The King and the Courtesan (37 page)

Noah was dead next to me, but he’d had the luck of dying before the car even crashed. He would never know that he was encased in metal from the waist up, his arm mangled into nothing more than shredded meat. I let out another moan and tried to chase away the fog in my brain.

Someone shot Noah. Maybe an accomplice of Blade’s. Whoever did probably had a grudge, and if so, I needed to get my ass moving. They were probably going to come down here and make sure there weren’t any survivors before the police arrived. If the police came at all.

I decided that extricating my leg was more important than unbuckling myself—if I unbuckled first and fell, I could break my other leg. My mind remained fuzzy, my coordination still off. I looked around for my purse, but I could only see the strap, which was dangling between what used to be the seat and the gearshift. There would be no getting that out, and I highly doubted my phone made it through the ride.

Reaching down, I gripped my knee and attempted to pull my leg out slowly. I refused to think about the bloody body beside me. Desperation gave me tunnel vision. I could spend my time crying hysterically over Noah, or use my sudden burst of adrenaline and get out of here alive. It was an easy choice to make. Even if the assailants weren’t going to come down and make sure I was dead, the last thing I needed was the police. What was I going to tell them? That I was a drug lord’s mistress? They had my name on file since I’d been picked up for prostitution before. I didn’t want to go to jail again.

With a scream, I managed to rip my leg from its confines. The pull left deep red gashes down my calf—gushing freely—but at least I was free. I finally unbuckled my seat belt and fell the very short distance to the roof with a cry of pain. I noticed the ceiling beneath me was wet. We’d stopped rolling halfway through the stream.

The windshield was shattered, which granted me an exit if I didn’t mind crawling through broken glass in the dark. All I could see were the dim lights of closed shops up on the cement bank. Putting weight on my leg was nearly impossible, but I was still running high on adrenaline, so I managed to hobble away from the wreck just as I heard sirens in the distance. Whoever shot at us was gone now, or at least hiding well.

I looked over my shoulder at the car, which was barely visible in the growing distance.

“I’m sorry, Noah,” I whispered, crying more out of pain than out of loss. Just when I learned his name, he died. A name made his death harder to handle.

Limping and cradling my broken arm to my chest, I headed for the opposite bank. The only option was to climb it. Only one shoe was attached to my foot, so I ripped it off and carried it. If someone wanted to fight me, at least the stiletto heel could provide some protection.

Climbing with only one good leg was not easily done. Especially with muddy and crumbling concrete breaking off in my hand as I grabbed it. Several times, I skidded down the bank before I was able to find a tuft of grass to hang onto. I’m sure I was a real beauty at this moment, my skin and dress covered in blood and mud, one stiletto hooked inside my bra so I had a free hand to climb with, my hair smelling like car oil and sewage. But at this point, all I wanted was to make it to the street where I could…where I might be able to…

Who knew? I had no way of calling Ezekiel. I didn’t know his number. I always just used the speed dial on the phone he gave me. I had no money. The credit card was still in the wrecked car. All I had was the dress and the shoe. I wasn’t even wearing any jewelry I could pawn. I didn’t think I needed it when Ezekiel wasn’t around.

The sirens grew closer, and I forced myself up the incline faster. When I reached the top, I faced a six-foot wire fence blocking the street. For a moment, I despaired—I couldn’t climb it with only one good hand. However, just a few strides away a hole was cut away in the fence. It was probably the handiwork of a few punk kids. I headed for it.

A police car peeled down the street just as I slipped through the hole and into a dark alley. I didn’t bother lingering to catch my breath. The police would be looking for me, especially once they found my purse. I had to get somewhere where they wouldn’t find me. If that meant sleeping in the street, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I pressed my back against a brick wall, catching my breath and giving my trembling legs a rest. A cold breeze slipped up my spine, forcing my arms across my chest and bringing goose bumps to the surface of my skin. Beyond all my other problems, I also had no jacket.

Once my adrenaline faded, I felt my body start to crash. My head pounded like a war drum, and my broken arm nearly vibrated with pain. I also felt woozy, though I wasn’t sure if it was from blood loss or another hit to my head. I had other scrapes and gashes, but none of them compared to the injury that still dripped blood along my calf.

