Walk with Me (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (30 page)

Donovan rubs my back with his strong, supportive hands. “Kenna, I can’t tell you what to do about the letter. But if you do decide to talk with or see your mom, I don’t want you going over to their house alone. Do you understand? I won’t be able to protect you. Domestic disputes can turn brutal very quickly. Most cases of violence involve family members.” Donovan pulls me into a strong hug. “I need to know that you’re safe. Promise me. Promise me you won’t go to meet them alone.”

I exhale into his chest. “I promise.” His words resonate in my brain. He’s right. My safety and mental health outweigh my need for approval from my mom at this time. I’m so lucky to have him in my life, to have someone care about me the way he does.

Our private moment is interrupted when a person clapping their hands sounds from behind us.

“Now, wasn’t that just the sweetest fucking thing I ever heard?” a male voice says, slinking out of the shadows. Both Donovan and I drop our embrace and turn our bodies around to face him. He’s pointing a gun at us.

What the hell is this? Are we going to be mugged?

Donovan puts both hands in front of him, raised at his waist. “Whoa there, buddy. Careful with that gun. I’m sure we can give you what you want and all of us can just go about our business.”

He bellows a loud guffaw. “You two lovebirds don’t remember me? Do you?” he asks, jerking the gun at us. His tone morphs into anger and his face is distorted with violent intent. “Let me help you with your memory. You arrested me for that bogus robbery of the old lady last month.”

Holy shit! It’s gray-hoodie guy. I didn’t recognize him without his gray sweatshirt. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt, even though it’s cold enough to need at least a jacket. His shaved dark hair has grown out. Though still short, it lies flat against his skull, and his eyes are dark, almost black with enmity. I freeze in silence, my knees shaking in place.

Recognition must appear on our faces. “That’s right. You remember me now. Don’t you? You mother fucker. I told you I didn’t rob that old lady. They ended up dropping the charges, after I spent all weekend in jail because of you.”

“All right then,” Donovan speaks up for the two of us, “one less charge against you and a conviction on your record. It’s out of my hands, once I process you. It’s up to the deputy DA and the courts to decide whether there’s a case or not. I just arrested you because you matched the description and were in the area at the time.” Donovan slips right into his command mode, his police alter ego. I already feel a little safer.

“Yeah, but the possession-with-intent charges held and this is my third strike. I told you I was gonna get you. You and that tight little pussy of yours. This maybe the last time I get myself some pudd’n tang, how I figure it. You owe me. So I’m gonna take it in trade with your girl here.” His eyes flash to me, looking me up and down, undressing me with his eyes. He waves his gun at us. “Go in that little area up ahead next to the trash Dumpster.”

He’s directing us to a little alcove behind the Pottery Barn, a small receiving area for the store deliveries with a back door and a large trash Dumpster. I feel a wave of nausea in the pit of my stomach. Unable to move of my own volition, Donovan pulls me along with him. We walk a few feet ahead and into the small alcove followed by the gunman. Donovan pulls me behind him, standing between me and the gunman.

“This is just going to make things worse for you and add more time to your sentence.” Donovan tries to reason with the gunman.

The gunman’s face looks demented, his eyes crazed. “Shut your fucking mouth before I put a bullet in it and shut it for you. Plus, you’ll miss the show. I’ve been thinking about this since I spotted you two walking out of this alley earlier tonight. I ain’t going to no prison. I’m leaving town. But first I’m gett’n what’s coming to me. I think I’m gonna have her blow me first before I try out that tight little pussy of hers. All the while you can watch her loving it all,” he says with a sneer.

I cringe at his disgusting words. Donovan appears composed in front of me, but his body is stiff and his hands are balled into fists at his side.

“That’s not going to happen. You won’t get to her without going through me first, and we both know you can’t win a fight against me. And if you shoot me, the noise will bring the cops patrolling Third Street here immediately.” Donovan is talking to the gunman so calm and coolly, like they’re having a casual conversation about the weather.

