Page 53 of Bad Moon Rising
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The third Dolcé gown was perfect. The black tube dress with draped mesh sleeves conveyed the perfect blend of glam chic and modesty.
The sales lady handed her matching shoes. She exited the dressing room to find Roman reclining on a stiff-looking red leather sofa. The dress made her feel like a newly birthed fairy princess afflicted with a serious case of insecurity. He’d been surfing online on the new cell phone he’d gotten at the airport while parked on the courtesy sofa during the past two dress options.
“Does it work?” She spun.
His appreciative visual perusal was enough of a yes.
She turned over the price tag and cringed.
Roman put his hand over hers. She jumped, startled to find him to be so close.
“I’ve got it. Who cares what it costs? Looks like it was made for you.”
“We…I don’t need to be this extravagant.”
“I already bought it when you asked for matching shoes. Besides, you’ll be relieved once you meet my mother.”
“What? How’d you know I liked it?”
“The clerk said it fit.” He held up a hand. “It’s done. I don’t have time to run from store to store.” He froze and tilted his head.
“What?”
“Someone followed us.”
“How do you know?”
“Something bad is going to happen. It’s…” He gripped his arm over the angel tattoo with the opposite hand. “I…” He stiffened and cocked his head. “It’s a grenade. I heard the click.”
“That seems extreme. What are you—”
He tossed her over his shoulder and ran for the back of the store. Constrained in the dress and in shock, it took her too long to react. She heard it before felt it.
Boom.
He jumped through the back door, tucking her into him. A blast took them airborne like they’d been hit unexpectedly by a huge ocean wave. They were tossed into the wall of the building across the alley. He never lost his hold on her, somehow rolling her into him, using his body to shield her from all impacts.
A high-pitched ringing lingered inside her ears.
With his head in his hands and big body still arched over hers, he moaned, but it sounded far away. Bits of dusty debris covered him. A few cuts and scrapes dotted his face, neck and hands.
Oh, God. Was he okay?
“Are you hurt?” Her voice sounded distant to her. She ran her hands over his head and face and then arms, finding only small abrasions. But on his backside his jacket and shirt were shredded where debris had torn him up. “Your back. It’s—”
He said something, but she couldn’t hear yet, the ringing reverberating in her skull. She shook her head.
“A mess, but it’ll heal,” he boomed. He massaged his head.
He sounded like this wasn’t new, that this happened all the time. No one should be almost blown up on a regular basis. That was most definitely not normal. Not okay.
“What was that? What exploded?” She could hear her own voice through the ringing, which probably meant she was shouting.
“Pretty sure it was a grenade.”
“What did you say?” She pointed at her ears. When he spoke again she focused on his lips, putting the sounds she detected together with the movement.
