Page 42 of Hired Help

“A man,” the first voice mocks. “Oh, no. Not aman.”

“There’re men right here if you need them,” another responds, following it with a low chuckle. They surround me, so large they block my entire view.

I try to think how far away Daegan’s house is, but I can’t remember. Nearby is the best my brain can provide.

The pause from running allows the pain signals to catch up with me. The soles of my feet hum, then sting, then burn like they’re being held to a flame. I switch from foot to foot, but there’s no relief. A stitch hits me deep in the side, twisting behind my ribcage. My chest heaves with breath after breath but I still feel like I don’t have air.

Even if I could squeeze through a gap to run again, I won’t be able to outpace them. My body’s on the edge of collapse. I don’t even have the energy capacity to cry.

“You want to come inside?” the third man says. “We’ve got a fire in the yard to warm you.”

“But there’s an entry fee,” the first voice rumbles, following it with a harsh laugh. His hand grips my wrist tighter, the bones squealing in protest. I tug it as hard as I can and break free, but only because he lets me.

“Leave me alone.” I back up a step, but there’s another man behind me. I feel tiny.

The only weapon in my possession are the shoes in my hand. I switch to one in each, fingers curled around the soles, arms trembling as I get ready to punch out with the three-inch heels.

CHAPTERTWELVE

DAEGAN

Once Brooke leaves,I spend a few minutes roaring at the blank walls and aiming kicks at the side of the sofa, neither doing much to release my tension. I sag against the living room wall, hands covering my face, despair settling in my gut.

The room seems a thousand times emptier than when I arrived home. Brooke’s brief visit carved out all the warmth, all the peace, and smuggled it out the door with her. As my mood plummets, my brain sends out a pang for the lost alcohol. I think about ordering some in but push the urge away.

A better deal might be to pop down the road and see if they’ll sell me some weed, then I snort with laughter. How long’s it been since gangs dealt in cannabis? I’d have far better luck scoring some meth, not that I’d take it.

With a groan, I collapse onto the sofa, twisting around to lie flat, punching the cushion underneath my head until it’s moulded to the right shape.

When I try the same with my feet, they knock against something scratchy, and I sit up, snagging the small purse that Brooke must have tossed down when she walked inside.

There are only a few things inside. A credit card. Some keys. Her phone. The bare essentials for a night out.

Without them, she probably doesn’t have a way to get home.

Fuck.

I’m not in the mood but I can’t leave an eighteen-year-old girl out on the street at night, dressed in a thin dress in the rain, fending for herself. I step back into my shoes, calculating I’ve drunk too much to drive.

When I open the door, I half expect her to be standing there, cold, shivering, shamefaced but too stubborn to knock on the door and ask for help.

A far worse sight greets me; no one. The real estate sign looks like it’s been in a fight but, other than that, there’s no sign of Brooke at all.

I clasp my housekeys tighter in my hand, locking the door behind me before walking to the gate. She’s not on the footpath in either direction. I try to work out how long it’s been since I slammed the door on her. Five minutes? Ten? Twenty?

It’s hard to tell. The swarm of emotion that took me over left little room spare for timekeeping.

Presumably, she’s heading for the school on foot. If I was in a fit state to drive, I could kerb crawl to catch up to her, trying out each direction until I found the right one.

As a pedestrian, I’m limited. If I pick the wrong route, I’m never going to find her.

The drag of comfort from the house I’ve just left pulls at me. If she’d been in sight, following her and making sure she was all right would be a no-brainer. Now, I could stumble around on these cold, dark streets for hours and never accomplish a single thing.

Pick the main route, I decide. If I can’t find her in an hour, I’ll come home, but I won’t forgive myself if I don’ttry.

I head left, squinting as I pass each side-street, looking to see if she’s turned up any of them, unable to see a thing. At the corner, I stand with my hands on my hips, nerves turning my shoulders into pincushions.

Any reasonable person would turn right here, heading towards the city centre, then veer left into the wealthier suburbs that have Kingswood nestled in their well-kept streets.

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