Dare to Stay Page 2

  But it was something.

  And it had to be enough.

  Rounding the corner, I clutched my bleeding shoulder, breathing heavily. The world spun in front of me, and I rested against the rough brick. I needed a few seconds to gather some strength.

  To make sure I didn’t pass out—

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” a man said from the darkness. I recognized that voice, dammit. Reggie, a lieutenant in Bitter Hill, was the only other man who knew about my plot to kill Lucas. Therefore, he was the only man who knew why Bitter Hill guys had died, and how. He probably hadn’t shared that information, because working with Steel Row would get him and Phil killed, too. “Chris O’Brien, bleeding and alone.”

  I smirked. “Reggie, great to see you, man.”

  “Where are my men, O’Brien?”

  “Yeah, about that?” I shrugged, ignoring the pain blazing through my shoulder from the small gesture. “Turns out, Lucas isn’t as easy to take down as I thought. It got ugly, and there were losses, but he’s dead.”

  Reggie rubbed his jaw and walked closer, his black hair as black as his eyes. He walked behind me, and I stiffened. I didn’t like anyone at my back. Especially not guys like him—guys like me. “Let me guess. Steel Row thinks we’re to blame while you’re free and clear of all blame?”

  “Shit if I know. Haven’t heard word yet. I’m kinda recovering from the op, in case you can’t tell.” I straightened and pushed off the wall. “But as soon as I hear who they’re looking to pop, I’ll let you know.”

  Reggie chuckled. “Yeah. Sure you will. You must think I’m a fucking fool.”

  Well, actually . . . “Nah, man.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  I shrugged, even though it hurt. “Why not? You lost some men, but you took down Lucas Donahue. I call that a win.”

  “Know what I call a win?” He flicked a finger, and two guys came out from the darkness. “Kill him, and make it painful.”

  He walked away, not bothering to turn around to see if his men followed orders. I reached for my gun—till I remembered that Lucas had taken it from me. “Shit.”

  Reggie’s guys grinned, and one pulled out a Glock with a silencer on it. “Any last words?”

  I’m sorry, Lucas. “Yeah.” I inched closer and forced a grin. The man’s hold on his weapon trembled, and I knew I could take him. A man who hesitated was a man easily overtaken. “Never fuck with someone who’s got nothing to lose.”

  I threw myself at him, and we hit the ground with a bang—literally. The gun went off, and it miraculously hit the man who’d leapt forward to help his buddy. He hit the ground, convulsing and choking on blood. The guy under me cursed and let loose a mean right hook that solidly connected with my nose. I rolled to the side, blinking away the impending blackness, but I would be too late.

  I really was going to die in this alley . . .

  And I deserved it.

  CHAPTER 2

  MOLLY

  It’s a Saturday afternoon, and you’re in school grading papers. What are you doing with your life, Molly? “Teaching, and shaping little lives,” I muttered to myself.

  While that was true, I also knew I was lying to myself. I was here, on my day off, because I needed a distraction, and being home alone hurt. Blinking, I returned my focus to the papers on my desk. A blue-and-red cat, with bright green eyes, glowered back at me from my desk. I’d told the children to color in the creature to match what they thought a cat should look like, and this was what the adorable little Johnny had drawn. I didn’t know whether to be impressed with his open-minded creativity, worried that he’d seen a cat like this at some point, or happy that he’d done such a great job coloring between the lines.

  So I drew a smiley face and moved on to the next cat.

  It was gray with blue eyes, and perfectly realistic. Another smiley face.

  Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and glanced out the window, rubbing my forehead. Well, crap. It had gotten dark somewhere between the colorful cat and all the ones before it, and the skies were black without even a hint of color to them.

  That meant it was time to head home.

  I would pour myself a full glass of Elmo Pio Moscato and forget all about the fact that, five years ago today, I watched my only surviving parent, my father . . . die. Force my mind away from the memories of a ruthless gangbanger who had decided to hit up the Quick-E mart where my dad had stopped to pick up milk. And I wouldn’t remember that my father had saved the life of a mother and her small child . . . and paid with his own in the process.

