Page 28 of Fighting for Valor
This late, my thoughts ping a hundred miles an hour. A bird flies overhead, and I track it with my gaze until it lands in a tree on the University of Washington campus across the street. The cyclist speeding past me yells, “On your left,” and I jump.
“Shit.” Now my heart rate won’t slow down, and I press my hand to my chest as I pass the Presbyterian Church. A man sleeps in the doorway, his arm flung over his face.
He cries out, his entire body jerking inside his sleeping bag. “Don’t,” he slurs. “Not again… Stop!” Sitting bolt upright, he pushes the hood of his sweatshirt off his head and looks right at me.
The intensity of those deep blue eyes boring into me combined with the anguish I heard in his voice make me take a step back. But my foot lands on an uneven seam in the sidewalk, and I go down, hard, right on my tailbone.
I try to draw air into my lungs, but I can’t, the shock of the fall knocking the wind right out of me. Sitting there, clutching my chest, making hoarse choking sounds, I don’t even notice the guy moving until he’s right in front of me.
“Give it a couple of seconds,” he says as he holds my gaze. “Focus on my voice. You’ll be fine. But maybe next time, watch where you put your foot.”
Indignant now, I suck in a wheezing breath. “Maybe next time, you don’t stare down a woman in the dark late at night. Stalker.”
He flinches, and his shoulders hunch as his voice drops, a little more with each word until it’s only a whisper. “It wasn’t…intentional. Needed to lock on to something…real. You were…real.”
“Hey.” I reach out to touch his arm, but he jerks away. “I’m sorry. This late at night, my brain and my mouth don’t always operate on the same wavelength.”
Rising, he offers me his hand to help me up, and even though I don’t know the guy and he’s quite obviously homeless, he did a damn good job keeping me calm, so I place my palm in his.
Warm fingers with a firm grip pull me up, and I test out my ankle. Stalker Man watches me intently, focusing on my lower leg as I roll my foot around.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. A little sore, but nothing serious.” Why am I still talking to him?
Because you don’t talk to anyone but Lindsey, and he’s…safe. Who’s he going to tell about you? The homeless guy two doors down?
“This isn’t the best street late at night,” he says as he heads back up the three stairs to his sleeping bag.
“Which is totally why you sleep here? I’ve seen you before. A lot, I think, in the past month or so.” He’s full of contradictions. Gruff and sweet. Homeless, but with a clean, alluring scent. Like bergamot and sandalwood and soap.
“No one bothers me here.” Pulling the sleeping bag around his body, he shoves his backpack under his head. “You should be carrying pepper spray or something.”
I pull out my little kitty cat self-defense tool. With sharp, pointy ears, the metal tool looks like a cute—if not a bit large—keychain charm. But really, it’s a set of brass knuckles, with holes for my fingers where the cat’s eyes are, and ears that’ll cut, slice, or puncture skin. Totally illegal in this state—and a lot of others—but very effective.
“Shit. Okay. You can take care of yourself. Ignore me, then.” He closes his eyes, a clear dismissal, and I huff out a breath.
“Thank you,” I say, and he props his head up on his hand as he meets my gaze once more. “I would have panicked…and probably ended up wrecked for the whole night if you hadn’t helped me…?”
“Ric—” He shakes his head, conflict furrowing his brow. Sitting up again, he scrubs his hands over his face. “Ripper. My name’s Ripper.”
My laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I slap my hand over my mouth for a second. “You might want to pick another fake name to give the ladies, Ripper. Because that makes you sound like you’re an axe murderer.”
Ripper’s strangled sound of frustration holds more of the anguish I heard when I first walked by, and he turns over, his back to me, and pulls his hood over his black hair.
As I stare, mortified that I insulted him like that when I don’t even know him, his shoulders shake, and as a single sob escapes, muffled by the sleeping bag, I turn and rush for home.
Chapter Thirteen
Cara
As the citrusy scent of my bubble bath washes away the cloying bacon grease and heavy cheese odors from the food truck’s tiny kitchen, I take a healthy sip of wine and sink lower into the steaming water.
The apartment complex might be a dump—and the landlord an asshole—but there’s one redeeming quality about the place. A tub deep enough for me to relax in.
My ass hurts, and my ankle’s a little sore, but the only other lingering effect from my fall is Ripper’s face etched on the inside of my eyelids.
I can’t remember when I first saw him. A little over a month ago? But he sleeps in that church doorway every night. Seattle has a fair number of homeless. The nighttime temperatures are mild for a good part of the year. My walk to and from the bus takes me by a handful every day, but none of them have ever acted, looked, or smelled like Ripper.
