The guy grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me up. His grip is unbreakable, but I try anyway because sitting up doesn’t agree with my spinning head.
“Get the fuck off.” I try to push against him, but he may as well be the brick wall behind me for all that he gives. Irritation is quickly overshadowed by the humiliating impulse to puke, and I shove at him again.
“Get off.” He doesn’t let go, just keeps holding me steady with that maddening pressure: not tight enough to hurt me, not loose enough to let me go.
“Oh fuck,” I groan after I’ve puked my guts out against the wall. I twisted at the last minute and avoided vomiting on the guy. Mostly. His fault, though, since he wouldn’t let me go. Now that I’ve thrown up, the shame hits. I’m in a filthy alley where I followed a complete stranger in the hopes of getting my dick sucked. I got the ever-loving crap kicked out of me and was too wasted to fight back. I got rescued by some hulking giant who—shit—may actually be mute. And to say thanks? I puked on him. Heat rises in my cheeks and throat, and I need to get the hell away.
Suddenly, I become aware of my breathing and that thing happens where I can’t quite take a deep breath. I scramble to my knees and hunch my shoulders, willing my lungs to expand that last little bit, but the more I pay attention to it, the worse it gets.
“Is there blood in it?” The man’s voice is low and detached.
“Huh?”
“The vomit. Is there blood in it?” He leans down to look at the puke on the ground, nodding once at whatever he sees. He slides a hand under my shirt and pulls it up.
“The fuck?” I say, pushing him away again. He’s looking at where they kicked me, leaning me forward to examine my back and sides.
“You a doctor or something?”
He shakes his head, then slowly pulls me up to a standing position.
“I’ll call you a cab,” he says, propping me against the wall like a bike or a piece of furniture, one arm loosely across my chest.
“Uh, no, man, I’m fine.”
He snorts. And finally looks at me. Well, looks down at me. Dude’s even taller than I thought when I saw him in the bar. And bulky with muscle. He has shoulder-length brown hair, and his left eyebrow is broken by scars, the kind you usually see when someone’s taken a bottle to the face. His mouth is grim and his brown eyes are sharp, and he’s looking at me with a combination of amusement and scorn that immediately pisses me off. Like he knows me or some shit.
“You’re wasted,” he says. “Those guys would’ve killed you.” My brain shies away from this piece of information and focuses back on my breathing. As I try to get a deep breath, the edge of panic is back. I know I can get enough air in, but the sensation freaks me out every time. Like at any moment I could drown where I stand.
“Come on,” he says, patting my shoulder lightly, like my old Little League coach—You’ve got it, tiger; back in the game!—like I did to Katie.
Suddenly, I’m so humiliated that I think I might puke again. Pathetic. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’m fucking fine, dude,” I say coldly. “I could’ve handled it.”
I jerk away from him and stagger down the alley. When I glance back, he’s still standing there, completely still, watching me.
Chapter 2
THE ORANGE BMW 320i rolls in just as I swallow the last bite of a mediocre hoagie. Next to me, my younger brother Brian lets out a low whistle. That is one ugly color. It was probably originally a bright orange, but it’s faded and patched and has been painted over a few times. The driver’s side door is maroon and the diving boards are spotted with rust.
I’ve been out of it all day. I took a bunch of Tylenol this morning, but my head is still killing me and my whole body aches. I don’t remember it happening, but there’s a deep scrape on my shoulder so I guess that’s where I hit either the brick wall or the ground in the alley last night. I keep leaning against it to remind myself of what an idiot I am.
“Eighty-one?” Brian asks me. Pop shakes his head in disgust.
“Naw, man,” I tell him, pointing at the elongated aluminum bumpers, “That’s the E30. In ’81 it would’ve been the E21.” I turn to Pop. “I’d go ’85.” He nods.
I actually love the early to mideighties BMWs. Underneath that shitty paint job and mismatched door, the lines of the car are pure, the boxy form sharp and perfectly balanced.
When that maroon door opens, though, it drives away any thoughts about the car. Because the long legs and broad shoulders that emerge belong to the guy from last night. My ears start to buzz and my heart beats unnaturally fast. He scans the garage, and when his eyes land on me, it’s like a physical force catches my breath and pulls it from my chest.