The gunman is silent for a minute, pondering his next move, thinking about what Donovan has said to him, and then he snorts loudly through his nose. “You’re good.” The gunman laughs at Donovan, wagging his gun-free finger at us. “Almost got me there— what is it—Alexander?” The gunman’s expression changes, looking at Donovan sideways. “Alexander,” he says again, trying the name out. “Any relation to Dillon Alexander? You two look like you could be brothers.”

I blanch at his statement, and I think I can feel the waves of fury rolling off Donovan in front of me.

“What do you know of Dillon Alexander?” Donovan challenges, his voice hard with an edge of desperation.

“It’s like six degrees of separation, isn’t it?” The gunman chuckles. “Yeah, Dillon used to party at the house with me and my peeps back in the day before I was dealing. Heard he OD’d on some bad shit. Sad really. He was a good guy, sick artist. He’d come around with one of his boys. Can’t remember his name,” he says, his expression softening.

Oh my God. I can’t believe the guy with all the answers to Donovan’s questions about his brother is standing right here in front of us. Before Donovan can speak, the door to the back of the store opens and a worker steps out with a bag of trash in his hands. We all freeze in place and look up at the worker. The worker catches a glimpse at the gunman and I follow his eyes down to the gun in the gunman’s hand.

Donovan then rushes forward in a flash and tackles the gunman to the ground. A shot goes off from the gun and it drops to the dark asphalt when Donovan takes him down hard. The store worker runs back inside the store, slamming the door shut. Donovan and the gunman are fighting on the ground. Donovan is on top of him, throwing crushing blows to his face, crunching bone under his fists, but the gunman is trying to head butt Donovan and punching him in the sides.

I’m trapped with my back to the wall and the two men fighting in front of me. The Dumpster is blocking my path to the mouth of the alley. I spot the gun on the ground and run forward, grabbing it. I back against the wall, following their movements again with the gun. I will use the gun to protect myself or Donovan, if I need to, bravado steeping in my veins.

The gunman manages to roll over on his knees, pulling Donovan with him. The gunman is trying to get up to his feet. Donovan locks his arms around his neck in a chokehold, pulling him back down to the ground. He can’t seem to get the right grip to stop the fight. The gunman stops struggling against Donovan and instead throws himself back into Donovan. Donovan loses his balance and falls back against the asphalt hard. His head hits the corner of the Dumpster and his body goes limp.

I watch in silent horror as blood pools under his head, spreading through his hair, soaking the shoulders of his white shirt, turning it crimson. The gunman struggles to free himself from Donovan’s loose hold and stumbles to his feet. He turns around to face me. There’s blood everywhere—his nose, his mouth, trailing down his arm, dripping on the asphalt.

I feel my original bravery waning at his sight. I shakily point the gun at the bloody man in front of me, ready to pull the trigger. He stands mute, with a blank, confused expression on his face, absent of his original demented glare, and then he drops suddenly to my feet.

I scream and jump over him, run up the steps to the back door of the business, and try the handle. The door is locked. I bang on the door, screaming for help, for them to open the door, to call the police, to call an ambulance, but there is no answer. Both men are still lying lifeless. I need to check on Donovan.

I run back down to Donovan’s side, watching for movement from the gunman. “Donovan! Donovan!” There’s blood all over his face and his stomach, too. Plus, blood pooled under his head, soaking his hair. I pull my sweater off and lay it under his head. I lean my ear down to listen for breathing. I feel a faint breath on my ear. Oh, thank God. He’s still breathing.

“Donovan! I’m here. Can you hear me? You’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you help. Please, Donovan. Stay with me. Please,” I beg.

I need to call and get help. I pull my phone out and call 9-1-1. The operator answers after two rings.

“9-1-1 emergency. What are you reporting?”

