Amid the crash of wood and the brutal dig of the windowsill against his body, Sionn’s brain overloaded. He knew hurt. He just couldn’t pinpoint which of the pains coursing through him were important to focus on until his lungs began to strain and Sionn realized he wasn’t getting any more oxygen into them.
The man’s strong fingers were closed over his neck, and the air was being choked out of Sionn’s throat, every increment of pressure squeezing just a little more of Sionn’s life out of him. Swallowing, he flailed, hoping to break free, but the blond’s grip was too tight. The adrenaline was leaving him fast, and Sionn pushed out, hoping the knife he had in his hand was good for something. The man was too big, much too big to do anything more than furiously stab upward over and over and hope for the best. Pressed up against the wall, Sionn was trapped, and a thin black veil was beginning to creep up on him, small sparkling lights flashing at the edges of his vision.
“Man enough for you, fucker?” the blond screamed, spitting into Sionn’s face. Then he pulled Sionn forward and slammed him back into the wall.
Sionn’s teeth rattled in his skull when he met the wall again, and his fingers went slack, too numb to hold onto the knife any longer. He felt wet, drenched in blood and sweat, with only a little bit of fight left in him… until he spotted the battered plastic guitar case lying on the loft’s floor, its handle broken and hanging from a single hinge.
That was a reason to fight. Because Damien wanted his… their… guitar back. And he’d promised he would bring it down. Just like he’d promised he’d be there for the troubled guitarist as he picked his way through pain-shattered memories and as he built back up a life that had been taken from him.
Damien was more than enough reason to fight.
A knee was the blond’s undoing. Short and sweet, Sionn jerked his leg up, straining the seizing cramp until the agony made him blind. Standing, he slammed into the man again and Sionn heard the sweet whoosh of air leaving a man’s full lungs, a sound so familiar to him from growing up in a pack of boisterous, hard-playing boys. It sounded so painful, his own balls clenched and pulled up at the thought of being struck.
Howling, the blond lost purchase on Sionn’s neck, and he gasped, pulling in as much air as he could. Coughing, Sionn turned aside, slumping against the closed window to catch his breath. Then the blond lunged again, shoving his full weight against Sionn’s upper body, and a great cracking sound bounced about the loft’s metallic-scented air.
The ceiling tilted and Sionn struggled to keep on his feet but the blond’s heft shoved them both toward the window. It gave with a loud snapping crinkle and they struggled, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Glass from the cracked window cut through Sionn’s T-shirt and stabbing pains sliced through Sionn’s hips. He windmilled his legs, hoping to hook his feet onto something to break his fall, and he let the blond go to grab at the window frame. Glass cut at his face and another large piece dug into his hands. He couldn’t find the ledge and the blond dropped his shoulder and swung at him.
Sionn’s lungs froze from the fear ripping through him; then his fingers closed on the jutting shards of glass coming up from the sash. He was stuck, ass out and the blond hit him again. Unbalanced, his grip wasn’t enough to hold him steady and Sionn fell backward, going ass over teakettle out of the window behind them. The blond followed, free-falling through the empty frame, carried by his momentum.
The blond went over him, hips slamming into Sionn’s shoulders and then his back. Sionn felt a brief tug and a hard yank, probably the man’s hands as he tried to grab a hold of anything to keep himself from falling, and his weight pulled at Sionn. He nearly lost his grip, unable to support their mass, and the glass dug deeper into Sionn’s palms, smaller pieces continuing to break off and pepper Sionn’s upraised face with pricks of pain.
Then the weight was gone, and Sionn was left hanging in the cold San Francisco wind as he heard the wet splat and chunk of the blond man’s body hitting the street below.
HE WAS on the phone with Miki when a shower of glass rained down on him. Ducking, Damien slid off of the curb, briefly looking up to count the number of floors above him. An icy chill cupped his heart, squeezing in on his fear until it popped, spreading its poisonous vapors through his mind.
“Call 911, Sinjun. Tell the cops to get over to Sionn’s,” he yelled into the phone. “Get someone here to help.”
Something had happened to the phone. If Damien had thought hard about what that was, he might have realized he’d tossed it through the lobby’s glass doors when he couldn’t get them open. After kicking out the panels, he stepped over the mess he made, a sense of relief flooding through him when the elevator buttons lit up.