Page 5 of Train Wreck

With a mighty heave at his shoulders, I finally managed to dislodge him, putting my hand under his head to keep it banging on the floor.

Grabbing him from beneath the arms, I dragged him across the floor, having to stop several times to catch my breath.

“You’re taller and more muscular in person,” I grunted as I heaved him the rest of the distance to the couch and rested his upper half on the cushions before picking up his big feet and resting those over the arm of the couch. His tall frame didn’t fit.

His shirt was torn and caked with what looked like mud. Only the trail of blood I’d just left on my hardwood floor told me I had a worse problem than dirt.

“Crap,” I whispered and leaped to shut the door to keep my house warm. I hurried back to the couch and tore at his shirt to get a better look at his wound. There were two frightening holes on his shoulder. One at the back, an exit point I was sure, and the other in front where the bullet had entered. His chest was covered in hypnotic tattoos. I’d run my fingers over of the design before I even realized what I was doing.

“Focus,” I growled at myself, pushing away from the stranger. Patch him up and get him gone. That was my plan. Ignoring the countless intimate dreams, I’ve had of this stranger, he wasn’t sticking around. Not if I could help it. I raced into my bathroom and rummaged through all of my stuff, looking for something to pack the wound and stop the bleeding.

On my knees back beside his inert body, I ripped one of my T-shirts to use as a makeshift bandage. I wadded a fistful of gauze against the wound and tied the torn strips of my favorite T-shirt tight, to hold the packing in place.

Grabbing my phone, I dialed 9-1… I didn’t get to the last one because I lifted my gaze to find the man pointing a gun at me.

“Throw the phone in the fire,” he demanded and gestured with the gun toward the fireplace. His voice was deeper in person. Everything about him and what I’d witnessed in my dreams was just a tad off.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I answered, taking a step back. “You’re hurt. I need to call an ambulance.” And the police. I opened my mind to read his with my telepathy and was met with a strong brick wall that made me pause.

My telepathy had never failed me.

Until now.

“You can’t. They’ll kill me,” he said, and just as if the energy had drained from his body, his hand went limp again.

I grabbed the gun and held it as I dialed the last 1 and hit Enter.

I pressed the phone against my ear just in time to hear the all-lines-are-busy sound. I glanced at the screen. Only one bar wasn’t going to get my call through.

I grabbed the cordless in the kitchen and tried again, only to find there wasn’t a dial tone at all. Had the stranger cut my phone line?

Thunder rumbled, and lightning sizzled and flashed, brightening the entire living room.

The lights flickered and then died. The only light in the room was from the dancing flames in the fireplace.

“Perfect,” I whispered more to myself than to the unconscious man on my couch. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

I sat on the fireplace hearth across the room from the mysterious man who’d haunted my dreams. I didn’t know much about him, not from lack of digging for his identity. His was a nameless face I’d visit while I was sleeping. All the Bennett’s came with special gifts. One of mine happened to let my soul leave my body and take road trips. And this guy was like a magnet that called to my astral projected consciousness.

I couldn’t explain it.

I didn’t know how long I sat staring at him, watching his dark hair drip down his face. His wet clothes were ruining my couch. His body shivered, and I let out a lengthy breath at the realization that this problem wasn’t going to go away.

Shoving to stand, I carried the gun with me while I gathered blankets and other things I was going to need. If this guy died under my roof from hypothermia, my sisters would never quit teasing me how I’d killed the man they considered my Mr. Right.

Mr. Right. Ha. As if. Just one look at the guy, and I knew that wasn’t true. He was shot and bleeding and leaving himself vulnerable to an unknown woman.

I pulled off the guy’s boots and socks before reaching for the button of his jeans. That struggle left me winded while I tried my best to undress him. Without messing with the wound too much after his first moan of pain, I swaddled him like a six-foot-three baby to try to keep him from catching a cold or worse.

His wallet fell out of his pants, and I picked it up and opened it. There was no ID, nothing except a one-hundred-dollar bill with my first name written on it in black marker and a piece of paper with my last name and the address.

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