Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(9)

Alone? Yeah, that was lame, but he hadn’t even had a date in ages. Not that he was really trying. He couldn’t get that curator he’d met in Maine out of his head. Something about pushing the cool blonde’s buttons heated his blood and made the women who tried to pick him up at the bar seem . . . too easy. Dr. Louisa Hancock would be a challenge.

God, there must be something wrong with him. He was thirty-eight. It was time to settle down like his siblings, not go looking for extra work.

Thunder cracked again, and the dog went flat on the pavement. He tossed another piece of cheese on the ground closer to his feet. The dog moved forward, one eye on Conor, one eye on the food. He squatted and held a chunk toward the dog. The rain intensified, soaking Conor’s hair and dripping onto his nose. The dog moved forward and took the food from his hand. A drop of blood dripped onto the blacktop and swirled pink in the eddying runoff. He looked up at his apartment door, then back at the dog. Big, brown eyes blinked at him with a thoroughly pathetic, soulful, woe-is-me expression.

“Just for tonight. In the morning I’m taking you to the animal shelter. I’m not home enough to have a dog.”

The pit licked his fingers.

“Come on.” Holding the remaining provolone in front of the tentative dog’s nose, Conor led him—he glanced back—her up the stairs and into his apartment. He filled a bowl with water and spread a fresh towel on the old linoleum floor. “I’ll be right back. The first-aid kit is in the bar.”

He jogged downstairs. He was halfway to the back door of the bar when footsteps and the metallic echo of a garbage can being knocked over put him on alert. A teenager was making his way down the alley. He stopped, squatted, and inspected behind the Dumpster. Conor sidestepped toward the door without taking his eyes off the kid.

“Hey.” The kid shuffled into the light. Under a black zip-up hoodie, he wore a wifebeater, saggy jeans, and Air Jordans. “You seen a gray dog?”

The kid didn’t look familiar, but the mean glint in his eyes—and the condition of the dog upstairs—set Conor on edge. He shook his head and lied. “Sorry, no.”

The teen postured, spreading his arms at his sides, puffing out his chest, and leaning his upper body toward Conor rooster-fashion. “Guy across the street says he saw a gray dog come down this alley.”

“So?”

The kid’s attention drifted up the stairwell and landed on the door to Conor’s apartment. Under the roof overhang, the steps were dry. Red spots dotted the wood. “You got blood on your hand.”

“Rough night.” Conor took a step forward.

“I don’t let people take what’s mine.” The kid hesitated, obviously surprised when Conor didn’t back off. The teen couldn’t be from the neighborhood or he’d have known better.

“Look, kid. This isn’t a good idea,” Conor said.

“That’s not the way I see it.” The kid shook water from his face. “I want my dog, and you’re a f*cking liar.” He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked his wrist. The blade clicked open, the metal shining in the yellow light.

Tonight it seemed stupidity and youth were eternal soul mates.

“You’re making a mistake.” Conor raised his open hands in front of his chest. Talk about idiotic. He’d done some ridiculous things in his life, but risking a knife in the gut for a dog had to top the list.

“Fuck you. You’re the one making a mistake, stealing my dog. I’m gonna cut you. Then I’m going upstairs to see your old lady.” He made a thrusting motion with his pelvis. The kid couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and his baby face made the gesture more vulgar.

He lunged with the knife, right at Conor’s face. Expecting a chest or belly attack, Conor’s parry was a fraction of a second slow. The knife point grazed his cheek as he jerked his head out of the way. He grabbed the kid’s wrist and twisted it backward. Then he plowed a hard right cross into the teen’s nose. The kid’s head snapped back. He dropped the blade and ass-planted in a puddle. Blood spurted from his nose and soaked the front of his white tank.

Conor shook his hand. His already-bruised knuckles smarted, he had spatters of blood on his shirt, and his face stung. “Get out of here. Next time I see you, I’m calling the cops.”

“You’ll be sorry for that.” Holding one hand to his face, the kid snatched his knife from the pavement and got to his feet. “I’m not afraid of the f*cking cops. I’ll be back.”

“What you need to do is go home, ice your face, and reevaluate your life.”

The kid flipped him a bloody middle finger as he staggered away. Conor waited until the teen had disappeared from the alley. He went in the back door and detoured to the supply closet for the first-aid kit. He should call the cops and fill out a report. But the kid was long gone, and Conor hated paperwork. Besides, there was always the slim possibility this young teen would actually learn a lesson. The pope was tweeting. Anything could happen.

Back upstairs, he used an antiseptic wipe on the tiny nick on his cheekbone. Damn. That had been close. He settled on the floor next to the dog. “Don’t bite me, OK?”

The dog trembled and looked away as he dried her coat and cleaned the dirt from her wounds.

“I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.”