Something wakes me from a dead sleep. A noise loud enough to pull me from a deep sleep, but not nearly loud enough to be distinguished in my hazy brain.
Sitting up, my comforter around my waist, I shiver, my room cold.
Looking at the clock on my nightstand, it’s just past two in the morning. Way too early to be awake.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking around.
Staring at the wall, watching the shadows from the trees outside my window dance across the wall, I hear it again, louder this time. A bang, and then something rattling.
My heart seizes in my chest, coming to a full damn stop before falling straight to my feet. I’ve never bolted out of bed faster or flew down my stairs quicker, but I do manage to sling on my robe on the way out.
My house is dark, the only light in my living room coming from the TV. The sound’s low, but it’s some infomercial playing on the screen, and the only thing I can hear is the fast-paced beat of my poor, overworked heart.
Creeping to the couch, I look over the side and find it empty. No King. And it’s possible my heart falls farther, out of my feet and through the damn floor.
King left? Shit, he left!
The sound of something shutting, a door maybe, has me creeping toward my dining room, toward my French doors and the back yard, where the sound came from.
I’m scared. My heart’s beating frantically. My hands are shaking. Blood’s pumping.
Standing at the door, looking through the glass, I damn near have a heart attack when King wraps his arms around me, his hand covering my mouth. “It’s me,” he says in my neck, his lips at my ear. “Not trying to scare you, but I need you to be quiet. Can you be quiet?”
I nod, my heart rate slowing just having his damn arms around me. I hate how safe he makes me feel.
King uncovers my mouth, walking me away from the door. “You heard that, right? I’m not crazy?” I ask him, looking up at him.
He nods. “I heard it. Grab your phone and go into the bathroom. Lock the door.”
Whoa. “What? Why?”
King looks serious. Deadly serious. “Go upstairs. Lock the fucking door.”
I don’t have time to go because someone tries my front door handle. I watch it twist and turn, watch it bow when someone rams into it, the wood groaning and cracking under the weight of a body.
It’s going to fucking break. Oh God.
Someone’s trying to break down my fucking door!
King pulls a gun from behind his back from the waist of his jeans, the only thing he’s wearing, and takes a couple steps toward my door. Before he reaches the handle, he stops and looks at me, his finger to his lips. “Quiet.”
I nod my head, my heart and stomach trying to crawl up my throat when I step away, around the corner of the wall.
I’m scared shitless in this moment.
I want to beg King to stay in the house, tell him to call the cops. Plead with him to be careful. But I keep my lips pressed together, my mouth closed, watching him.
I watch a piece of my front door blow open, the wood splintering as a bullet blows through it. It happens in an instant. “Fuck!” King stumbles back a step but doesn’t waiver. He shoots once, twice, returning fire.
And then everything goes silent for a half a second.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. Rushing up to King, I touch is arm, the one covered in blood.
“Fuck. Shit,” I mumble, my voice shaking. “You’ve been shot.”
He doesn’t even acknowledge me. He just shoots again, putting two more bullets in my door as he shoves me behind him.
I think I’m going to be sick.