Page 30 of Follow Her Down
All of that in seconds, maybe minutes.All of that for me.
James stands over him, breathing hard.His knuckles are raw and bloody.Spatters of crimson smear his white T-shirt, his neck, his jaw.He looks down at Rick with utter contempt, then spits, and the glob lands on Rick’s ruined cheek.
Then he turns and sees me in the doorway.His expression doesn’t soften, but the wildness in his eyes settles slightly.He steps over Rick’s prone form, ignoring the man’s weak groan.
“He winnae touch ye again,” James says, his voice rough but calmer now.He looks at me, really looks at me, his gaze scanning my face, my posture, searching for damage with the intense scrutiny of someone who claims ownership.“Promise.”
I smile at the blood on his hands, at the fierce possession in his eyes, at the casual brutality that just unfolded because Rick dared to touch what James considers his.
He didn’t come to save me.
He came because I mattered.Because something inside him recognized the violation and answered it with savage fury.Because he sawmebeing touched, and it ignited a violence in him that mirrored the violence I felt.
Instead of thanking him, I step inside the men’s bathroom with him, and something inside me purrs.
14
James
Allthatbonniesoftnessjust drifts through a world that doesnae deserve her.The blue glow off my wee surveillance monitors casts her skin all silvery, like she’s soaking up the moon.Right now she’s smiling at some daft wee muppet of a teenager, fumbling in his pockets for change, but the smile isn’t real.
“Steady on, Prayer,” I mutter, rapping my knuckle gentle on the screen, her face blurring beneath my fingertip.“Don’t be wasting that smile on eejits.”
My van’s stashed at the far end of the car park, away from the lamplight.I’ve got a prime view of the wee petrol station’s doors and the side, plus three monitors all lashed up in the back—one on the live CCTV feed I spliced off the till, one whirring through old footage, and the laptop, full of photos of her.Got another monitor perched on the passenger seat, showing my newest camera from the back room.Set it up this early morning, seeing as the last one packed in.
The inside of my van glimmers like a shrine, like my own church.
Most of my cameras show her, my Prayer, but some in the back follow really bad sorts.I keep an eye on those too for a lot of the three-letter law enforcement agencies I freelance for.
I’ve been stuck here for, what, a solid four hours, and the night’s got a bad feel, heavy, all hush like lightning’s hiding up there waiting.Sera’s boss has been eyeballing her the whole shift.Rick, that pure tube.I’ve been keeping tabs on him watching her, and it’s getting under my skin.
The way his beady stare lingers too long.Him slinking back to his office to top up his bottle.Something’s off in his stance now, the way he moves.
I ken those signs.The predator’s baring its teeth.
Then—rap rap—on the window beside me.
I jerk up quick, my hand flying to turn the monitor screen away just in time.My heart skelps in my chest.Should’ve ken’d better, being that off guard.
It’s Sheriff bloody Vincent Harrow, his torch shining right into my face.I cannae see much—just the badge, the hat, and the shadow of a man hovering like a punter at a bookie’s window.
The same bastard that hurt my Prayer.
My insides coil, heat burning up my throat, rage singing in my skull.I want to rip that ugly mug off with my teeth.Want to pay him back for every bruise and sleepless night he gave my Prayer.
But I can’t.Not yet.No here.
Not unless she says so.That’s the whole bloody point of her being in Wichita.
I roll my window down, easy as you like, and paste on the smile I’ve practiced—half harmless, half cheeky, full Scottish charm.
“Sheriff,” I say.“Grand to see a friendly face out and about at this hour.”
His torchlight drops, his face coming clearer—chiseled cold eyes and a jaw stuck on permanent arsehole.I imagine those eyes fixed on Prayer, hurting her, and it’s all I can do not to launch straight through the window.
Still, I keep grinning.Keep my fists tight and out of sight.
“Don’t recall seeing you before,” he says, giving me the full CID stare.“What brings you to Wichita?And to this particular parking lot at”—he checks his watch—“eleven thirty at night?”
