Page 37 of Fight For Me

“Hey, would you rather your parents couldn’t stand each other?” he asks.

“Nope." I kiss the top of his head then lean over to hug Mom. “Just so long as I don’t hear any details.”

“There won’t be any details to share tonight,” Mom says, narrowing her eyes at him. “I think someone will be just fine on the couch.”

“This is the thanks I get for taking you out and making sure you had greasy food waiting at home!”

I’m still laughing as I leave them in the kitchen, the sound of their bickering following me. No, I’ve never once had to wonder whether my parents could stand each other.

* * *

The springtime airis warm on my skin as I climb out of my car. It’s been unseasonably cool for the last few weeks and I’ve been itching to get to the beach. I haven’t been surfing in months.Maybe I can convince Fox to take our boards out tomorrow, I think as I hurry through the lot towards the condo building. The tile guys are taking over the store for the weekend to finish the floor so we won’t be able to work. Everly will probably insist we go down there anyhow and keep an eye on things through the windows. She’s a little bit of a control freak with the renovations. But maybe—

“Oh!” I stop short as the figure steps in front of me, my heart pounding hard. This is a dark corner of the parking lot and I can’t make out the person’s face, but I can tell they’re much bigger than me. Automatically, my hand grips my keys. Our dads made Everly, Rose, and me take a self-defense class when we were teenagers and I desperately try to remember what they said about using keys as a weapon.

“Alex?” A familiar voice asks, and then Wyatt steps under a street light and relief floods me. “Shit, sorry. Did I scare you?”

I place a hand over my pounding heart as relief crashes over me. “No, I’m fine.”

He steps closer, eyes narrowing as he studies my face. “You’re not fine. You’re white as a ghost.”

“It’s dark out here,” I say feebly.

His expression hardens. “It is. Which makes me wonder what the hell you think you’re doing?”

My heart is still galloping away in my chest but a trickle of annoyance seeps through. “I’m parking my car. What are you doing hovering in corners?”

He ignores my question, eyes scanning the lot. “Why are you parking by yourself? At night? Why the hell didn’t you use the valet?”

I roll my eyes. Our fancy pants condo building has valet service, but I have yet to use it. It sounds like a pain in the ass, honestly. I’d much rather be able to come and go as I please.

“I’ve parked my car at night a hundred times, Wyatt. Besides, this is a guarded lot.”

He doesn’t look at all appeased. In fact, he looks unreasonably angry. Angrier than I think I’ve ever seen him before. “It’s not safe,” he growls.

“If it’s not safe, what are you doing out here?”

“I’m a guy—”

I hold up a hand. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Wyatt Warner.”

We glare at each other until our stare down is interrupted by a plaintive whimper coming from somewhere behind Wyatt. Something shifts in his expression, a softness taking over the anger. “Come here,” he murmurs, tilting his head toward some sort of electrical box near the base of the lamppost. The whimper sounds again, a little louder this time, and I step closer while Wyatt fumbles with something in his hands—it’s too dark to see what he’s holding.

“Is that an animal?” I whisper.

Wyatt finally manages to arrange whatever objects he’s wrestling with and he holds out his cellphone, the flashlight illuminating the ground. As I step closer, I realize why he was fumbling—he also has a Tupperware container clutched in his left hand and his right is pressed tightly to his chest in a sling. His surgery. Shit, I wasn’t even thinking—

“Look,” he murmurs again, the soft rasp of his voice sliding down my spine. How many times have I imagined that whisper in my ear?

“Oh,” I suddenly gasp, as I realize what I’m looking at. Far behind the electrical box, crammed into a corner between the metal siding and a retaining wall, is the filthiest dog I’ve ever seen in my life. He stares back at us, big brown eyes illuminated by the light of Wyatt’s phone.

“I was just coming home and heard him whimpering,” he explains. “I tried to get him to come out, but he won’t budge.” He directs the light down to the dog’s leg, which he seems to be holding tight to his body. “I think he hurt his paw.”

“Poor baby,” I murmur. Then he lets out another whimper and my heart clenches. “We need to help him!”

“That’s why I came back down. Here, hold this,” Wyatt hands me his cellphone then sets the Tupperware down on the concrete. “I heated up some left-over chicken,” he explains, fumbling to open the container with one hand. “I thought maybe I could coax him out.”

“You hold this,” I say, shoving the phone back at him. “I’ll handle the food.”