Page 22 of Go Back to December

The fast turning is too much for Twitchy’s reflexes. He staggers, putting enough space between us, that I’ve got a clear opening to the spot where he’s dropped my purse.

Baz sees it too. He circles Twitchy to distract him, drawing him further away. I dive to the ground and grab the purse. My fingers seize the cold, beautiful weight of my phone, and I fumble to unlock it.

Twitchy stumbles as Baz lures him into another loop of the platform. His crouching and choreography suggest that he’s been interspersing swim workouts with muay thai, or at the very least, combat kickboxing.

Disoriented, Twitchy drops the knife. Baz lunges toward it, but the tweaker beats him there. As he draws himself up, firmly gripping the blade, the guy spots the phone in my hand.

My movements stall in slow motion. I don’t register Twitchy’s coming for me until he darts in front of me, a flash of black leather carrying the acrid stench of a thousand cigarettes.

I lurch; my phone flies from my grip. He growls an insult and, with one quick thrust, slices the cuff of my coat.

The sudden throbbing pain in my wrist sends me to my knees.

Twitchy hovers above me, his wide pupils unfocused. He raises his knife.

Baz’s fist claps down on his arm. He wrenches it back, forcing Twitchy to release the blade, and kicks it down the stairs.

“Melody!”

His frantic cry steals my attention from the fire in my arm.

Twitchy seizes on the distraction. With his free arm, he elbows Baz in the stomach and wriggles out of his grip to chase down the stairs after his knife.

“Go after it!” I scream as I scramble for my phone, my wrist throbbing.

“You’re hurt!” Baz wheezes.

“I’ll be fine.” Gritting my teeth against the pain, I pound the emergency number on my phone. “Go get that knife before he can hurt someone else!”

Baz swivels his head between the stairs and me, panic and rage breaking his calm façade.

“GO!”

The operator picks up, and I frantically shout into the phone as Baz repels down the stairs. He’s close to gaining on Twitchy, but somehow, the tweaker finds that crazy reserve of strength and gets to the knife first. He rears up, catches Baz on the stair above him, and forces him back up to the landing behind the point of the knife.

“Miss?” the dispatcher calls out, but I hang up the phone and scramble to my feet.

Twitchy snarls at me and points the knife closer to Baz, so I freeze.

From the station below, shouts and whistles echo. Twitchy registers the fact that reserves are coming. He aims the knife squarely at Baz; his free arm flails. Insults fly from his tongue about lacks in Baz’s intelligence and anatomy.

Baz retreats up the stairs, dodging knife thrusts. Before he can move toward me, away from where the landing meets the stairs, Twitchy snags a fistful of Baz’s custom-tailored shirt.

The tension between their bodies could suspend a bridge. The fright on Baz’s face mirrors the fear choking my throat.

Twitchy draws back. There’s a gap between them. With the right leverage, I can free Baz, but if Twitchy tugs any harder on his shirt, it will close.

I have a split second to decide. If it’s worth the risk to get in the middle.

One miscalculation, and we could both end up on the wrong end of Twitchy’s knife.

Baz glances back at me, checking on me again. He’s at the end of an addict’s blade and he’s searching for me.

The emotions that look rouses in me are as heavy and dangerous as that knife.

When Twitchy reels his knife arm back, I react without another thought.

I run, barreling toward them, tuck to the ground and flail a scissor kick to cut Baz at the knees.