But the boys were already bolting into the darkness.
Her fingers refused to release the steering wheel for the longest moment. She finally pried them free, and, leaving the engine running, eased out of the car.
She wished she’d turned the car differently, because the boy was mostly in shadow, away from the headlights. He lay face-down, the thick dark hair on his head matted with blood at one temple. They’d done a number on his face: More blood glistened on his swollen brow. Abrasions scored his cheek in various directions, as though he’d met the pavement intimately, and more than once. His black hoodie had taken a beating, and his jeans weren’t much better, sporting a tear down the side of one leg. He was breathing, a rattle of air pulling into his lungs, ending on a slight wheeze each time.
She’d never seen someone beaten so badly.
“Hey.” She gave his shoulder a little shake. He didn’t move.
Those boys had run off on foot. She had no idea if they’d stay gone.
Now what, genius?
She left her car engine running, its headlights cutting a path in the darkness. She reached inside the door and pulled out her half-empty water bottle. She crouched beside him, feeling the cold grit of the pavement through her jeans. Then, using her hand to slow the flow, she trickled water down the side of his face.
At first, nothing happened. She watched in macabre fascination as the water pulled blood across his jaw, trailing over his split lip.
Then he came to with a vengeance.
Becca wasn’t ready for that, for him to explode off the ground in a fury, his fists swinging before his eyes were open.
She was lucky he was injured. She barely got out of his way.
His momentum didn’t last long, however. He staggered to a knee, planting a hand against the pavement. He coughed and it shook his body; then he spit what looked like blood.
Now that he wasn’t lying on the ground, she recognized him. Christopher Merrick. Chris. He was a junior, like she was, but she couldn’t think of two words they’d ever exchanged. He was the Merrick twins’ younger brother, the type of guy who’d slouch in the back of the classroom and stare at the teachers with disdain, daring them to call on him. People left him alone, but that’s how he seemed to like it. An outsider by choice.
Unlike her.
“You gave me water,” he rasped, his head down.
His voice startled her, made her realize she was just standing there, clutching her water bottle so hard it made the plastic crackle.
“Yeah,” she said. “Those guys—they could come back—”
“Are you stupid?”
The derision in his voice was like a punch to the chest. “Funny. I was just asking myself that.”
“No. I just—I could have hurt—” Chris coughed again, then pressed his forehead to the ground, making a low sound in his throat. He spit blood again. She felt like she was standing in the middle of one of those cable crime dramas—the kind where the violence is too much for network television.
“Do you have a cell phone?” She cast a quick look out into the darkness, but the night remained still. “You need an ambulance.”
“I need a damn rainstorm.” He seemed to laugh, but it choked him. “A drizzle. Fog even.”
He was delirious. “Can you get into the car? I can drive you to the hospital.”
“No. Home.”
“Whatever. Climb in the car. Those guys could come back, and I’m not—”
A hand closed on her arm, hot and meaty and painful. A voice spoke from the darkness. “Did you think we wouldn’t wait and see?”
“Big surprise.” The other voice now. “No sirens.”
That hand swung her around. This guy didn’t go to her school. He looked older. College, maybe. Short blond hair framed a severe face, all angles and lines.
Something scraped on the pavement. “This is going to suck,” said Chris.
The other one was dragging him to his feet.
Becca knew how to swallow pain and keep emotion off her face. “Let me go. I didn’t call the cops, but he did.”
Those sharp features cracked into a smile. “We took his phone.”
“Good try,” said Chris. He coughed again. The other guy punched him in the side, and he dropped to the pavement.
The one on her arm shoved her up against her car. It hurt. She squealed before she could help it.
“You should have driven away, sweetheart.”
“Nah,” said the other, his dark hair making him look sinister. “That right there is dessert.”
Then she recognized his voice. Seth Ramsey. A senior. And part of the reason she’d been in that self-defense class.
His friend reached out to cup her chin. “Yeah. Dessert.”
Maybe it was Seth’s presence; maybe it was the implication in their words. Whatever, her mind didn’t think, her body just moved. The water bottle went flying and her arm swung.
Eye gouge.
Something squished under her fingers. He dropped her arm like a hot potato, shoving her away, flying back to put a hand to his face. “Bitch! You bitch!”