Page 3

That's all it takes.

The first guy doesn't even see me coming. I grab him by the back of his jacket and slam him face-first into the brick wall. He drops like a stone. The second one turns, starts to say something, and I drive my fist into his belly hard enough that he folds. He goes down gasping, and I'm already on him, knee in his spine, arm wrenched up behind his back in a hold that'll dislocate his shoulder if he even thinks about moving.

"Stay down," I say. My voice comes out flat and cold, the voice that used to make grown men in prison take three steps back without me having to lift a finger.

He stays down.

The first guy is trying to get up, blood streaming from his nose. I look at him.

"Leave," I say. "Both of you. Now."

They scramble to their feet and run, stumbling over each other in their hurry to get away. They don't look back.

Smart.

I turn around.

Daisy is pressed against the wall, purse clutched to her chest, eyes wide. Her breathing is fast and shallow, and there's a red mark forming on her arm where the first guy grabbed her. She's staring at me like she can't decide if I'm rescue or another threat.

Fair question.

"You okay?" I ask.

My voice comes out softer than I expected. Softer than it should, given what I just did and how close I was to doing worse.

She blinks. Nods. Doesn't say anything.

I take a step closer, hands up, palms out. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just…" I stop. How do I finish that sentence? *I just happened to be here because I follow you home four nights a week and memorized your schedule like a creep?*

"You're from the diner," she says. Her voice is shaky but steady underneath. "You… You come in sometimes."

"Yeah."

"You always sit in the corner booth."

"Yeah."

"You tip twenty percent even when you only order coffee."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod. She wraps her arms around herself, and I realize she's shaking. From cold, shock, or both, I can't tell.

"You're freezing," I say. "Let me... Let me at least get you home."

"On that?" She nods toward my bike.

"Yeah."

"I've never been on a motorcycle."

"I'll go slow."

She looks at the bike, then back at me, then down at her arm where the bruise is already darkening. I watch her weighing options she doesn't really have: walk home alone after what just happened, or accept a ride from a stranger who appeared out of nowhere at exactly the right moment.

"Okay," she says finally. "But just… Just to my house. That's it."

"That's it," I agree.

I walk to the bike and swing my leg over, start the engine. She approaches slowly, hesitant, and I realize she has no idea how to do this. I reach back and pat the seat behind me.