Hunting Human - Amanda E. Alvarez [17]
“No thanks.” Braden ducked his head and tried to step around her. Keep moving, avoid eye contact.
“You sure, honey? You look a little cold, bet I could warm you up.”
Braden sidestepped to avoid the nails she tried to drag down the front of his jacket.
“I’m just looking for someone.” Ah, shit. Judging from the slow smile that curled her lips he’d said exactly the wrong thing. Every step he took to his left to try to ease around her she matched with a step to her right until they’d switched positions.
“Baby, we’re all looking for someone.” She advanced toward him, teetering on high heels that matched the hue of her nails. The cheap vinyl of her shiny black raincoat crinkling with each step.
Braden choked. Since they’d switched positions, the light from the gas station on the corner played across her face. Desperate to look at anything but the Adam’s apple and the five o’clock shadow, Braden caught movement down an alley to his left. Fifteen feet down his brother was leaning against a dumpster, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
Thirty seconds from homicide, Braden ground out, “A little help?”
Chase planted his feet and pushed away from the dumpster, his first steps stiff and uncoordinated. The way he had his arm draped across his upper abdomen sent Braden rushing into the alley.
“Hey,” Chase acknowledged. “Thanks for the ride.” His clenched teeth and labored breathing spoke louder than his forced casualness.
“What the hell happened to you?” Braden reached out to place a steadying hand under his brother’s elbow.
“I’m fine.” Chase scowled, wrenching his arm out of Braden’s grip.
“Oh, yeah, you’re fine.” Braden maneuvered his brother out of the rain and against the wall of the tattoo parlor to gauge the damage. Chase’s hair was damp and plastered against the side of his face, his normally tan skin ashen except for the bluish tinge under his eyes. Judging from the hair along his jaw, he hadn’t shaved since Braden had seen him four days ago.
He probably hasn’t bothered to change clothes, either.
To top it off, blood stained the sweatshirt where Chase had his hand pressed against his ribs. Great. Typical Chase: single-minded to the point of self-destruction.
Braden kept one hand pressing his brother’s shoulder against the brick wall and used the other to try and lift the sweatshirt away from whatever wound his brother was going to insist didn’t exist.
“Don’t.” Chase barked, tension spiking through his body.
Braden froze, his wrist caught in Chase’s unyielding grip. It was typical of Chase to laugh off a minor problem or scoff at what he considered his family’s overprotective mothering. But the slight shift in Chase’s stance, the strain coursing through every fiber of his body and the cold defiance in his eyes said Chase felt defensive, cornered. That reaction set Braden’s teeth on edge.
“I’m not in the mood, Chase.” Braden met his brother’s cold gaze with a steely look of his own. When the grip on his wrist didn’t recede, Braden tightened his hold on Chase’s upper arm and growled, “This isn’t up for discussion. I need to know what we’re dealing with.” The grip on his wrist relaxed.
Braden slid his arm out of Chase’s grasp and gently took hold of the sweatshirt again. The moment he began lifting the material, Chase shifted his weight further into the wall and dropped his head. For a moment a hunted twelve-year-old stood in place of his brother.
Braden lifted the shirt and bit back a curse. Chase’s left side, starting above the waistband of his jeans and spreading up through his shoulder, was turning livid shades of blue and black. He’d bet anything the bruising extended along his back as well.
“Christ. What’d you do? Go ten rounds with a bus?”
“Actually, I think it was a ’75 Cutlass.”
“Ouch. Probably would have done better against the bus.” Concentrating, Braden ran his hand gently over his brother’s ribs,