Page 4 of Unseen Danger

Pinky bent over his drums, his wild red hair somehow as unsinged as the rest of his intentionally ripped attire.

“Branson!”

He swung his head to the source of the urgent call.

B-Puff hurried toward him, the man’s bling—two long and clunky silver necklaces—catching the light from the arena’s overhead fixtures that were powered on for the evacuation.

“Kicker’s hurt.” The widened whites of B-Puff’s eyes showed his panic. “He got burned up.”

Branson put his hand on the DJ's shoulder. “It’ll be okay, man. There’s an ambulance on the way. Where is he?”

“With the chick.” B-Puff nearly stumbled as he turned away. “Over there.”

Branson spotted a person kneeling in the area B-Puff pointed to, far out on the connecting stage. Even from behind, there was no missing the womanly curves, but his gaze locked on her red T-shirt with Phoenix K-9 printed on the back. She must belong to the K-9 unit the PowerSource Center’s head of security had added for D-Chop’s concert.

He started in her direction.

“She saved his life.” B-Puff’s gruff voice made him pause and look at the shorter man. “He was burning up, and she came out of nowhere and was just there. He was running, and she tackled him and put out the flames. It was…” He slid a hand over his bald, brown head and shook it slowly back and forth as he blew out a breath.

“Okay. You’d better sit down, B-Puff.” Branson gently thumped the man’s bicep. “Why don’t you sit on Pinky’s stool until I see how Kicker’s doing. Then we’ll get out of here, so long as the police don’t need to talk to you guys, all right?”

B-Puff wandered toward Pinky with a wobbly gait.

Branson swung back toward the woman who was apparently some kind of heroine, if the DJ’s drug-fogged account could be trusted.

As he continued her way, Branson assessed the scene.

Kicker lay still on the stage floor in front of her.

Movement on the far side of the woman caught his eye.

Was that a dog? A square, black and brown head came into view. The stocky dog Branson guessed was a rottweiler watched him with a pink tongue hanging from its mouth.

The woman’s voice, husky and rich, floated to Branson as he came up behind her. “I know it hurts, Eddie.”

Eddie? Kicker had let this woman call him by his real name?

Maybe he’d been charmed by her mesmerizing voice.

Or maybe it was the hair. Branson’s gaze locked on the black bounty as he paused a few feet away. He’d never seen such an abundance of curls as those surrounding her head. A crazy urge to touch the black spirals to see if they were as soft as they looked twitched his fingers.

A pained groan yanked him out of his temporary insanity. Kicker must be hurt badly, but at least he was alive.

“I need you to breathe for me, okay, Eddie?” The woman’s tone stayed even and calm. “The ambulance will be here soon, and we’ll get you help with the pain.”

Branson stepped to her side, where he could see she held Kicker’s wrist in her slim fingers, apparently checking his pulse. Was she a medic instead of security?

Her bounty of natural curls blocked her face from view.

He crouched beside her. “How’s he doing?”

She started and leaped away faster than the pond frogs back home.

His heart jumped as he stood and reached for her in case she toppled as she landed five feet from him.

But she jerked back before he could touch her. Her eyes were wide, and her nostrils flared as she stared up at him as if he’d tried to attack her.

A hot zing blazed through his chest as he took in her deep brown eyes, flawless skin, and full lips. Ironic to say the least. D-Chop had given Branson an unsavory nickname because of his disinterest in the female groupies among the hip-hop star’s entourage. Now here he was, attracted to a girl for the first time since high school.

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