Back in the Saddle (Jessica Brodie Diaries #1)(42)

I head-butted him, hard, to his nose. I’d been a soccer player, I knew how to execute a nose shattering head-butt properly. The crack of cartilage rewarded me. Blood fountained from the center of his face.

His head jolted back, pain blooming, staggering him off balance. I freed my hands with a quick rip outward, like Lump taught me. He regained his footing quickly, bringing his fist up to strike. But I was ready. I swiped my fingers across his eyes, the softest, most vulnerable place in his body.

He howled, a bestial sound from the root of his person. One hand reached for his face, the other groping wilding for me.

I didn’t lose any time. I punched him in his throat, another sensitive spot, as I was leaning back to bring my knee up into his crotch as hard as I could. I heard a gross crunching as my solid knee met soft, exposed testicles.

His howl became a blood-curdling, high-pitched wail. I ran.

I was lame in heels, but I pushed on, as fast as I could, my panting fighting the pressure in my ears.

“FIRE!” I screamed, knowing that word statistically brought help faster than saying help. I repeated it two more times, loudly, wildly.

A man stepped out of the door in a hurry, surveyed the scene for two beats of my pounding heart, and then started running at me. Our bodies collided, both now heading toward the light. Toward safety.

More people popped out, heads slow and curious.

Then we were there. Glorious light. People. Hands grabbing and shuffling me along the wall. I think my shirt was ripped, and my skirt didn’t seem pulled down as far as it should have been, but none of this mattered to anyone, least of all me. I wanted safety.

I was passed with gentle hands to the side of the hall door and into a corner. Two people, men both, stood guard, shielding me from the crowd.

With trembling hands I tried to straighten myself as best I could. My shirt was ripped, showing too much skin. My skirt was durable material, but stained by his dirty hands. My hair was too big. Too teased. Painful at the top of my scalp. And I was cold. So cold my teeth were chattering.

But I was safe. It was all that mattered—safety.

The wall of man parted down the middle, revealing a long sleeved shirt with a familiar smell. My gaze flickered upward as the material draped over my shoulders. They met a familiar deep blue of my Golden God. With the light behind him, like it was, he seemed to radiate an ethereal glow. And like an angry God, the fury in his eyes as he looked over the damage done was terrible to behold.

Up until that point I hadn’t cried for real. Fake crying to throw Dusty off the scent wasn’t the same. I hadn’t let go a single real tear. I was in shock, I knew it, and I couldn’t feel. My brain wouldn’t completely comprehend. Wouldn’t let me.

When William leaned in close, a warm, comforting hand on my shoulder, his body shielding me from the crowd, from the curious eyes, and asked in a hoarse, though gentle whisper, “How bad did he hurt you? Did he..." When he was unable to finish that question, that horrible question, which had been so close to being a reality, it was like a light switch flipped. Everything that happened, that might have happened, that almost happened, was visible in lucid color when a second before it was hidden by darkness.

Saying I started crying was like saying the Grand Canyon was a ditch. I gasped out a “No!”, shook my head vehemently, and started balling.

He took hold of me savagely, smashing me protectively to his chest. I let it all go. My invaluable bubble shattered. I gasped for breath between body wracking sobs. He was safety. He was my rock in the vast ocean of emotion and fear I found myself.

When he moved, I clutched on to him with fearful claws. I wouldn’t let him leave me. I was shaking so badly I could barely stand.

“We’re going,” he said in my ear.

With my face buried deeply in his chest, I only registered sound. Yelling and shouting. William’s name.

We stopped for a second, teetering in the doorway. He exchanged angry words with someone, and we were moving again.

When the darkness greeted us, I bucked like I’d seen those animals do all afternoon. My eyes scanned the area wildly; worried Dusty was still out there. Terrified he’d try again. Sickened that he’d succeed. The bogyman was very real on this night. With a name.

“It’s okay,” William coo’d, bringing me in close. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Nestled into his body, I allowed him to lead, not caring where we were going. The sounds, the yelling, muted as we walked. The crunch of the dirt beneath our feet loud, my whimpering quiet. In the distance, getting closer, was Adam, Ty and Moose, arguing. Sounds only. I couldn’t decipher the wording. I was scared to try. As we approached, two people walking as one, the guys fell silent.

“We’re going back,” William said in a no-nonsense tone.

“I want a second with him." It was a strangled voice that sounded like a distant cousin of Adam.

I peered out from William’s protective frame. Adam was standing stock straight with every muscle in his body tense. He looked like the force of God about to be unleashed. His body was shaking in rage, fists balled, eyes a furnace. He looked formidable; danger flashing in his dark eyes.

Moose wasn’t much better. His jaw was firmly set and his eyes were wild. Tornados would be a welcome sign next to these two.

Adam looked down at me and jolted. Such a shock of pain washed over his face. I couldn’t help but stare. I’d even want to console him if I wasn’t busy clutching to William.