Mina

I don’t know if all the screams are mine. Someone whimpers in the back seat. That would be Remy. Talya’s in the front seat beside me. Yeah, she’s

screaming, too.

I clamp my lips shut to stop the terrible sound and force my brain to work. I hit something. Someone.

Oh God. I just hit a motorcycle.

I lurch out of the car and stumble around to the front. The impact crushed my front grill, crumpling the hood. One of my headlights is out—broken by the impact. The remaining one casts an eerie beam over the horrible scene. A huge motorcycle is on its side in front of the car, but the rider—

Please don’t let him be under the car.

A pitiful whimper comes out of my throat. I drop to my knees to peer under the carriage, but I can’t see anything.

Talya and Remy tumble out of the vehicle, too. They were drunk when we left Eclipse. We’d be home by now, except Talya made me wait to drive home until the car stopped spinning for her.

“Wh-what’s happening?” she croaks.

Remy stares at the bike. “Where’s the driver?”

“I don’t know,” I wail, running around to the back of the car.

There.

A large crumpled form is lying on the alley pavement behind my car. I cover my mouth with my hand. Is he dead?

Please don’t let him be dead.

No, he’s moving, trying to sit up.

I run to him and squat beside him. “I-I don’t think you’re supposed to move.”

He groans and pulls off his helmet. One arm wraps protectively around his ribs.

“Raul!” My heart rockets to my throat, choking me.

I’ve hurt Raul. I hit Raul. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad.

“Raul, don’t move. I’m going to call 911.” I fumble in my back pocket for the phone, cursing myself for not calling the second it happened. Or maybe this still is the second it happened. I can’t tell. Time seems very slow at the moment.

“No.” Raul snatches the phone out of my hand, cracking the case in his powerful grip.

I gape at him.

“No ambulance.” He staggers to his feet and shoves my phone in his pocket.

Blood runs down his forehead, pouring into his eyes.

I’m trembling from head to toe, my legs barely holding me up. “Wh-what? No, you need an ambulance.”

He limps toward my car.

“Raul.”

He walks around to the front and picks up—yes picks up—his motorcycle. I don’t mean from the ground, I mean, into the air. He carries it around behind a dumpster and stows it there.

“Raul, are you all right? I think you need medical attention, right away.” “Yeah, definitely.” Shock reverberates in Remy’s voice. I wonder if mine

sounds the harrye.

He-man—the Hulk—Neanderthal Joe just keeps going, dragging himself to the driver’s side of my car and getting in.

“What? You can’t drive. What are you doing?” I know I sound like the stupid one here, but he’s acting crazy. He can’t get in and drive a car. He probably has broken bones and a concussion. Not to mention the fact that he needs stitches on his forehead.

“Get in.” The order is deep and scratchy and it carries so much command behind it, the three of us scramble to obey, even though he’s in no position to be taking charge of this situation.

I climb in the passenger seat and Remy and Talya jump in back.

Raul puts the car in drive and takes off down the alley. I reach around to the floor of the back seat where I keep my dance bag and fish out a pair of tights. “Uh, here.” I hand it to him, pointing at his bleeding forehead.

Confusion flits across his expression at first, but he accepts the fabric and

swipes at his face, mopping the blood up. “Thanks.” He hands it back like he doesn’t need to use it for compression. Like it was just a scratch.

“Are you driving to the hospital?”

He gives a quick shake of his head. “I’m driving you three home. You’re too shook up to drive, and they’re drunk.”

He’s so matter of fact—sounds so completely capable—I almost forget for a moment he’s in no condition to drive.

“Tell me where to go.”

“Um…” My brain won’t work at all. He’s right, I’m way too shaken up. I can’t even function.

“Who do you drop off first?”

“Talya.” The answer comes as a relief. “Campbell and Third.”

He gives a nod and puts on his blinker, driving my bashed up car as if nothing happened.

“I-isn’t this illegal? Leaving the scene of an accident?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “The other party is in the car with you.”

“But don’t we have to notify the cops? How will I file the insurance report? I wasn’t drinking or anything. Were you afraid I’d get in trouble?” I know I’m babbling. I can’t stop myself.

