“But—” I start again.
She groans. “This is what I get for trying to save a life. The most annoying fucking rescue victim of all time.”
“You’re kind of mean, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Who are you?” I whisper-yell as we slither through the dark, hands thrown out to the grimy stone wall for guidance.
“Someone who’s tired of watching Mac and his boys steamroll over everyone in this goddamned hellhole of a neighborhood. Between the yuppies on the west side and the mobsters on the east, the whole place has gone to shit.”
“Why are you helping me?
She pauses. “Does it matter?”
“No. But it’ll make it much harder to send you a thanks-for-saving-my-ass fruit basket if you don’t tell me your name.”
She snorts. “Is that the going rate for saving the life of an heiress, these days? A fucking fruit basket?”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Tink. Those edible arrangements are surprisingly—”
My words cut off abruptly as she slaps a hand over my mouth and stops in her tracks, stiller than a statue. I’m about to ask what the hell she’s doing when I hear them.
Footsteps.
The floorboards overhead are creaking with the weight of slow, measured footfalls as someone moves through the space above us. Dust drifts down onto our heads, coating our hair like snow. They come to a stop almost directly over us. There’s a sharp ringing sound, then murmured conversation fills the air.
They’re on the phone.
Saved by the bell-tower ringtone…
My heart starts to pound so loud I worry whoever’s upstairs will be able to hear it from a floor away. After a few breathless seconds, Tink’s eyes meet mine through the darkness, wide and alert. She nods slowly, and we start to edge backwards in unison toward the wall.
We’ve made it only a few feet when the conversation upstairs falls silent and footsteps start up again.
He’s moving away — I can hear his steps getting fainter. That would normally be a relief, except he’s heading straight for the door at the top of the basement stairs.
My heart pounds faster.
Any minute that door will open, the lights will flicker on, Cormack will walk back down here, and we’ll be more thoroughly screwed than the cast of Sex and the City.
“Fuck.” Tink’s curse is so low, it barely reaches my ears. There’s a muffled scraping sound, like wood being dragged across stone. “Help me, idiot. It’s stuck.”
I unfreeze, spinning to see she’s reached the storm door. Her hands are gripping the wood, trying to pry open the narrow sliver of space until it’s large enough to squeeze through. Before I’ve had time to blink, I close the distance between us, align my hands next to hers, and pull.
The footsteps are practically to the stairs.
We yank harder — muscles straining, sweat beading — and are rewarded when the door screeches open an inch.
Still not wide enough.
“What, are you afraid to break a nail?!” Tink hisses. “Pull the damn thing!”
“I’m trying!” I snap. “Maybe if your arms weren’t the approximate width of toothpicks—”
“That’s rich, coming from a girl who probably thinks yoga is a sport.”
“You try balancing your chakras in a 98 degree sweat box, then we’ll talk.”
I hear the sound of a boot hit the top step.
The storm door creaks a half-foot wider.
Just a few more inches.
The overhead light flips on, burning my eyes with sudden intensity.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
“Hey — what the hell?” A man’s voice rings out with alarm at the same moment the door finally gives beneath our collective weight.
“Go, go, go!” Tink’s words are intent and her hands are rough as she pushes me bodily through the tiny opening.
“STOP!” I hear the man call, pissed beyond belief. The sound of running footsteps reaches my ears. “Stop right fucking now!”