"So that's me," Ronnie said as they turned onto her street, and she pointed at a building. "Thanks for getting me home."
"No problem. It was on my way."
Paige would have gone straight home because she was dead on her feet, but she was about to have three days off in a row. She needed to make sure all was in order at Rosita's, especially as she had been the one closing and at the moment couldn't recall if she'd verified the lock. Besides, Paige's colorful roommate was having her boyfriend over. The only thing they did more than fuck was fight, so she was not in too much of a hurry to get into that mess.
She parked in front of the restaurant. Time to make her OCD proud.
The lock on the roller shutter was closed. She opened and closed it again, fixing the moment in her mind, and pulled at it three times to ensure she wouldn't forget.
Then from the corner of her eye, she detected movement in a nearby parked car, the door ajar.
There was a man inside, hunched over, one leg out.
Probably one of those inebriated morons who thought they drove better intoxicated. She'd met her fair share of those. He didn't make a sound. No drunken babble or dribble, but it was cold outside. Maybe he was freezing. Or choking on his own vomit.
Paige approached. "Yo, buddy, you okay?"
No answer. The guy wasn't moving, his head still flung forward. She couldn't see properly through the window, so she opened the door a bit more, and the huddled figure tipped sideways until his face was half-buried in her stomach. Not cool. At all. She took a step backward and noticed a fresh splotch on her dress. Oh, God. That was blood. Real blood. Thick. Sticky. Dripping from the side of his abdomen too.
She reached for him, and the second she touched him, a strong hand clamped on her forearm.
The man lifted his bloody face to her, his expression a snarl, his deep-blue eyes cold and murderous. Suddenly, he shoved a gun against Paige's neck.
Oh, shit. She knew that man. "Nick?"
NICO HAD TROUBLE focusing. Everything was blurry. Distorted. He narrowed his eyes, his trigger finger twitching. The image in front of him sharpened little by little: a bride covered in blood. Looked like the Grim Reaper had gotten a makeover just for him. What an honor. Or maybe he was hallucinating. It wouldn't be the first time tonight.
"It's me. Paige," the bride blurted.
Who? He couldn't recognize the face, but her eyes were strangely familiar. Not sensing any immediate danger, he lowered his gun. It must have been the right call because the bride didn't grab his weapon and shoot him with it.
He let her go and put pressure on the wound beneath his ribs, his hand sinking into warm blood. How he had any left, he didn't know.
"You're bleeding," he heard her say. "Have you been shot?"
And drugged. Or poisoned. Hell, both probably. He wasn't sure he could articulate so many words, so he just nodded.
"You need a doctor. A hospital," she continued.
"No hospital," he choked out. A hospital meant police. Too many questions. If by any miracle he managed to survive, he didn't want to wake up in a government black site. Or in a hole in the jungle, compliments of the cartel.
The bride hesitated for a second. "Okay. No hospital. But you can't stay here."
That was true. Remaining in the open was a sure death sentence.
Without waiting for his response, she sprinted around the car. Then he heard the door of the passenger side open and felt her beside him.
"Lift your ass when I tell you to," she ordered, grabbing him by his armpits and taking a deep breath. "Now."
With the last of his strength, Nico obeyed, gritting his teeth, almost blacking out from the agonizing pain in his side. She was small, but damn if she didn't manage to drag him over the console onto the passenger seat.
"Sorry," she whispered, flinching as she helped him bend his knees over the gear shift. Then she ran to the driver's side, jumped in, and revved the engine.
Nico struggled to keep conscious, but his vision became fuzzy again. Fuck, not now. He had to get to a safe location before he passed out completely. "Where are we going?" Hopefully she was not turning him in, because he was too weak to mount any substantial resistance.
She didn't answer, just continued driving, throwing furtive glances his way.
He tried to fight the blackness, but he couldn't. He was drifting away. Resignation blanketed him, dulling his senses as his body started shutting down. He looked at his driver. Vintage wedding dress, covered in blood. Military boots. Spiked choke collar. Crazy hair. Black lips. Weirdly pretty raccoon eyes. He'd always thought the last thing he would see in this world was the snarl of the guy sending him to hell.
If a beautiful Goth bride was the last image he witnessed before biting the big one, he was happy. Considering the life he'd led, it was more than he deserved.