None of this makes any sense.

“Are you hurt?” he asks suddenly, glancing over at me. His forehead is creased, green eyes flash with alarm.

“Um.” I rub the back of my neck, checking for whiplash.

“Any of you?” he barks, looking in the rearview mirror.

“No. I’m okay,” Talya slurs.

“Me too,” Remy says.

“Mina?” He looks back at me. “Talk to me, baby.” “Raul, you’re hurt,” I manage to say.

He gives a dismissive shake of his head. “I’ll be fine by morning. Just a few bumps and scrapes. But tell me you’re okay, or I’m going to lose my shit here.”

“I’m fine.”

Raul’s shoulders relax, but the crease remains between his brows. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I think so. Just shaken up.”

“Of course you are.” He drops a hand on my knee like he’s offering me comfort. This is more like the Raul I know. Neanderthal Raul is fading away.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” I blurt, the tears that have been threatening since the impact falling now.

“Aw, no. It was my fault, baby. I didn’t expect anyone to be coming down

that alley at this time of night, but I should’ve looked first.”

“Were you drinking?” I don’t want to sound like a bitch, but I’m still trying to figure out why he wouldn’t let me call for help.

“No, baby. I’m fine. That’s why I’m driving.” He moves his hand to my nape and squeezes, gently kneading my muscles.

We reach Third Avenue and I point out Talya’s house. He pulls over and she climbs out. “Are you guys sure you’re okay?” She leans back in the open door. Her breath reeks of alcohol.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” I say. “Goodnight.”

“G’night.” She gives a sloppy wave and slams the door shut.

Raul waits until she’s safely in her house before he starts driving again. I direct him to Remy’s house and then to my little casita. Raul stops the car there and gets out.

Is he coming in?

I should definitely ask him to stay, in case he goes into a coma or something during the night. But when he walks around to meet me, he’s no longer limping. On closer inspection, I see the cut on his head isn’t bleeding anymore, either. In fact, it no longer looks fresh. It has the appearance of skin that’s already been stitched closed for a week. It must be a trick of the light.

“Come here.” Raul wraps me in a bear hug.

I didn’t know how badly I needed it until I’m in his strong arms, my face pressed against his massive chest.

A few more tears leak out as he burrows his fingers in my hair and massages my scalp. The shock and aftershock quickly morph into something different. Something dangerous and needy.

I pull away, remembering how awkward our parting had been at Eclipse. My hands flutter. “Um, do you want to come in? I mean, you should stay the night. Just to be sure you’re all right. Not because I want you to spend the night—” Ugh. I’m making a mess of things.

Raul, as usual, takes the lead, taking my elbow and walking toward my door. “I’ll stay on your couch, if you have one. To make sure you’re all right.”

To make sure I’m all right.

This guy is seriously out of touch with his own body.

Except he looks fine. He’s not clutching his ribs anymore. His pupils are the harrye size. Where did the limp go?

What in the hell just happened?

We stop on the porch and he examines my keyring, correctly guessing which key opens my door. Inside, he looks around my tiny place and sets the ring on the stand in the entry.

“I’ll just clean up.” He peels his bloodied shirt off and heads to my bathroom.

My jaw might have dropped a bit seeing his bare shoulders and back. Tattoos curl around giant, telephone pole size arms. The muscles in his back would put the Hulk to shame.

Yum.

But no.

I’m not going to fool around with Raul anymore because:

A) He’s here to recuperate from the accident, and

B) He’s a player. Except

C) I’m not sure I care.

I trail him to the bathroom, telling myself it’s because I need to make sure he’s all right. Check out his injuries for myself.

It’s not because I want to gawk at his very fine chiseled body.

He splashes water over his face, washing off the blood and when he straightens, I gasp.

The cut is almost completely gone.

My brain tries to make it work, to fit it into a scenario that makes sense, but I can’t. I saw that cut gushing blood, not more than thirty minutes ago.

He catches me looking and slaps his hand over his forehead, hiding the cut, which only makes this weirder. Like Twilight Zone crazy.

I stumble back, my breath caught in my throat. “Who… what… are you?”