“I need an ambulance. My boyfriend’s a cop and they got into a fight and the gun went off. He hit his head hard and there’s a lot of blood. I think the other guy was shot. I think he’s dead. Donovan’s still breathing. He needs an ambulance.” I ramble off everything I can think of.

“You need to stop talking,” the 9-1-1 operator instructs sternly. “I need to ask you some specific questions and I need to you listen carefully. Do you understand?”

“Yes. But please hurry, there’s so much blood.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the alley behind Third Street Promenade, behind the Pottery Barn.”

“Okay,” she says supportively. “How many people are injured?”

“Two. My boyfriend hit his head on some metal sticking out of a big Dumpster, and I think the guy with the gun was shot.”

Everything is in slow motion. I can’t feel my body or the control over the words coming out of my mouth. It’s like I’m on autopilot, like something within me is taking over and handling this situation.

“Are either of the men conscious?” the 9-1-1 operator asks, slow and steady.

“No. My boyfriend is still breathing, but I don’t know about the gunman.” I copy her calm monotone voice. “I’m too afraid to go check on him.”

“Where’s the gun now?”

“I don’t know. I picked it up when it was dropped, but I put it down to check on Donovan and now I don’t know where it is.” I scan the ground, but it’s too dark to see in the corners or all over the dark asphalt.

“That’s okay,” the 9-1-1 operator says. “Help is on the way. Don’t hang up.”

I sit and wait next to my man. I wait for what seems like eternity. I feel like I need to go get something or somebody. I need to do something to help him, but I can’t move from his side. He’s my everything. I can’t lose him, now that I’ve found him. He was not put on this earth to teach me about true love and then leave me. His life is worth more than that. I have just started to give him what he deserves—my heart. I have given all of me to him. He owns me, body, heart, and soul.

I’m at Donovan’s parents’ home, standing in front of a large easel holding a poster-size photo of Donovan in his police dress uniform. I dab the tears trailing from my eyes with the corner of a tissue. Donovan appears so young, vibrant, and healthy in this photo. The painful images of that horrid night still play in my mind, looping over and over again—the unexpected interruption of our private moment with the sole intent to hurt and kill, and the subsequent feelings of loss.

I can still see blood and death everywhere. Donovan’s face, smooth and relaxed, haloed by crimson, trailing out to the mouth of the alley. I shudder at the image. I can still feel the sticky liquid under my shoes, standing over Donovan’s still body. I close my eyes, shake my head, and take deep cleansing breaths to clear away the torment. Instead I picture Donovan’s face, expressive and full of life—how it looked after we made love.

I can still see his swollen, worked-over lips curved into a satisfied grin, his dilated, half-hooded eyes still burning from desire, and his flush complexion, barely tinting his already buff skin. I watch myself lying in his arms, exploring the light dusting of smooth hair on his chest, trailing my fingers down his sternum along the sinews of his abs, doodling pictures on his flat surface.

In the deep corner of my mind, I remember one afternoon Donovan asking me to translate the words he doodled on my back.

“Tell me what I’m spelling,” he says, tracing letters on my back.

I can feel him spelling each letter out using his finger. I sound out each letter.

“
I – l – o – v – e – u
.” I smile from ear to ear. “I love you.”

“Right,” he says.

“Okay. My turn,” I instruct him. “Sit up and turn your back toward me.” Donovan does what I ask, sitting cross-legged, turned away from me. I kneel on my knees, facing his back. I write and he sounds out the letters.

“
I – l – o – v
.”

“No, scratch that.” I make a wiping motion on his back, erasing the last word.

“Oh. Okay,” Donovan says.

I sit thinking how I want say what I feel. Then it comes to me.

“Okay. New word. Ready?”

“Yes,” Donovan says.

I begin again, gently drawing large letters on his wide, muscular back—my blank canvas.

“
U
.”

“New word.” I wipe away the imaginary letter with the palm of my hand.

“
O-w-n
.”

“New word.”

“
M-e
. I own you?” Donovan questions out loud the meaning of the words.