Page 3 of Not a Perfect Save

I huff out a laugh. “Take as long as you need.”

She touches her head and gasps sharply.

My fingers skim her temple. “May I?”

She eyes me suspiciously, but dips her chin in a kind of nod.

I probe the side of her head with care and find a goose egg. Loose strands of hair stick to her face. Brushing them behind her ear, my fingers tangle in the soft brown curls.

Her hand comes over mine, and we stay like that, not speaking. Up close, her oval face frames delicate features streaked with mud. It pisses me off all over again as I run through what just happened in my head.

Me,checking expiration dates on boxes of condoms at the back corner of the bodega, dreading the party I was heading to. There was a scream, followed by a man’s voice—not one with a helpful tone. The unmistakable echo of racking the slide of a gun.

That’s when the bottom dropped out of my stomach, and instinct and training kicked in.

I’m barely aware of setting down the box to retrieve my phone. I dial 9-1-1. It rings once. A female operator picks up. I turn the volume down and don’t say anything, hoping to hell she doesn’t think this a hoax as I slide it back into my jacket pocket, the line still open.

I creep forward. From the sound of things, at least two guys are in the bodega. At the end of the aisle, I stop, staying low. My eyes dart around for something that’ll work as a weapon. I check to see if there’s a security mirror in this hack of a pharmacy. There is, thank fuck.

A distorted image of a goon holding a woman with a gun to her head comes into view. His bulky frame is all gut. His limp hair is long and greasy.

The woman is petite, around five foot four. She’s in jeans and an unbuttoned tan jacket. Her face is bloodless. Even from ten feet away I can see her tremble.

Maybe she senses my presence because wide jade eyes find mine in the reflection. She opens her mouth, but I lift a finger to my lips and shake my head. Her expression goes from terrified to determined.Good girl.

I release a slow breath and my brain scrambles for a game plan that won’t get us killed.

The fucker tightens his grip around her, and she whimpers. My knee-jerk reaction is one of rage. It’s all I can do to stay down and not attack. Tense and alert, I prepare to tackle.Come on, asshole. Give me something. Anything.

And then the gun’s away from her head. He leers and brings his mouth to her neck.

I charge just as she knocks into the guy’s chin. I manage to shove her out of the way, but instead of slamming into beefy flesh like I expected, I’m falling, tripping on bottles and muck. My fingers grab the thug’s sleeve as we both crash to the ground. A grunt escapes me when I land on my bad ankle, but there’s no time to register anything more as we wrestle for the gun. I knock it away, a few feet in front of us.

He gets in a lucky blow to my side. Another punch flies, but I block it. My fist connects with his fleshy belly as I round on him and shove his face to the floor. I’m sweating hard from the adrenaline.

“Stop!”

The girl is on the ground on her stomach, holding the gun on us. The guy freezes, and I take the opportunity to knock him out. Just then, there’s another yell. My eyes widen and all my muscles go rigid. The first man and the girl have guns trained on each other—it’s a Mexican standoff. My mind flashes through a thousand ways to deflect his attention, but then he dashes outside.

I return to the present when flashing blue and red lights reflect into the bodega. Seconds later, the door bursts open. “NYPD!” Two cops race in, guns raised as they scan the premises. One trains his weapon on us and then points it on the thug on the ground. He calls an “All clear,” before turning his attention back to us. “Anyone else back there?”

“No.”

I see the moment he recognizes me when his eyebrows lift to his hairline. “You’re—“

Before he can go all fanboy on me, I motion to the woman. “She’s hurt, we need medical assistance.”

More police surround us, asking questions. Ignoring them, I help the woman up. My foot twinges at the movement, but I hold back a wince. Waiting EMTs escort us to an ambulance, and I give her a boost up to sit on the back ledge.

One of them checks her out, shines a light in her eyes. “You may have a concussion.”

“Oh, fucci,” she moans.

Both the EMT and I raise our brows. “Fucci? You mean fuck?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. Well, I say it fucci. Like Gucci.” Once again, she dares me to argue.

“Ma’am, your name please?” An officer cuts in.

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