Page 6 of The Guy in the Alley

Through curses, kicks, and labored breaths, I dragged the garbage bags through the snow and over to the first of the three dumpsters—and I came up with an answer for the few times people asked how I stayed in good shape when I worked with deep-fried sports-bar food all day. This was fucking why. Taking out the trash was a frigid workout that had the same results as me going to the gym. Only, there I got pissed off because I wasn’t a fan of people. Here, I got pissed off because now my shoes were wet.

“Sorry, boss. Here’s two more!” I heard Tonya holler.

“Motherfucker,” I cursed under my breath.

The workout continued. At least I didn’t have to worry about recycling and sorting shit with these bags. I returned to the stoop and grabbed?—

“Please…”

I released the bags and instantly turned to the opening of the alley, where I spotted a dark form hunched against the wall.

“Please help me,” he rasped.

A dozen scenarios ran through me at the speed of light—a thought that prompted my next move. In a hot second, I’d retrieved my flashlight, and I directed the beam at his head.

“Show me your hands,” I said, approaching slowly. “I can help you, but you gotta show me you’re cooperative.”

He flinched and ducked his head, and I noticed he was clutching his side. Gun? Wound? Was he injured or just a good actor?

My training and experience had kicked in the moment I’d heard the man’s voice, so I registered every movement and trait. His jeans were wet but not dirty, he was significantly older than me, taller too, white, plenty of silver in his short hair, he was breathing heavily, down jacket—good condition but not new.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

He sucked in a breath and nodded, and he lifted one of his hands. “Please help me. They took my car.”

Was the car a bigger issue than whatever injury he’d sustained?

When I was only some six feet away, I lowered the light to the side of his stomach he wouldn’t let go of, and I saw the tear in the fabric. His fingertips were bloody too.

“I’ll call 9-1-1,” I said.

“No!” he choked out.

I stopped reaching for my phone and hitched my brows. Suspicion rose, though surprise did not.

“If you could just—” he coughed. “Fuck. I’d like to inspect the damage myself.” He heaved a breath, and I lifted the flashlight a little. Enough to get the outer circle of the glow to catch his face. His expression was pinched with pain. “Could I please use the b-bathroom?”

Yes, he could. “Sure.”

I went with my gut feeling and quickly pocketed my flashlight. Then I closed the distance between us and took charge. He winced and recoiled as I gripped his arm to guide him to the kitchen entrance, which reminded me. He must’ve seen me sweating the garbage route in order to assume I worked here.

“Do you need me to call someone?” I asked. “A spouse? Shelter? 3-1-1?”

He breathed through clenched teeth and shook his head.

Fair enough.

I helped him up the stoop and let out a short whistle when Tonya walked down the hallway.

She turned to me, her surprise following.

“Can you get me a first aid kit, hon?”

“Yeah, of course.” She scurried off.

The staff bathroom was right here in the hallway, so it wasn’t a long walk. I flicked on the lights, then ushered him to sit down on the toilet.

He sucked in a sharp breath and scrunched his face.

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