4
God, he was stupid.
How could he have let himself believe he would be safe? That they would wait for his answer? He knew, and still, he went out. Put others in danger because he was restless, because his body couldn't quietly house the turbulence in his soul.
Now, this woman, whose biggest crime had been dropping her records on the floor, was shot and it had all been in his name. The bravery it had taken to try to save him was alarming; for an instant, he'd been stunned into inactivity by it. It glowed on her like she was the secret home of the sun. What struck him, then, as he marveled, was that he didn't even know her name. He knew nothing about her except that she was lovely, that she liked caramel in her coffee and had eclectic taste in music, and a wellspring of courage that could put the Pacific to shame. In another surprise twist, she moved like she had practice. She didn't seem to flinch under the pain of a bullet wound.
Curiosity bit at his ankles.
Dozens of people who had been milling around the bookstore were screaming. Debris was everywhere – not far from where they were, the vestigial remnants of her coffee were seeping into the carpet, drying on the plastic cover for the records, being absorbed in loose, burnt carpet fibers. A series of tiny blood drops pointed to their hideaway. Escape made its demanding way to the top of his priority list and he refocused.
Yelling to be heard over the commotion, he said, "Fucking Christ, you just took a bullet for me and I don't even know your name."
"How about we worry about introductions when the police get here?" She barely cast a glance at him, her attention clearly narrowed in on one of the empty window panes. Squinting to see through the haze of airborne debris and the flicker of panicked shadows, she seemed to have caught sight of something. Another round of bullets sprayed and he watched the vinyls she'd picked out become shards. The bookshelf they cowered behind shook with the force of being hit. Splinters rained down on them.
"You want to wait here that long? I vote we get out now."
There was hesitation blocking her words for an instant; so brief he questioned if he'd seen it, but he knew better than to dismiss it. "I need a medic, don't you think?" That was not the response he saw still itching behind her lips. She nudged him to move sideways further, separating them from the trail of blood. They darted between a few more aisles and ducked down again.
"I think there at least two hospitals capable of stitching you up." He wanted to bug out. Everything in him was singing for a good sprint to safety, but he couldn't leave her there, bleeding through the soft cotton of her paisley blouse. Time constraints threatened to move his body for him. "I think we should go. Now."
The full weight of her green eyes moved to him. "Are you running from the cops or something?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who the fuck was this woman?
"No, but the odds of us getting shot are jumping by the minute." Fact being fact, it seemed she did not intent to argue him. They rose up to peer between the shelves as another round of ammunition tore up the bookstore. From their new perspective, they could see bodies everywhere. Much of the screaming had ceased; whether it was because there wasn't anyone else alive or because they'd gone into a terrified silence neither of them could tell.
His palm itched to draw his weapon but he didn't want to spook her. Most women were frightened of guns and he didn't want to give her reason to think he was somehow in league with the shooter, though it made him sick to think that he probably knew them.
Loyalty was a falsehood, he was realizing, ten years too late.