  All because a gangbanger had to prove he was a ruthless killer.

  And the ironic thing was, after Mom died from cancer when I was nothing more than a toddler, Dad had spent his life trying to help men like the one who killed him. Trying to rehabilitate them, show them a better way to live.

  It had, quite literally, killed him.

  Well, point proven. The gunman had taken everything from me that day, and there was nothing I could do to change that. I was alone, and Dad was gone, and . . .

  And, yeah.

  That pretty much covered it.

  A knock sounded on my door, and I glanced up. “Come in.”

  “Hey,” another kindergarten teacher, my friend Hollie Yardley, said. “I wasn’t expecting you to still be here. You heading out soon?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Now, actually.”

  She smiled. “Want to go out? Rachel and I are going to the club to dance and to drink a little. Maybe find a hot guy or two to flirt with. You in?”

  That was pretty much the last thing I wanted to do today, the anniversary of my father’s death, but I forced a smile, anyway, because I liked Hollie. “Thanks, but I think I’ll head home and catch up on The Walking Dead instead.”

  Hollie didn’t lose her smile, but I saw the look in her eyes. The one that said I never did anything but head home to watch TV. But that was my life. It was my happy place, and it was where I wanted to be. Why go out at night, with all the killers and creeps of the world, getting hit on in some shady bar by some shady guy, when I could be tucked in on my couch with a glass of wine and my orange cat on my lap?

  No, thank you.

  “All right, maybe next time?” Hollie said.

  I nodded. “Totally.” Liar. And we both knew it. “Let me know.”

  After she left, I rubbed the aching spot between my eyebrows again. Okay, so yeah. Maybe helplessly watching my father bleed out all over a white sidewalk had done things to me. And maybe those things made it hard for me to go out in crowds and have fun, or be outgoing and make lots of friends like Hollie did. And maybe I thought it was crazy to get drunk in public and assume no one would take advantage of a person’s slow reflexes and heightened pheromones.

  Some people might call it paranoia.

  I called it staying alive.

  Swallowing hard, I pushed away from my desk and stood. I didn’t usually come to work on a Saturday, but all the kindergarten teachers had banded together to decorate for spring, since spring break started on the following Wednesday. Since the sun had gone down hours ago, I pulled out my Mace. I wasn’t in a bad section of town. In fact, I made it a point to never go anywhere near Steel Row, a crappy section of Southie where murder and mayhem ruled—where my father had been murdered—but still.

  You could never be too careful.

  Life had taught me that the hard way, in blood. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Always think things through. And for the love of God, don’t put yourself in dangerous situations or try to be a hero. Being a hero got you killed.

  As I walked down the empty, darkened hallway, a door slammed behind me, and I jumped, pulse racing. As I spun to glance behind me, Mace held at the ready, I accidentally dragged my hand across a jagged, broken corner of a cubby, slicing it open.

  “Son of a�
��” I cut myself off. “Beetlecracker.”

  There might not be kids here on the weekend, but I didn’t feel like losing my job because of an ill-timed curse and a shocked first grader. Shaking my stinging hand out, I glanced down at it. Blood dripped from the wound already, so I curled my fist tight. The nurse wasn’t in the office on a Saturday evening, and she always locked the door when she left, so I was on my own. Looked like I would be making a stop on the way home.

  Thanks to my stupidity.

  What would Dad say if he knew I’d grown scared of my own shadow? This wasn’t the life I wanted or the life he would have wanted me to have. He’d spent his life helping people, and I couldn’t even help myself. I needed to stop looking over my shoulder and start looking ahead. Starting now.

  “You better be listening, Molly,” I whispered to the empty hallway.

  Shaking my head at the fact that I was talking to myself, even though I did it all the time, I made it out of the school without any more bodily harm. Sliding into my car, I rested my injured hand on my lap and started the engine. It roared to life, filling the silence that surrounded me. Usually I liked silence. It soothed me. But tonight . . . it didn’t.

