Sweet Soul (Sweet Home #5)(13)
Throwing my hood back up over my head, I left the coffee shop and ran across the road. As soon as I entered the cluttered store, I searched around for what I could get. Shirts, hoodies and tacky mugs reading ‘12th Man Pride’ littered the space.
I pushed through the racks and racks of clothes. Grabbing three smaller more non-descript hoodies, I then rushed to a corner section housing Seahawks fleece blankets. I grabbed two then took everything to the register. I paid and, in no time, I had picked up the coffees and food.
Ducking down the alley, I searched all around for any sign that the attacker had been back. It was deathly quiet. Pushing forward, I squinted my eyes trying to adjust to the dark when I saw the girl, still hunkered down in the corner against the wall. Even from this distance I could see her small body was convulsing.
She was getting worse.
“It’s me, I’m back,” I said loudly as I approached, trying not to startle her. The girl didn’t move, and for a minute, pure panic surged through my veins that something was very wrong.
But when my feet stopped before her, she jumped, a hoarse cry leaping from her throat. I stepped back, as those huge blue eyes fixed on mine. Her breathing was erratic. Droplets of sweat ran down her cheeks.
“Sorry, I called out that it was me. You didn’t hear.”
The girl weakly pulled the scarf off her neck, the skin underneath flushed and red. When she looked at my handful of goods her eyes widened. Taking it as my chance to explain, I crouched down and held out the coffee with cream and sugar. The girl’s brow furrowed, causing me to prompt, “It’s for you.”
She swallowed, and my cheeks heated with nervousness at the look of sheer gratitude on her face. Clearly seeing I wasn’t lying, she fought to straighten her weak body and sat further up against the wall. I resisted the urge to help her as she fought for breath. But I stayed back. She’d just been attacked. She didn’t want my touch, even if it was kindly meant.
The girl’s hand lifted up. I thought she was taking the coffee, until her hand landed on her large hood and she slowly pulled it back to reveal her face.
She kept her eyes downcast and ran her tongue over her broken lips. My breathing was held captive in my throat, until she looked up and I released the pent up breath. I could see that she wasn’t as young as she looked. Something in her eyes told me she was near my age, which I quickly realized would make it almost impossible to get her help. She wasn’t underage. I couldn’t make her go anywhere she didn’t want to.
The silence between us became thick and stagnant. I pushed the cup forward to her hand. The girl, regarding the cup like it was a lifeline, slowly reached out and took in her frail grasp. For a moment I thought she might drop the large cup and I steadied the bottom so it didn’t spill.
As my hand balanced the coffee, I could feel the magnitude of her trembling. Placing my coffee down on the ground, I shuffled forward helping her bring the coffee to her lips. As the first taste of the liquid hit her lips, her eyes closed and she took in a stuttered labored breath.
“You okay?” I asked quietly. The girl opened her eyes. Her head tipped to the side, studying my face. She hadn’t heard me. Clearing my throat again, I repeated, “Are you okay?”
The girl watched my lips, and flickering her focus back on my eyes, she gently nodded her head. Helping her rest the coffee on her bent knee, I leaned back, then passed over the bag of food. I realized that she was intently watching my mouth as I lifted the bag and deliberately said, “Sandwiches and cookies.” My cheeks blazed under her attention, and my stomach tightened with nerves. This was the most I’d ever spoken to a girl in my life, and it seemed that she was even more introverted than me.
Lastly, I pulled out the blankets and hoodies. I passed them over to where she sat. Pointing at the wet blanket covering her body, I asked, “Can I?”
The girl froze and her eyes began to narrow. I took the bottom edge of her ruined wet blanket in my hands and held it up for her to see. “This isn’t keeping you warm.” A wash of sympathy ran through me. “It’s making you sick.”
The girl didn’t move. The sympathy I felt quickly morphed into frustration, until she shifted on the floor. Slowly, and what appeared painfully, she lifted her hand and the coffee off the sodden material.
I exhaled in relief. I moved forward until my face was just inches from hers. My heart was thundering in my chest at being this close. And when I looked up, I lost my breath. The girl was watching me so intently. Her dull eyes were flickering all around me, trying to drink in every movement I made, every flicker on my face, every word from my mouth.
Her already labored breathing stuttered with me this close, and this time, I knew it had nothing to do with the cold.
She was terrified.
This girl, this waif of a girl in this alley, was terrified of me. The way her huge eyes tracked me, the helplessness and the sickness I saw in her reminded me of how my mamma was broken on her small bed, and of Lexi when she was ill, too weak and alone, laid up in hospital. It was why I was compelled to stay. That and basic human duty. This girl had stolen from me, taken the most precious thing I owned, but I saw clearly why she did it—this was her life. This damn cesspit of an alley was her entire life.
I gripped the blanket tighter in my hand, fighting the rage of why some people in this world just get a shit hand, when others swan by without a care. The rage was so intense that my hand began to shake. I focused on my hand, knowing I was close to losing it. Suddenly I felt a brush of cold—ice coldness—on my fingers and snapped my eyes up.