Page 23 of Go Back to December

He tumbles back onto the landing.

Missing the arc of Twitchy’s knife.

With no target to take the force of his motion, the momentum pulls Twitchy back down the stairs. The knife clatters down after him.

I drop to where Baz lies, stiller than stone. My shaking fingers search his wrist for a pulse. He doesn’t move as I prod him, and when I call his name, he doesn’t respond.

“Baz!” My cries drown as the hiss and crackle of police radios punctuate footsteps on the concrete stairs, and black uniforms swarm us.

“Male, late twenties, unconscious.” A radio squawks.

Someone tries to pull me away. “Miss, please—”

A gloved hand clamps down on mine. Baz’s eyes flutter open. His bicolored eyes are unfocused as he murmurs, “What the fuck, MJ.”

Chapter Seven

“The streets are a mess. Gonna take longer than usual to get to the ER,” the EMT says as they load us both in the back of the ambulance. “Keep him talking.”

I’d strangle her, but my bandaged arm is out of commission, and Baz’s death grip imprisons my good hand.

“What about your wrist?” he complains. His face is pale, and he stifles a gasp as the EMT prods at his leg.

“It’s fine. Stop scowling at the people who are trying to help you, dingus.”

His frown deepens. “I’d like to return to our earlier conversation about harassment.”

“Let the record show, you followed me to the station.”

“If I had known you were a street fighter, I would have prepared myself better for the discussion.”

As his eyes search mine, I read my unspoken question in his expression.

What. Just. Happened?

When we get to the hospital, I’m going to request that a medical professional explain to me exactly what occurred with my brain back there. Something shifted in the laws of nature; I’m clinging to Baz like ivy, and he doesn’t hate it.

“Sir, I’m going to have to cut your pants,” the EMT says.

The rending of fabric shudders through the back of the ambulance, and a fist crushes my fingers.

“Baz,” I wheeze.

He stares down at our hands, lets up on the pressure by a fraction. “You didn’t answer me. Where did you learn your street-fighting moves?”

“Underground, mostly. There’s this kind elderly rat, my sensei. You’d hardly register he’s a rodent. How about you?”

“The Hague.”

“Humble flex, I like it. Explains why you were reading up on Congolese warlords.”

“It was the Blackhart & Steele Book Club selection. Next month is The Art of War.”

If it weren’t for the slight twist in his mouth, I’d think he was serious.

His eyelids droop.

“Baz?”