If I slept right here on the street, who knew if I’d wake up alive. But what else was there to do? I had no money and no phone. There was no hospital in the near vicinity, and even if there was, they’d ask questions. I was reminded of what Roger said about hospitals and bullet wounds. It seemed like I was in the same predicament, but unlike Roger, I didn’t have the knowledge or the supplies to dress my own wounds.

Taking a shaky breath, I made my way to the road. The street was empty and lit only by a few flickering streetlamps, each surrounded by a cloud of gnats. I shivered again, but my eyes stopped at the three-way intersection a block away. Facing me was a large, aging sign that read JURI’S GARAGE

Juri
.

I knew Juri by reputation, of course, but I’d never met the man. I certainly never knew he had his own garage. Seemed too obvious, too easy. But what other guy was named Juri in this town? It wasn’t exactly a common name.

Hope clogged my throat as I limped down the sidewalk, still keeping a wary eye to make sure muggers or rapists weren’t hanging around. Of all the times Metro chose to be safe, now seemed to be the night.

I craned my head back a bit to take in the rest of the building, which rose several floors above the garage. There was no guarantee, of course, that Juri even
lived
above his garage, but I had to take the chance. Even if he didn’t live here, the people who did would certainly know him. I couldn’t see anything through the curtains, but the fact that the lights were on gave me hope.

I wondered how much Ace had exaggerated when he said “good friends” with Juri. If I showed up and Juri answered the door, would he even recognize Ace’s name? Even if he didn’t, would he turn me away? He was the “good guy” in Metro. Anyone who hated the drug trade stood by Juri and his cause. If he was trying to eradicate drugs and crime, how could he turn away a woman in distress?

The walk seemed much longer than a block—I couldn’t even put weight on my ruined leg. I hopped across the crosswalk and used the bench there to rest. Breathing hard and shivering, I stumbled to the entrance beside the garage door, where there were several buttons with apartment numbers located beside them. Most of the numbers also had names, but the apartment on the second floor, the one with its windows lit, had no name. The rest of the names were not Juri.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed the nameless button. I waited.

There was a hiss of static, and a rough female voice asked, “What you want so late, eh?”

I slumped, defeated. “I’m sorry. I-I thought this was Juri’s place…”

There was a pause. “Who are ya?”

For some reason, I suddenly wanted to cry. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn’t keep my voice from wavering. “I just—I know someone who said—there’s this guy I met—Ace—he said he knew Juri, and I-I’m just in a really bad situation, and I need help, so I thought…”

She didn’t answer for a long time. Finally the static returned, followed by, “Ya know Ace, eh?”

I perked up. “You know Ace?”

“He was here a minute ago, the ugly bastard—”

“Oh my God. Oh my God, yes, yes, he knows me. Um, I think. If you would please—”

“Girl, you jus’ wait there. I’ll send Juri down to get ya now, eh?”

“Juri?” I asked, but the intercom had already gone silent. I thought she’d said
Ace
was there, not Juri. But did it really matter? Someone was coming down to get me. In my overwhelming relief, I slumped against the lamppost, tears sliding down my cheeks. I was ashamed of crying, but at the same time, I didn’t care. I wanted help.

The door slammed open. I let out an involuntary gasp.

A huge man stood in the doorway, surveying me with narrowed eyes. He was older, probably a few years older than my mother would be if she were still alive. His hair was shaved close to his bumpy scalp, and several earrings dangled from each ear. A pale white scar cut right through his eyebrow and down his cheek, healed long ago. His nose must have been broken once or twice in his life, because it sat crookedly on his craggy face. His complexion was lost beneath layers of tattoos, but they didn’t quite disguise the breadth and structure of his muscles.

He looked more capable of punching me out than he did of offering me any kindness.

“J-Juri?” I stuttered, my voice smaller than it should have been.

“Hey.” He gave me a once over. “What happened to ya?” He motioned to my bloody and battered body.

“Long story,” I sobbed, and Juri’s eyes narrowed, as if angry. “Please. I don’t mean to intrude b-but I don’t have any money or a phone a-and—”

He stepped over to me, and I flinched. He looked amused. “Girl, I wouldn’t be worryin’. I’ll take ya up to my apartment and get ya fixed up.”

