Page 20 of Savage Prince

“Don’t hurt him,” I say, glancing quickly around the yard to see if our scuffle has attracted attention. But there’s no one looking over the fences on either side and I can still hear the kids giggling in the hose water a few houses away, so hopefully we’re safe.

“I’m not hurting him,” the man says, tears rising in his eyes. “I’m flat on my fucking back.”

“I didn’t mean you,” I say. “I meant…Wolfie, my rescue dog.” Ford casts me a judgmental look. I widen my eyes in a silent “it’s all I could think of on a second’s notice” and continue, “He’s very protective of me, but he won’t hurt you as long as you do exactly as I say.”

“Let me up,” the guy demands. “Tell him to let me up and you can have the beer from the fridge or whatever.”

“He’ll let you up when I’m finished,” I say, starting toward the back door. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

“No, my girlfriend is out of town,” the guy says, starting to cry in earnest as he adds, “Please, don’t leave me alone with it. It wants to rip my fucking throat out. I can feel it.”

“No, he won’t. As long as you stay quiet and don’t move,” I say. “Be good, Wolfie, and I’ll be right back.” I hurry inside, grabbing a banana from a bowl of fruit in the kitchen as I move deeper into the house.

It smells of god-awful cologne and fried chicken, but it’s clean and furnished with high-end pieces that make me feel better about liberating a few things from the man’s home. He can afford to part with a couple changes of clothes and some food without being any worse off for it.

I find his bedroom and head straight for the large walk-in closet in the corner. I grab a duffel bag from a pile of gym bags and start filling it, gathering clothes for Ford before turning to the girlfriend’s side of the closet. I pull on a pair of jeans, not bothering with underwear, but can barely get them buttoned. I’m a tiny woman, so his girlfriend must be positively child-sized.

Deciding against any of the blouses or nicer shirts in the closet, I rifle through the drawers in the bedroom until I find a tank top, t-shirt, and sweatshirt, layering one on top of the other so I’ll have more room in the duffel. I pull on socks, then return to the closet, grateful to find tennis shoes that are only a little tight. I tie them quickly and grab a couple shoes options for Ford, tucking them into the top of the bag and zipping it up.

Next, I take a second duffel into the kitchen and grab everything that looks remotely appetizing from the pantry. Bread, peanut butter, apples, granola bars, water bottles, sports drinks, and several bags of pretzels and chips nearly fill the bag, but I open the fridge anyway, thinking I can probably fit a few things in at the top. I fill the extra space with cheese sticks, a half-eaten salami, and a Tupperware container of leftover roasted chicken before swapping a couple of the sports drinks in the bag for a bottle of chardonnay.

I’m not sure if I used to drink before, but after a day like this one, something to take the edge off on our way down to New York City sounds pretty damned good.

Hitching one bag strap over each shoulder, I head back outside, where Mr. Oily is still cowering under a snarling Ford, begging for mercy.

“Give me a few minutes’ head start and meet me at the spot we discussed,” I tell Ford, knowing I won’t be able to run as fast as he can, especially not weighed down by the bags. To the man I just robbed, I say, “I’m sorry. I took some of your food and clothes, but we really need them. I promise to send you a check to cover everything as soon as I can.”

“Don’t leave me alone with it,” the guy yelps as I start for the back of the yard. “He almost ripped my throat out while you were inside. If you leave, I’m toast.”

“He won’t hurt you,” I assure him over my shoulder.

“You can’t know that,” he says, his voice jumping half an octave as Ford lets out another menacing growl.

“Yes, I can.” I pause to smile at him from the edge of the fence. “I told him not to, and Wolfie’s a good boy. He always does what’s he’s told.”

I run for the pond and the tree line on the other side, not nearly as tormented by my first foray into burglary as I thought I’d be. But then, I obviously wasn’t afraid of blurring the lines between good and bad in my previous incarnation. If Ford’s to be believed, we stole cars and did…other things, too.

Otherbadthings is a given, but how bad is still unknown.

But maybe after a good meal and a glass or two of chardonnay, Ford’s tongue will loosen up a bit.

“I did okay?” I ask when he joins me ten minutes later and quickly pulls on some of the clothes from the bag.

“You kicked ass,” he says around a mouthful of the peanut butter sandwich I made while I was waiting for him. “These fit perfectly. The shoes are a little small, but not too bad. And I’m so glad you grabbed food. This peanut butter is a miracle in my mouth.”

Taking another bite of my sandwich, I chew and bask in the glow of a job well done. “You’re welcome. So how long do you think we have before he calls the police?”

Ford hums around his last massive bite of sandwich and quickly ties his stolen sneakers. “Five minutes. Ten if he stops to change his clothes first. He pissed himself while you were inside.”

“Aw, poor guy,” I say, but I don’t feel too bad.

He did nearly rip my arm off, after all.

“He tackled a woman half his size,” Ford says, proving we’re on the same page. “He can get fucked.” He stands, hitching the straps of both bags over one shoulder as he glances around. “But we should move. If we can get on a bus in the next half hour, we’ll probably be okay. Small town cops aren’t known for their speedy police work, and it will take time to get the word out that they’re looking for people matching our descriptions.”

I reach for the strap of one bag, but he pushes my hand away. “Let me carry one. It will look less suspicious if we’re both carrying a bag.”

“I’m carrying my girl’s bag. That’s not suspicious, that’s chivalry,” he says, starting through the trees toward the road on the other side.

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