Nope! Not today, bogeyman.
And maybe I am an idiot as I step gingerly down a couple of treads, finding myself jumping as his head falls back, hitting a wooden stair with a dull thud.
‘I think he’s unconscious.’
‘This is where he jumps up and shouts BOO!’
‘Ouch!’ I pull the phone away from my ear with a wince.
‘Please, just call the police.’
I meant to reassure her and say I would. Instead, a different declaration leaves my mouth.
‘He’s cute.’
Though cute is an understatement as a gust of wind whips down the street, lifting his hair and turning it copper in the glow of a nearby streetlight.
A dead ringer for Adonis minus the whole toga deal. But his looks aren’t important. The fact that he’s hurt is.
‘You know who else was cute?’ Amber hisses back. ‘Ted Bundy.’
‘He looks nothing like Ted Bundy.’
‘And by that, I know you mean he looks nothing like Zac Efron starring as Ted Bundy. But that’s not the point. The point is, he could be a killer!’
‘He has killer cheekbones,’ I find myself mumbling, not quite able to bring myself to move closer to him. As for other Zac Efron comparisons, he’s probably around the same age, less High School Musical Zac and more buff Baywatch Zac, but without the bad hair. Dark jeans coat his long legs, and a white T-shirt hugs his broad chest. An expensive-looking leather jacket and rugged, scuffed boots complete the look. He doesn’t look like an addict or someone down on his luck. In fact, as he turns his head, he looks more like a victim of some kind of attack—not the whacked by a dildo kind of attack, but the real thing.
‘Was he robbed?’ I find myself musing.
‘What?’
‘I said he’s hurt.’ Unconscious, bruised, and battered by more than a couple of pounds of latex would be my guess.
‘Please, please, please just go back to your apartment,’ Amber begs.
‘I can’t just leave him here.’
‘So call an ambulance. From inside! Why aren’t you running for the hills?’
I can’t. I’m not the type who could leave an injured dog at the side of the road, let alone a person. And for the record, I’m not dumb enough to be enchanted by his high cheekbones or his powerful physique. I’m not the kind of girl who’d risk life or limb just because the man is a little pretty.
Or even a lot pretty, as the case may be.
I draw closer because he’s stopped groaning, which anyone with half a brain knows isn’t good. Add to that the shallow movements of his chest and the trickle of blood running from his hairline, and I find I’m whispering into my phone.
‘Oh, God. He’s bleeding.’ I swallow convulsively, trying very hard not to be sick. ‘There’s blood on his T-shirt.’ I step over his outspread arm onto the stair below, gripping the fake penis in my fist. You know, just in case.
‘Or maybe it’s fake blood, and he’s going to shove you in a big hole with a bottle of lotion!’
‘Amber, the man is hurt. He’s in no state to attack me.’ And now that I’m on the sidewalk in front of him, I can say this categorically.
‘It’s usually the monsters who don’t look like monsters who are the ones you need to worry about. Just, please, call the authorities. Let them deal with this.’
‘I can’t just leave him here! Abandon the man bleeding on my doorstep.’
‘Abandon the man who, five minutes ago, you were sure was out to attack you?’
‘He was trying to get my attention, to get my help.’
‘And by calling an ambulance, you will be helping him.’
‘Yes, okay,’ I agree as the stranger moans once more. ‘I’ll do that. Let me call you back.’
Without waiting for her response, I end the call.
2
Rose
‘Rose?’
At the sound of my name, I’m jerked from my microsleep. ‘A-yesh. I mean, yes, that’s me.’ Grimacing at the metallic taste in my mouth, I rub my lips together, rolling my aching shoulders and stiff neck. Was I drooling? I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth just in case and straighten from my cramped position.
And there’s a nurse standing in front of me . . . why?
‘You can go in now. He’s in the end cubicle.’
And then it comes back to me; the man on my doorstep. I’d pulled his wallet from his inside pocket as I’d looked for his phone, hoping to find family or a loved one to call. As it was, there was no phone and only a French driving license and a few US dollars in his wallet. And a couple of condoms.
But at least it gave me his name.
Remy Durrand.
He’d groaned, his eyes flickering open as he’d grasped my hand. He was still clutching it when the ambulance arrived, and I was mistaken for his girlfriend. I’d decided to just go with it after thinking I’d hate to wake alone. Maybe I’d also need to explain the bump on the side of his head. He was still unconscious when we’d arrived at the hospital where he was whisked off while strapped to a gurney. I was asked a million questions, most of which I couldn’t answer, then shown the family waiting room.