Wildfire

Chapter 3

3. Bleed

For one, prolonged moment, all I could do was stare. Even in the darkness, I could make out of the glowing, gold flecks that stained his dark eyes, and an odd thrill surged through my blood. They were strange eyes, like a cat's, maybe. Wild, like an animal. I was almost positive that they hadn't looked like that when I'd glanced at him in the lecture theatre that morning.

A sheen of sweat coated his forehead and his hair was plastered to his head, like he'd been dunked in a swimming pool – but his clothes were dry. Well, sort of dry. The blood oozing from his chest had dampened the front of his t-shirt quite a bit. I stared at his hand, and the long, tanned fingers clutching at his chest. I thought for a second that maybe I could hear his heart beating, but then I realized that it was my own, thundering in my ears – a distant, underwater-like sound that I didn't fully recognize.

Shock, my brain told me. You're in shock.

"... just gonna stare?"

My eyes snapped up to meet his. His face was lined with pain, and yet he still managed to stare at me with a mildly exasperated expression. It was kind of hot, in a demented sort of way.

What?

I shook my head in an attempt to clear my head. It worked – sorta.

"You need an ambulance," I decided. That's what people do when someone gets shot, right? My eyes slid down toward his chest, and the blood that continued to stain his t-shirt. "I'll call 9-1 –"

"No!" He grimaced, a low groan escaping his mouth as he arched his head backwards. I realized what he was trying to do when he bent his knees, anchoring his back to the grey, brick wall as he pushed himself up from the ground.

I rushed forward instinctively and he slung his right arm over my shoulder, leaning heavily against me. My knees almost buckled under his weight – holy crap, he had to be at least two-twenty pounds! The generic smell of soap, mixed with the faint scent of sweat and boy, reached my nose and I felt my stomach flutter nervously in response.

"I can't carry you like this all the way to the hospital." My voice was high and panicky. I glanced up and down the street, but there was nobody walking nearby that I could ask for help. "I have to call an ambulance."

I reached into my pocket for my cell phone with my free hand, but as soon as I pulled it out, he ripped the phone right out of my fingers.

"Hey –!" A sliver of fear surged through my body as he released me to pocket the phone. He leaned back against the wall, and with his free hand, he ripped up the seam of his t-shirt. The material came apart effortlessly in his hands. He ripped another strip along the front of his shirt and bunched up the material in his hand, before pressing it over the bullet wound on his chest.

He winced as he applied pressure, his boots slipping slightly in the bloodied snow at his feet.

Breathing heavily, he glanced up at me, his dark eyes glowing with flecks of gold.

Fear and something painfully close to excitement curled low in my gut.

"I can't go to the hospital," he rasped. His accent was more pronounced this time, and more easily recognizable.

Spanish, I guessed.

"You've been doing something illegal, haven't you?" I blurted out. My eyes swept the length of the alleyway, as though the man who had shoved into me might appear at any moment. "Are you involved with the mob?!"

One brow rose, and I could see the condescension glittering in his eyes behind the pain. "In Minneapolis?"

"I'm not exactly a mob expert," I snapped. My fear was making me jumpy, and the surge of adrenaline that was currently flooding my veins had the same effect that four or five espressos normally had on me.