He laughs a little. "Kill you?"
I huff. "You think this is funny? Seriously?" I keep my eyes on his face, specifically his eyes, because you can tell a lot from a person's eyes. This guy's eyes are calm, relaxed, and a rich blue color that reminds me of those postcards from the Caribbean of the white sand beaches that lead into crystal clear blue water that doesn't even look real. I always assumed a deranged lunatic's eyes would be dark and bloodshot, fluttering at a frantic nonstop pace. So now I'm confused. Is he a lunatic or not? I'm still going with lunatic. After all, he shot a freaking gun at me!
"What's your name?" he asks.
"So now you want to know my name before you kill me? Why? Is it part of some sick game you—"
"Hey." He touches my arm. I flinch and he removes his hand. "I didn't mean to scare you." His voice is low and soft. "And I'm not trying to kill you."
"You're not?" I ask suspiciously.
"No." He laughs a little. "I saw you over here on the ground and I came over to help."
"I don't need help," I say, my gaze dropping to my knee which is now bleeding all down my leg.
"Actually, I think you do. Your knee's really banged up. I got a first aid kit in my truck. Let me go get it." He stands up.
"No!" I try to get up but my knee is throbbing and I'm afraid to put pressure on it. I didn't realize how hard I fell. "I'm fine. Just go away."
"I'll be right back," he says, casually walking back to his truck. I shouldn't be staring, but damn, he has a good body. Wide shoulders, tapered waist, and an ass that nicely fills out his jeans.
What the hell am I doing? I should be trying to get inside my house, not drooling over the guy who shot at me! But maybe he didn't shoot at me. Maybe he just shot a gun to scare away whatever critters he thought might be hiding in the overgrown weeds that used to be Old Man Freeson's lawn.
I scoot back onto the walkway that leads to my house, but before I even make it a foot closer, he's back, holding a small white box with the words 'first aid' written on it in bright red letters.
"So why did you think I shot at you?" he asks, kneeling down in front of me.
"Because you did," I say, watching as he opens the box. "I heard the gun go off."
He looks to the side and his brows furrow like he's thinking. And then he smiles back at me. "That must've been my truck. Sorry about that. I'm so used to it I don't even notice it anymore."
"Your truck? That sound came from your truck?"
"It's old as dirt, and for some reason it always makes that sound when I turn the engine off. I've brought it into the shop and the mechanics can't figure out why it does that. So I just live with it." He points to my knee. "We need to clean that off before I bandage it up." He rises up and offers me his hand. "Let's go inside."
I reluctantly take his hand and let him pull me up. "Just help me to the door. I can clean it up myself."
"Let me do it." He smiles at me as he wraps his arm around my middle, supporting my weight. "I'm a professional."
"A professional what?" I ask, hobbling toward the door.
"EMT. I'm not anymore, but I was for almost a year. I'm an expert in emergency medical treatment, so a scraped knee is nothing."
My mind flashes to the many nightmares I've had about the accident. I wasn't there so I don't know what it looked like but based on what the police told me, my mind fills in the images. And I always see the EMT workers, who are faceless in my dreams but wearing uniforms; dark blue pants and matching shirts. They're the first to arrive at the scene and I'm always yelling at them to hurry up. To save my family. But it's too late. It's always too late. Why didn't they save them?
I shove him away. "I don't need your help."
"What's wrong?" He turns to me. "Why are you yelling?"
I'm yelling because he was an EMT and EMTs killed my family. Well, they didn't kill them, but they didn't save them which in a roundabout way is like killing them. But that's not this guy's fault so I really shouldn't yell at him.
I sigh. "Could you please just leave me alone?" I turn and take a step toward the door, but I wasn't looking down and my foot catches on a piece of broken concrete that the ground has pushed up. I'm always super careful not to trip on it. Except for today.
Strong arms encircle my waist right before I hit the ground and raise me up to standing.
"What were you saying about not needing help?" he asks. Before I can answer, he reaches under my legs and scoops me up and starts walking to the door. "Is it unlocked?"
"Put me down!" I say, pushing on his chest, which is rock hard.
He ignores me and keeps walking, stopping at my door.