get from the club. Noise comes in pockets. A burst of laughter outside a bar. Music humming through brick walls. The clatter of glass somewhere behind a restaurant. Then quiet again, deep enough that I can hear my heels tapping against the pavement.

I unlock my phone to check the time.

2:07 a.m.

Great.

My dad would lose his mind if he knew I was walking alone downtown this late.

Actually, no. His assistant would lose her mind, then tell him, then he would send a vague text with too many exclamation points and probably have a car service outside the house for the next month.

I slip my phone back into my purse and consider putting my headphones in. For one second, I can almost feel the relief of music filling the silence, of disappearing into something familiar for the last block.

Then I look over my shoulder.

The street behind me is empty.

Still.

Better not.

It’s a safe city. Mostly.

But safe city or not, it is still two in the morning downtown.

I keep walking.

The next turn should take me to the street where I parked. I’m already imagining my car waiting under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, already picturing the quiet drive home, the empty mansion, the kitchen lights left on by housekeeping.

I turn right.

And stop.

This isn’t the street.

For a second, my brain refuses to process that. It offers me brick walls, overflowing trash bins, damp pavement, the shadowed backs of buildings. An alley. Narrow and dim and completely wrong.

I let out a breath and almost laugh.

“Idiot,” I mutter.

I’m about to turn around when I hear it.

A low, broken sound.

Not a voice exactly.

A grunt.

My body goes still.

The alley seems to hold its breath with me.

I should leave. That is my first thought, sharp and immediate. Turn around, walk away, get to the main street, find someone else.

Then it comes again.

A wet, strained sound from farther in.

“Hello?” I call.

No answer.

My pulse begins to pick up.

I take one step forward, then another. The heel of my shoe catches on a crack in the pavement, and I grab the brick wall to steady myself. The alley smells like rainwater, garbage, and something metallic I can’t place.

Then I see him.

At first, he’s only a shape on the ground.

A man, folded awkwardly near the back entrance of a building, one arm braced against the pavement like he tried to crawl and didn’t make it far. His dark jacket is open. His hair is damp against his forehead. He can’t be much older than me.

“Oh my God.”

I rush toward him before I can think better of it.

“Are you okay?”

Stupid question. Horrible question.

He lifts his head, and that’s when I see the puddle beneath him.

Dark.

Spreading.

Too dark to be water.

My stomach drops so fast I almost stumble.

“Oh my God,” I whisper again. “Oh my God. Okay. Don’t move. I’m calling 911.”

I fumble for my phone, my fingers suddenly useless. They shake so badly I nearly drop my purse instead. The screen lights up too bright in the dark, blurring through the panic in my eyes.

The man makes a rough sound and catches my wrist.

His hand is slick.

Warm.

I freeze.

“Run,” he rasps.

I stare at him. “What?”

His grip tightens, desperate and weak at the same time. “Run.”

“No. No, you need help. I’m calling someone.”

“Please.” His eyes find mine, wide and glassy and terrified. “Run.”

The fear in his voice crawls straight under my skin.

My thumb shakes over the screen. I hit the emergency call button once, then miss, then hit it again. My breathing is too loud. My heartbeat is too loud. Everything is too loud except the alley.

The alley is silent.

Until a voice behind me says, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The phone slips from my hand.

It hits the pavement with a sharp crack.

I turn.

At the mouth of the alley, half-swallowed by shadow, a man stands perfectly still.

For one awful second, my mind tries to make him ordinary. Just someone passing by. Just someone who heard me. Just someone who can help.

Then the light catches the knife in his hand.

Blood drips from the blade onto the pavement.

Once.

Twice.

The man tilts his head.

And smiles.