Chapter Four:
When I step out of the car, the guy on my front porch jumps down the three steps to the lawn. His boots glide across the white powder until they plant firmly six feet from the curb—exactly six feet from where I am hiding behind the shield of my open door.
My skates glimmer under the daylight as I peel off one of the blade guards and shove it in the driver's seat.
With a quick breath, I shut the door and inch around the car, keeping a close enough distance between the door and I, in case I need to haul ass.
He's a statue in the yard, like a panther waiting for its prey to run.
His hair is blowing in the chilled breeze, and when he shifts to tuck it behind his ear, I blurt—
"Were you following me?"
His dark brows crinkle for a split second, only to smooth out with a quiver of a smile. "Yes."
His reply is so calm that it chills my bones. Why? Is this some infatuated freak that pinpointed me in the café, or has he been following me longer than I dare to ask?
I tighten my grip on the white skates at my side, "You obsessed with me or something?"
His face hardens in point-two-seconds flat. "Don't flatter yourself."
It's my turn to frown. I didn't realize that being a target was considered a form of flattery.
"Are you planning on murdering me?"
He snorts, "Are we going to yell across your yard all day?"
His harsh cutting voice sparks a strange sensation, one that I refuse to place because the answer doesn't make sense. His voice is...familiar.
With a deep breath of forced reassurance, I shift around the front of the car, and do my best to move towards the house as inconspicuously as possible.
His sudden burst of laughter jolts me frozen.
"What, were you gonna cut me and hide?" He snorts; eyeing the one exposed blade my knuckles are whitening around. "You're insane, you know that?"
I give the guy that trailed me home a harsh glare. I'm insane?
"Do I know you?" The words come out like venom, but at this point, I don't care. Who is he, and why the hell is he standing in my front yard?
His brows push down; narrowing his eyes into slits to scrutinize me for a long second. The look isn't hard, or frightening even. If anything, he seems confused.
Before I can follow what's happening, he takes three strides and closes in the space between us, and then his large hands envelope my head. His mouth is hovering inches from my forehead and a shiver rattles my spine when it descends.
Inside, my mind is screaming all the ways to knock him out, all the ways my dad taught me to defend myself, but as much as I should be struggling, and as hard as I should be fighting, I'm frozen. I can't move, can't breathe without inhaling him—without drowning in the rush of wood and dirt and snow.
When his nose buries deep into the curve of my neck, I am overwhelmed by the shock of my tingling skin.
His body is so incredibly warm.
Part of me wants to melt into him, to submit to whatever obscure emotion we're sharing, but then his nose brushes against my skin and when he inhales sharply, I snap.
With a ripple of fear, I struggle out of his grip, blindly slashing my skate as I step away.
He lurches back with a gasp, when my blade makes contact and I don't stop to register where.
He's crying out—a mixed sound of both anger and pain—as I scramble towards the house.
I'm working fast to shove the key into the small slot, and behind me, I hear a symphony of curses and deep bellows—so rough that they sound like the furious cries of a beast—and when I look back, he's stumbling toward me. His hand is pressed along his abdomen, where crimson liquid is saturating the frayed edges of his grey shirt.
He stumbles up the staircase just as I get the door unlocked and slide through before his fingers reach for my clothing.
Another growl vibrates through the wood door as I lock every latch I can.
He starts pounding on the door, screaming at me and shaking the door knob.
His pleas are muffled by the barrier between us, but I don't need to hear him to determine I'm not letting him in.
"Leave me alone!" I scream at the door before barreling down the hallway. I practically bust down my mom's bedroom door and rip open her closet, frantically searching for the metal tin where she stores her semi-automatic.
I check the chamber for six pre-loaded bullets before stepping back into the bedroom.
I don't know what's come over me—this foreign and sudden sense of bravery. I've never before desired to hold a gun, let alone use one. Last time I fired a gun was when Dad took me to the range in tenth grade. I shot off one round and vowed to never shoot a gun again.
Now, I'm creeping down the hallway, staring down the barrel of a pistol.
Maybe the mere site of the weapon will scare him off? Let's hope so.
I sigh, and the exhale fills the air. I was so busy grabbing the gun that until now, I hadn't realized how quiet things had become.
Is he gone? I take another breath before creeping down the hallway. I have the gun stretched outward, ready to hit the trigger—if necessary.
I peek around the corner, and my spine stiffens. The backdoor—the one that I always forget to check—is wide open, with the screen door creaking in the wind.
My nerves crackle at the noise of metal clattering, followed by the kitchen faucet kicking on. The water is on high, splashing against the ceramic base until it's slammed off with a grunt.
I keep the gun steady, aimed straight ahead as he comes into full view.
The guy standing in my kitchen is the same one that was banging on my front door, but now he's shirtless, hovering over the sink. His bloody hand prints are smeared along the countertop, pooling next to his wadded up grey shirt and leather jacket.
He has the yellow rag that I use to dry the dishes pressed into his abdomen.
When I click the first bullet into place, he doesn't even flinch. He just keeps his eyes and hands on his stomach--on the now-crimson rag.
"Get the hell out of my house," I blurt, reaffirming my aim directly at him.
This time, he turns his head just slightly in my direction. It's enough for me to see both his pin-sized pupils framed by ice. He's not scared, not even worried at the barrel gazing back at him. If anything, he looks pissed off—annoyed that he's even looking at me right now...like I'm the inconvenience to him.
"I said get out!"
"Dammit, I heard you the first time!" He snaps back.
"Then why aren't you walking out that door?"
He scoffs, wincing as he moves the rag underneath the running faucet again. I watch as the blood drains from the soaked rag.
"Never said I was a good listener."
"There's a lot of things you haven't said."
Like why he followed me home or is currently bathing in my kitchen.
"Will you lower that damn thing?! I don't like having a fucking gun pointed at my face, thanks."
This sets me off.
"I'm not lowering this damn thing until you give me some answers. Last I checked, I'm the one with the weapon. That means I have the floor, or else your brains are going to be on it!"
The kid frowns and before I can even blink, he bursts into a fit of laughter.
"This—"he motions to the diagonal slash just below his navel—the cut that was literally just gushing blood and now looks like a faint scar, "this is what I get for doing the bloody right thing for once! Not a thank you, not an inquiry, but a death threat and a fucking ice skate to the gut! You're welcome, Conall."