CHAPTER NINE

The doorbell rang. Upstairs, Ruby had just slipped into jeans and an oversized fisherman's sweater that had once belonged to her father. She couldn’t relax, so she’d been thinking of heading down to the neighborhood Starbucks to surf the Internet; maybe do some more research on the Berkeley sociology department.

 

Nervously, she glanced at the time display on her bedside alarm clock, which read 7:30 p.m. in bright red numbers. She was sure she was being paranoid, if not downright ridiculous. She stopped dead in the doorway between the kitchen and the front hall. Yes the doorbell had rung. So why did she hear a noise behind her?

 

A cool, smooth hand curled expertly around her face and over her mouth. "Don't fight me, and whatever you do, don’t open the door,” softly said a mysterious speaker from behind her. "There’s a guy out there who probably wants to kill you."

 

Ruby tried to scream, to bite his hand, but she lay helpless against the taut, wiry torso of the man who held her.

 

He wore a t-shirt under a leather jacket. The scent of him, as her head pressed against the crook of his neck, wasn't unpleasant. Like well-worn leather and a bit of the outdoors in it--tree bark, salt water. His voice sounded strangely young, not at all gruff, but the strong expertise of his grip told her this was a guy who knew how to get physical, and had done so many times. She felt pools of sweat break out under her arms. He must have been able to hear the neck breaking pace of her heart, pumping blood throughout her body. She finally understood what her 10th-grade biology teacher meant when he had explained adrenaline: fight or flight. So which would it be?

 

The Beretta was in her purse on the kitchen counter, but even if she could reach it, she couldn't, in a million years, imagine herself brave enough to use it. She'd laughed at Fox for being overprotective, but she'd never thought this moment would actually come. Instead, she stood frozen, cursing her cowardice. She of all people should have been able to defend herself. Her only other option, she supposed now, was to outsmart him.

 

“Who are you?” she tried to ask through his palm, muffled through layers of skin and bone.

 

He seemed to understand, though. He paused for a second, as if debating whether to tell her. He took a deep breath. "Joseph Ryan. I'm a friend of Kyle's."

 

She jerked again. "I know what Kyle's friends did to him." She was aggressive enough that he loosened his hand a little, her words almost intelligible.

 

"So do I. I can explain everything, but if you don't do what I say, neither of us will live long enough for me to do that, so here's what's going to happen. We're going to go out the back door and get on my bike, and then I'm going to take you somewhere safe."

 

"No freaking way.” What made this nut think she was going anywhere with him, let alone on a motorcycle? She tensed her shoulder again and made another effort to jerk away. He held her fast.

 

"You think this guy is here to deliver a pizza?" he growled, clearly frustrated at her refusal to cooperate instantly. In his world, maybe that was what women did--go along with whatever their men told them to do. But she wasn’t part of his world. Not yet, anyway. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “He's here to hurt you. At best.”

 

And how do I know you're not? she wanted to protest. Suddenly, the front door creaked open, and the sound of a footstep on the hardwood floor of the kitchen startled them both into stillness.

 

Immediately, barely pausing to think, she reached for the remote control for the TV, which she’d left lying on the arm of a chair. Joseph immediately tried to grab it away. "What are you--?"

 

But she wrenched it back, pointed through the doorway, and hit the power button, praying it was in range. After a second, the TV clicked into life. It was set to Cartoon Network; some kiddie show featuring hyperactive characters with comically oversized noses. How embarrassing; she must have been watching reruns of "American Dad" last night in an attempt to unwind from the bizarreness of her evening with Fox. She avoided glancing at the young man who held her, though his surprise at the sudden noise had him loosening his grip. The man in black had paused on the stairs to listen.

 

"Anybody home?" she heard him call in a throaty voice. The two of them were already halfway out the back door before he could call again, and Ruby closed her ears.

 

Joseph had parked his Harley just out of view, behind the grove of the trees that grew near the fence next to the outdoor pool, which had been shuttered for the winter.

 

"Hey!" she whispered as he grabbed her handbag, opened it, and began pawing through. She winced as she watched him set his eyes on the Beretta. He looked up and actually smiled at her. She got a good look at his eyes. Amber flecked with gold, even a little green. He reached up to touch his hair, almost nervously, then stuck the gun in the waistband of his skinny dark jeans.

 

"I'm going to have to borrow this, too." He grabbed her smartphone out of the side pocket.

 

"My phone? What is this, a kidnapping?"

 

"Relax. You can have it back once we get far enough out of town so that I can keep an eye on you." Ruby glowered at him, then opened her mouth to speak before he interrupted her. "No, I didn't bring any duct tape if that was going to be your next question."

 

They kept low as they crept down the hill leading to the center compound of the complex, hoping the man in the house wouldn't be startled by their silhouettes.

 

He hopped up onto the bike in one quick, almost effortless leap. She just stood there, watching him. "Well?"

 

"Isn't he going to hear us pull out?"

 

"Yeah, but he won't be following. Not right away, at least."

 

"What did you do?" she asked, suspicion in her voice.

 

He ducked his head. "Slashed his tires."

 

"You--" She stopped, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of this strange person who had come into her life ten minutes ago but was suddenly in control of every single move she made. "What are you, twelve?"

 

"Shh. Come on." He reached absentmindedly for her arm, and the feel of his leather glove through her thin sweater startled her. She jerked away as if he'd rubbed a burning ember on her skin. "Don't touch me. Ever."

 

He bent his head and laughed, and his longish hair swung down over his eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but that's kind of a requirement if you’re going to ride with me."

 

He reached down a hand to help her up. She refused it as quickly as if it had been crawling with insects. She braced her hands on the seat instead, saying a quick prayer to spare herself the humiliation of not making it up. She vaulted up athletically, spreading her legs and settling herself down in the saddle, the fabric of her skinny jeans insulating her skin from the thick leather. If he was impressed, he kept it to himself. She reached out her hands gingerly, a whisper, around the outside of his jacket

 

"Come on, baby, a little tighter," he said, and she though his face was half turned away, she could glimpse the infuriating smile on his face. "Let's cuddle."

 

"Oh, please," she protested in disgust. "You're enjoying this."

 

"Maybe a little. Seriously, though, if you don't hold on tighter, I promise you won't like the results." She hated herself for jumping a bit as he kicked the engine into gear, as it startled her into complying. She couldn't let him see any weakness; he had to believe that she wouldn't hesitate to shoot him if she could get hold of the gun, which she noted he had placed in the Harley's right saddlebag. She knew it was either wrap her arms around his waist, or go flying off the motorcycle the minute he pulled onto the freeway.

 

"I hate you," she muttered, but she couldn't hear his response as the bike shuddered and took her away. The warm tenseness of his torso under the leather was the only indication he had heard.