“O-okay.” I reached out to him. He slipped one bulging arm around my waist and the other under my knees. For someone so huge, he was shockingly gentle and very careful of the broken arm I kept locked close to my abdomen.

He picked me up with shocking ease, as if I weren’t any heavier than a leaf. Then he strode into the building and up a flight of metal stairs. The walls were coated in graffiti and flaking paint, and Juri’s footsteps made an awful racket on the flimsy metal beneath. However, Juri was fast despite his age, and soon we stood in an open doorway leading into a rather small and messy apartment. Clothes were slung over furniture and across the floor, and whatever could not be immediately placed was rested on every flat surface. The television was small, the walls were bare, and the light fixtures hung lopsided. Yet it was warm, which was all I cared about at the moment.

There were three people seated in the small living room, two on a couch and the other in a chair. One was a woman just as grizzled as Juri, her jeans and muscle shirt nearly matching his. Her white hair was cut short, baring the tattoos on her neck and shoulders. I’d never seen a fifty-year-old woman rock a nose piercing so well. She must have been the woman who answered the intercom.

I recognized one of the other two as Rika. She looked the same, wearing sporty clothes, her shock of dyed red hair tied back in a ponytail. She wasn’t entirely feminine, but she had a carefree expression that the other woman did not.

The man sitting next to her was dressed up in khaki slacks and a tie, his black hair combed and parted carefully, his expression far more reserved than the woman who sat beside him. He didn’t even look that surprised to see me, as if he already knew me and my tendency to get into trouble.

“Where’s Ace?” I couldn’t help but ask as Juri put me down.

“Holy shit.” Rika stood. “Geez, what happened to
you
?”

“Where’s Ace?” I asked again, my voice weaker this time.

“We sent him out to get some more beer,” Rika replied. “He’ll be back in a few minutes. You’re—you look familiar. Have we met?”

“Melissa. We met at the Park—”

The black-haired man now stood. “Ladies, I think we can fit in introductions later. But she is clearly about to collapse.” He rounded the couch and approached me. Something about him put me on guard, and I took a step back when he reached for me.

“What?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Who are you?”

“No time for that. Why don’t I drive you to the hospital?”

I shook my head. “They’ll ask questions.”

The man stared at me for a few seconds, then nodded. “Of course. Kitchen it is. Follow me.”

Letting me lean on him, he took me to the kitchen, which was only as wide as the refrigerator door could swing. He pulled me through the narrow aisle and into a small, circular room with a bay window that looked out at the street I’d just walked down. The man pointed to a chair for me to sit in, then offered another so I could put my leg up.

Rika and the older woman joined us, retrieving bandages and washcloths at the man’s orders. Rika bent to clean my leg, while the man attended to my broken arm. The older woman took care of anything else, like the blood leaking from my hair and the long scratch ripping through the middle of my dress.

“Before we dress anything, I suggest you take a shower and get off all the mud,” the man said.

Rika helped me to a stand, then let me lean on her as I hobbled forward. She joined me in the bathroom, helping me peel off my dress. I would have done it myself, but my arm made that nearly impossible. Rika was kind and patient; she reminded me a bit of my mother. She smiled with such ease that it was obvious she’d grown up elsewhere. I wanted to trust her, and I barely even knew her. I had the sudden urge to ask if she’d take me home with her. I wanted a part of her, that slice of life that had shaped her pretty smile.

“I don’t think I can—I can barely—”

“Do you need help with bathing?” she asked, as if this weren’t awkward at all.

I nodded, embarrassed.

She filled the bathtub as I slid out of my underwear. The water was warm when I slid in, and I practically started crying again, it felt so wonderful. I closed my eyes and let Rika do the majority of the soaping. While the soap burned my wounds, it was a good burn. It was the burn of mud and blood and other grime being swept away, leaving my skin pink and new again.

Afterward, Rika gave me a towel to dry off with while she left to find something I could wear. She came back with a huge sweatshirt and equally large pajama pants, which I had to hold up with a fist. They both smelled like car grease, but they were warm and comfortable, so I didn’t complain. It felt a bit odd to be wearing the clothes of a man I barely knew, but was there any other option?