Page 3 of Stone’s Cage

The cross street where the alley opens is now my immediate goal. If I turn around suddenly, my shoes on the gritty ground, wet with a heavy fall rain, might give me away. He's still signing autographs, his groupies jumping up and down, and he signs anything presented: one girl's arm, a lot of fake, cheap boxing gloves, a sock, some paper. That Sharpie's ready for whatever. They're loud, yelling his name and waving arms and a few have T-shirts with his face on them. I manage to decipher "Stone! Carson Stone!"

Carson Stone. That name came up before in searches. He must be one of them, one of the gang. A Hook.

And there's probably more right here, right in front of me.

But I don’t really know what to do next—I didn't think that far ahead—and there's too many people around. Being anonymous is harder than you think. Being invisible is even harder. There's another gym I can scope out tomorrow night, a place called Hobie's.

Stepping out from the fire escape, trying to act like I am just a part of the crowd, I shove past people, and walk right by Stone, determination in each step. But just as I pass, I pause for an instant. He has a scent. Fleshy and citrusy and absolutely delicious. This catches me off guard and I tip my chin to my chest, trying not to snare his glance. This isn't why I am here, and I have work to do.

But he does see me. His head snaps up and I see those eyes for an instant before I turn away, knowing he's staring at my back. I can feel his stare bearing down between my shoulder blades. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I glance over my shoulder and see him shift his weight. Goosepimples start behind my right ear and tingle down the outside of my arm. Those blue eyes blaze.

Taking a quarter spin to the right at the end of the alley, someone shouts, and I run. I don't know if I'm running from fear or from him.

Chapter Two

Carson Stone

I'm stiff tonight from the fight yesterday, but working out felt great. It's after midnight and I'm closing up Hobie's, Coach's gym. Everything burns—my knees, hips, stomach, shoulders, back. My arms are still rock hard, pumped with blood, and my hands feel numb. I'd cut myself earlier, busted a knuckle open. I'd been hitting the punching bags too hard again. First the body-sized one, then the speed bag. I can really get into a rhythm with that one. Almost an out of body experience. What the suits call "flow." Yeah, I get in the flow when I turn that speed bag into a blur. In the fucking zone.

Coach came around with tape, but I like the feel of the leather coming back to meet skin. I've learned to train with my bare hands. When you train with bare hands and then get taped for a fight, it feels like you've dipped your hands in steel.

I turn the key in the lock, and I hear this sound again, for the second time. A kind of sighing cry and for a moment I just think it's someone's window cranked enough to let the wind howl. Shoving the key in my back pocket, I turn to go, my sneakers completely silent on the damp, gritty asphalt. Then there's a third small cry. The last thing I need is a cat to take care of. This is what I tell myself anyway. And then I hear it again. A kitten maybe. I turn around, retracing my steps.

I start pulling at the trash cans. And then I feel someone stiffen, but I don't see them. I just sense something frightened pulling back. As I push the trash cans apart, she's just sitting there. This girl is sitting on the concrete, in the drizzle, her hair completely wet, looking up at me. Her skin is so dark, all I can see are her eyes, large, caramel colored, flecked with gold. I just stare at her.

"What the hell? What are you doing?"

She stares at me and draws her knees tighter to her chest. Suddenly, I recognize her. It's the girl from the alley last night. The one that left without an autograph. The one who didn’t belong there.

"It's midnight. This is dangerous." I take a step back and adjust my weight evenly.

"None of your goddamn business," she says, wriggling a little. "Leave me alone."

Pressing the light on my keychain, I lean in for a closer look.

She's in some kind of trouble. I don't know what, but she shouldn't be sitting behind trash cans in a back alley at night. This is not a good thing. I dig my hands into my gym pockets. She's just a kid.

Shit, I feel a wad of money in my left pocket, cash not earmarked for Cassie. I could take this girl home, I could feed her. I have money to do that.

Suddenly there's a movement under her sweatshirt, something undulating like a gritty, urban version of Alien, and a tiny head appears. A little orange tabby kitten with rain inspired cowlicks opens its mouth for a fifth cry. Taking a hand, she shoves it back under her hoodie.

Okay. She can’t stay here. "All right," I say. "Listen, this is what we're gonna do. You're gonna walk behind me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I don’t know you from shit."

I nearly laugh. It's like she doesn't know how to swear.

"I get it," I say, realizing how young she must be. "You shouldn’t trust me anyway. But listen. You just follow me, ten, twenty feet behind. Whatever you want. Then, if you feel unsafe, or that you want to leave, you can."

Silence. Her hoodie does a twist and she sucks in her breath sharply and winces.

My stomach turns and I lean closer. "Hey, you hurt?"

Shaking her head, she glances at me with an apology, as she adjusts the tiny kitten under her clothes: "Claws."

I straighten back up. She's gorgeous. Gorgeous and in trouble can combine into nothing but trouble for me. But I can't help myself. "I live two blocks from here. We're going to walk around the corner. I'm going to set out some food for you on my stairs. You're welcome to it."

"I'm not hungry," she says, but she's starting to stand up. I want to reach out and give her a hand. But I know better than to give anything, and it's why I never help anyone. It always comes back to bite you. But now, she's standing, wiping off her pants. She's wearing black skinny jeans and a light blue hoodie in late September and it's gotta be forty degrees out already.