  I should have gone out with Hollie.

  The ride to the pharmacy passed quickly. Hopping out of the car, I wrapped an old Burberry scarf around my palm so I wouldn’t leave a blood trail all over Doc Rutgers’s white tile floor. Leaning down, I reached for my Mace . . . but stopped halfway. Enough being scared because on this night five years ago my father died. Enough with being afraid to take chances, and trying to be half the person my father was.

  All being frightened got me was a cut hand.

  It was time to make a change in honor of my father.

  Slamming my door shut, I walked up the pathway to the front door. The lights were on inside, but the pharmacy appeared to be empty. I paused at the door, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. It felt like . . . like . . . someone was watching me. Like somewhere, out in the darkness, someone waited for the most opportune moment to . . . what?

  Licking my lips, I called out, “H-hello?”

  No one answered. Because no one was there. Duh.

  Shaking my head at myself, I yanked on the front door, but it didn’t budge. Frowning, I cupped my hands around my face, wincing at the pain it caused me, and peered inside. What I saw sent an ice-cold chill racing through my veins and down my spine, paralyzing me momentarily.

  Something red was smeared all over the floor by the first aid aisle, looking like one of my students’ finger paintings. Gauze was strewn all over the floor, as well as hydrogen peroxide, thread, and . . . a sewing needle. Behind that was an open bottle of water and an empty orange pill bottle with the lid off. White pills were spilled out into the blood, like Cheerios in red milk, and all I could do was stare because—

  Someone had broken in to Doc Rutgers’s pharmacy, bled all over the place, and stolen drugs. If that person didn’t want to go to the hospital to get fixed, that meant one of two things.

  Someone wanted by the law, or had been shot by someone who was. After all, no one went to the hospital with a gunshot wound unless that person wanted to be questioned by the police.

  And whoever it was might still be here. With me.

  Covering my mouth, I backed up slowly, breathing heavily. As I moved away, something fell on the road behind me. Gasping, I whirled, automatically reaching for my Mace. It, of course, wasn’t there, because I’d picked tonight of all nights to grow a pair of girl balls. Just great.

  Scanning the shadows surrounding me, I searched for any signs of danger. Aside from the noise—which could have been anything at all—there was nothing. Focused straight ahead, I backed up, hand still over my mouth. If there was a bleeding criminal somewhere out there, well, I didn’t want to meet him in a dark alleyway, thank you very much.

  As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to meet him at all.

  A groan broke the stillness but quickly was cut off. I froze, heart racing, and didn’t move. It didn’t take my Harvard education to figure out where that pain-laced groan had come from . . . or from whom. It was directly next to the pharmacy, about three feet away from me. As I watched, eyes wide, a man stepped out.

  Well, staggered out was more like it.

  He moved forward another step, and another, one unsteady foot in front of the other, holding a scary-looking gun in his right hand. His dark brown hair was the only thing I saw of his features, and he was tall. Easily six foot three. Muscular. Tattoos. Written letters across his knuckles that spelled out Steel Row on both hands and that struck a memory that I couldn’t quite place. As if that wasn’t enough to let me know what gang he belonged to, he wore a dark brown leather jacket that announced him as a member of the Sons of Steel Row as clearly as a red bandanna announced a man as a member of the Bloods. Steel Row was a neighborhood filled with crime and poverty, ruled by a ruthless gang. They called themselves the Sons of Steel Row.

  At least I would have an accurate description to give the police . . .

  From the afterlife.

  Not daring to move, I willed myself into invisibility. He had his head lowered and hadn’t turned my way yet. If I was lucky, he wouldn’t. He’d stumble off into the darkness and leave me alone. And I could slip away to—

  Slowly, the man lifted his head.

  It seemed as if it took a lot of effort on his part. Almost too much. And he took so long to do it that by the time he lifted his head completely . . . I knew exactly why those tattoos and that brown hair seemed so familiar. And I also knew why I hadn’t turned around and run yet. Instinctively, I must’ve recognized him.

