Page 686 of One More Kiss

When he glances up, I finally gain focus, finding eyes so pensive they arrest me.

He doesn’t answer, only continues to twist his shirt around my seeping injury. When he's done, Tomás scoots sideways, putting much needed space between us. He sits on his ass, legs bent and forearms resting on top of his knees, his bloodied hands splayed outwards.

Darkness moves over his face like a ferocious, thick smog, veiling his features with a ghastly countenance. It’s a horrifying look that leaves me huddled on one side and him on the other. As if the devil has possessed his soul, he snatches the handgun from the waistband of his trousers and fires a few rounds into the sky like he’s lost his mind. When his flashy gold weapon lowers, he stills again, his gaze terrifying.

I observe his muted hostility for the entire journey, wondering why he'd let me live and how he can be so oblivious to my presence now. His stare remains glazed and trancelike, unmoving like he’s slipped from sovereignty and hit rock bottom.

The second the Raptor swerves left, then skids to a halt under the grand archway, Shane exits the vehicle. He marches to meet us, eyes wide when they land on the gun Tomás is choking.

“Christ… Tommy.” He hurries to help. “It’s okay. You’re home.”

Silently, Tomás drops to the gravel. His broad shoulders are flexed, his sullied hand outstretched, aiming the barrel of his downwards, and a tightening of his jaw so rigid I’d swear his teeth would shatter.

“Get Carina a bottle of water. Lock her in a stall.” That’s all he says, his voice broken like a false promise of freedom.

His body is taut as if his limbs are wrought iron weapons of destruction. Behind us, the brisk crunch of his dress shoes all but crushes stones to dust.

Shane stares at my swaddled shin, the fabric steeped in crimson. His brow scrunches as he blows a jet of air through his lips. “Well, fuck me, that’s a first.”

Hesitantly, I drag myself out of the truck, wincing when the damaged leg takes my weight. “What? That I didn’t end up as a snack like the Mexican?” I say caustically. “And now what? Will I have to spend the night locked up in a stall until he decides what other challenge I should be subjected to?”

He scratches his head. “Fuck, kid. Tommy has your blood on his hands.”

When I stagger, he seizes my bicep and gives me the support I need to carry myself. I accept his help, otherwise I might end up in a crumpled heap. “Is that a metaphor? I answered his questions. I told him the truth.”

Together we cross over the courtyard, toward a sliding barn door. Large raindrops plop on us from the gray sky. One, then three, then a multitude of refreshing raindrops.

“He looked demonic,” I say quietly, unsure how Shane will react to my description.

We step out of the rain, from chilly air to the waft of livestock. “I wear scars on my face like a patchwork quilt.” He traces the spider web disfigurement on his cheek. “And Tommy, well, his scars are woven through his mind. Whatever happened in the back of the truck, for that shirt to be tied around your leg…” Shane murmurs, somewhat dazed. “First, Tommy would never purposefully use his clothes in that manner, ever. And second, if he gets even a pinprick of blood on his skin, he loses his fucking shit. Like off the scale, unhinged. You’re lucky to be alive, kid. In fact, I’d say it’s a miracle.”

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