Page 37 of City of Wind and Lies

He leans forward, the stench of cheap vodka coating his words. “You could tell me about your job, what you’ve been up to since you broke my heart and left me.”

“God, are you drunk?” I roll my eyes, shoving a hand at his chest. “I didn’t leave you, you cheated on me and I couldn’t break something you never had.”

“Be a fucking bitch why don’t you. To think I was gonna-”

Tired of his bullshit discord, I wiggle my fingers in a ‘gimme motion’. “Headphones. Now, Trey.”

"Fine," he sighs, holding them out.

"Thanks!" I chirp, plucking them from his fingertips and turning towards the elevator.

"Wren,” he calls out hesitantly. “Just be careful." I still, his words lifting the edges of the scab on my heart. "I was shitty at showing it, but I did care about you."

I swallow harshly, head swiveling to meet his sincere gaze. I wish I could believe him, but the hurt is still raw. Rolling my shoulders back, I lift my head, decidedly determined to ignore his false platitudes. "Take care of yourself, Trey," I offer before he closes the door and I get on the elevator.

It's so much easier to hate him, to remember all the bad times when he's being a douche, but when he says something so simple and kind, I get transported back to the night we met at the frat house, when the guy I came with ditched me. My friends had already gone home, so I was all alone. Trey waltzed in like a knight in shining armor, letting me sleep in his bed while he slept on the couch. His sweet gestures continued the next day when he drove me home without any expectations. I miss that guy, the one who’d hold the door open for me, made me feel special, and let me build up the fantasy of forever with him. That guy’s long gone now, and looking at his sullen face in the doorway only reminds me of how much he’s changed.

Pushing open the main door, I unlock my car as I stride towards it. Before I can grasp the door handle, though, a hand grips the back of my head and slams my face into the car window.

A burning sensation erupts from my nose, the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth as I scream out in pain. Fingers tighten in my hair, setting my scalp ablaze as my face smashes into the glass over and over again. I try to fight back, but black spots cloud my vision, knocking me off my axis. My pulse thumps loudly in my ears, muffling the voice that's cussing me out as a large arm bars my throat, cutting off my oxygen.

I'm pulled back against my attacker’s body, his hot breath skating across my skin, sending chills down my spine as he snarls in my ear. "You don't know what you did."

My fingers claw at his skin, desperate to draw another breath so that maybe I can scream for help. For some reason, Sandra Bullock’s SING from Miss Congeniality comes to mind, and I try to throw an elbow into his solar plexus. I miss, but I manage to step on his insole, making his grip go slack enough that a fresh burst of oxygen surges into my lungs.

I blink chaotically, trying to clear the haze that's overtaking my sight when I notice a figure rushing across the street at me. With a gargled gasp, I toss my fist back, feeling teeth scrape my knuckles as I miss his nose. I feel his body being pulled from mine, but not before a foot lands square in my back, propelling me to the ground. My head throbs in blinding pain as I groan, pushing up on my hands and tilting my face to see Dallas choking out Allen from accounting.

Our eyes meet, a flicker of fear lighting up in Dallas’ features as he shoves Allen aside.

The adrenaline ebbs from my system as quickly as it came and my arms give out, my body curling up in the fetal position on the concrete. I feel the trickle of warm blood cutting a path down the side of my face, my body shaking. I raise a hand to swipe it away, but instantly recoil at the sting of my fingers brushing a gash on my eyebrow. My stomach bottoms out at the bite of pain, and suddenly I'm just exhausted. The faint sound of sirens pierce my ears as I try to draw in a deep breath, but the constraining pain in my ribs stops me from being able to.

"Fuck, Wren," Dallas mutters as he kneels beside me, scooping me up and cradling me against his heaving chest. I groan, pain searing its way through my body as I go limp in his arms. He hurries across the street, laying me down as softly as he can on the cool black leather seats in the back of his Range Rover. The doors slam, Rover lurching forward, and the last thing I hear before it all goes back is him talking to someone on the phone.

Preconscious is a state of mind between conscious and unconscious, an odd state of alertness that most people don't realize exists. Here, you have a sense of the world around you, but no ability to interpret time. I see the flashes of bright lights, hear the murmur of voices, feel the jostling of my aching body… but the only thing my mind seems to focus on is him.

Bowie.

How asinine is it that I've been jumped and beaten on the street but my concerns lie with being late for a date?

The loud sounds of commotion beside me shoots a blaze of awareness through my body. My eyes flutter open, everything slowly coming into focus. I see the plain beige walls of a hospital, Dallas' eyes rounded in fear as someone pins him against the wall. The harsh sound of Italian words string together in a familiar lilt that I recognize before I even see his face.

"Bowie-” I start, but the word comes out strained and gravelly, like I’ve swallowed razor blades. I try to clear my throat- big mistake- and it burns instantly, the pain reverberating through my eardrums.

His hulking frame freezes, instantly removing his forearm from Dallas' throat as he swivels around. "Passerotta," he breathes in relief as he stalks to the edge of the bed. “Who did this?”

I draw in a breath, the ache of constriction banding my lungs. “Allen,” I breathe out.

His lips tighten into a thin line and his dark brows slam down as his eyes sweep across my face. Bowie has never scared me- his gruff nature has always been a turn on- but there's a flare of anger that darkens his hazel orbs. It should terrify me, it should tell me that this man is dangerous, but it has the opposite effect. The vein in his neck pulses and the muscle in his jaw feathers before he looks back over his shoulder.

“Allen Whitmore, find him,” he growls at Dallas.

Dallas nods, fishing his phone from his pocket as he paces toward the door.

“I swear I will spill enough blood to flood this city to find him, Passerotta.”

I haven’t known Bowie long, but there is a conviction in his words that steals my breath faster than the kick in the back of the ribs did. I’d like to believe I’m a strong, independent woman, but the possessive promise and use of my nickname has me wanting nothing more than to curl into his arms and let him take care of me.

Fingers brush the side of my face, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow before he leans in, his warm breath caressing my cheek, "I'm so sor-"

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