  Chris O’Brien. Killer, gang member, and the devastatingly handsome boy next door.

  Despite his ties to Steel Row, his parents lived next door to me. When I was fifteen, they bought the biggest house in my opulent neighborhood—which happened to be the one closest to ours. Everyone knew their money was dirty, just like everyone knew it was best if we all kept our mouths shut about how we felt about that matter. And their son, Chris, was as dangerous as he was sexy—and believe me, that was saying a heck of a lot.

  The man was pure sexual tension and hot gazes.

  He’d moved out when he turned eighteen, but after my father died, he started showing up on my property whenever he visited his parents on the weekends. Every Sunday afternoon, he did some small favor for me, even though it was quite a hike from my house to theirs. He’d mow the lawn, or wash my car, or pressure wash the windows.

  I always thanked him with a smile, but I never encouraged him. Never gave him a reason to think his benevolence would get him anywhere, because it wouldn’t. Not with me. If I succumbed to the desire he made me feel, it would be like sleeping with the enemy. But still, he was attractive in a way I couldn’t deny, no matter his proclivity toward killing people. His dark brown hair and dark brown eyes were haunting in their obvious suggestion of the fact that he wasn’t a good man. And his tattoos were stark against his pale skin, as was the scruff that covered his jaw.

  His hard, square, unyielding jaw.

  It would be too hard, though, if it wasn’t for the fact that he had a dimple in his chin. Something about that soft dent, that charming little flaw, made him more human. But I knew better. He was more monster than human. All men like him were. Deep down, beneath his acts of neighborhood friendliness and that devastatingly handsome smile . . .

  He was a killer. He would always be a killer.

  But he was hurt.

  Blood ran down his arm and soaked the spot on his shoulder where there was a hole in his jacket. He was pale, even in the darkness. Bruises were forming under his eye, and his nose appeared to be broken. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck, and lived to tell. But trucks didn’t shoot bullets, so they were innocent of this crime.

  He’d been shot.

  My heart wrenc
hed, and I wanted to help him, but it would break my rule of not letting him get too close. Men like him left devastation in their wake, and I didn’t intend to be a part of that. Didn’t intend to be yet another victim of his. He lived in his world, and I lived in mine. The two didn’t mix. Just like we didn’t.

  But he was bleeding.

  Breath held, I backed up a step, hoping he couldn’t see me in the darkness. The second I moved, he lifted the gun and pointed it at me. “Whoever you are, get the hell out of here and forget you saw me, or I’ll shoot. Go. Now.”

  I held my hands up, not moving.

  I should have done what he said to do. Turn around and walk away. When a man held a gun at you and told you to go? You went, and you didn’t look back. You got in your car and drove away before he changed his mind and shot you.

  And this wasn’t any man. This was Chris O’Brien.

  But he was weak.

  I lifted a foot, about to follow his instructions, but froze. What would my dad have done? Would he have walked away, or would he have helped a man who clearly needed it? Of course, I already knew the answer to that question.

  Licking my lips, I did the opposite of what Chris had told me to do. I honored my dad’s memory and did what he would have done. I stepped closer. “C-Chris? It’s me. Molly Lachlan.”

  The gun didn’t waver. He blinked at me. “Molly?”

  “Yeah.” Another step. “See? It’s me.”

  Again, the gun held steady. “Shit.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked, my voice low and as unassuming as I could make it, considering the circumstances. “I mean, I know you’re not okay. I can see you’re injured and bleeding and you broke in . . . But are you okay?”

  He laughed, the sound as harsh as the sight of his ashen skin was. “No. I’m not okay at all.”

  “I’m sorry.” I swallowed hard. “Do you need some help?”

  “No.” He finally lowered the gun. His hand didn’t tremble, or shake at all, despite the fact that he seemed seconds from death, and he sagged against the building as if the effort of standing up was too much. “Just go home and forget you saw me.”