Page 6 of The Broken Note

Vi, where are you? Please tell me you didn’t encounter someone like them.

The streetlamp overhead flickers as I quicken my pace.

Footsteps thump behind me.

Damn it.

My body coils.

Fight or flight instincts rear to attention.

I dig my fingers into my skirt and increase my speed.

Answering footsteps quicken right behind me.

My heart flogs my ribs and I bite down on my bottom lip to quiet my rising panic. Self-preservation roars inside me.

What can I use as a weapon?

I swallow hard as I pat my skirt down.

Nothing.

All I brought when I tearfully fled the apartment was my cell phone.

I cast my eyes to the ground, looking for a brick or a rock that I can grab and wield, but there’s nothing. Not even a beer bottle that I can smash into their heads.

A tall shadow spills in front of me, indicating that my stalker is getting closer.

My shoulders wind up to my ears.

I can’t get dragged away.

Not when I still haven’t found Viola.

The shadow extends. My pursuer is about to grab me.

I wait until he puts a hand on my shoulder and then I shove my arm back with incredible force. The bony point of my elbow connects with his stomach.

His grip on me weakens. I hear his soft grunt, but I don’t wait around to assess the damage. My pumps slam against the ground as I take off.

I’m focused on making it to the bus stop ahead, when I feel a hand close around my wrist. I’m propelled in a sharp turn and, a minute later, I’m slammed against the side of a brick building.

Adrenaline courses through my veins when I feel a body covering mine. I fight like an animal, but something inside makes me pause. Strange. My attacker smells like Dutch. And his long, muscular frame feels like Dutch too.

My body adjusts under him, fitting into the places it had found that night. The night Dutch took off his clothes. The night he made me see stars.

It’s familiar. This strength. These sinewy muscles.

I spot the tattoos creeping up tan skin and into the sleeve of a white T-shirt.

Unnerved, I lift my head and startle at a pair of glowing amber eyes hovering in front of my face.

“Dutch?” I breathe out.

Dutch’s nostrils flare. Full lips are slightly open, releasing a sharp, panting breath. His blond hair is wind-torn. His eyes hauntingly beautiful.

“I told you to stay put,” he growls.

---