I sat with my back against the car door, my jaw slack, staring at Christian. Not even the hopeful pinging of our cell phones as we drove closer into range could take my attention away from the shock I felt at what he’d revealed.

"You cut off Nick Rosman's arm?" My voice came out raspy, a frog lodged in my throat.

He leveled a look at me. "Yeah."

"Why?" I could feel my heart thudding as it threatened to beat out of my chest.

"I did it to get back at him for what he planned to do to you. He's lucky he didn't see you naked, because I would've gouged out his eyes. Or that he didn't actually rape you, because I would've cut off his—"

"I get it!" I cried, holding up both hands. "Slade told you what happened to me?"

I listened, stunned, as Christian revealed the story behind the night of my attempted rape by a guy I'd been dating. He explained in detail about overhearing a conversation weeks earlier between my father, Tommy, and Axel at Axel's garage. He told me how he infiltrated Nick Rosman's small gang of punks. And how, after learning the time and place for the sinister plan, he'd rushed to rescue me himself, but ended up getting pulled over by the police and hauled off to jail for smarting off to the officer. He went on to explain how he'd used his one jailhouse call to contact Slade and insisted he race to the location to stop the rape.

By the end of his story, my lungs burned from taking short, unsatisfying breaths. I had to calm myself and focus on deep breathing.

"Why his arm?" I asked. "And why years after what he tried to do to me?" My voice didn't sound like my own.

"I heard that he used the tattoo to trick you into thinking he was a nice guy. It probably gave you a false sense of security about him. It was a religious tattoo, right?"

I could only nod. He looked over at me and words wouldn't come so I nodded again.

"And as far as why it took a couple years, I can't say for sure." He shrugged his shoulders. "I just know that the few punches to the face that Slade gave him never seemed like enough retaliation. It gnawed at my gut for a long time."

"You went to prison for it." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah. I got five years for aggravated battery and got out in three."

"How long have you been out?" I asked.

"A couple months."

I shook my head. "But you said this happened in 2003 and this is 2007. That's four years."

"It took over a year to go to trial."

"How come they didn't charge you with attempted murder?" My mind wasn't only reeling that he'd mutilated Nick on my account and went to prison for it, but concern that my name might've come up in trial. As if reading my mind, Christian provided more details.

"It wasn't attempted murder because I wasn't trying to murder him. I used a tourniquet and drove him to the hospital after I hacked off his arm."

I cringed but didn't interrupt him, clearing my throat.

"When I got him there, I told the people at the E.R. that we were messing around with machetes and it was an accident. They rushed him into surgery and I waited until I was told he would make it. Then I headed home. By then, kids found the arm and it was all over the news. By the time the E.R. doctors got in touch with the police, they'd already been looking for who the arm belonged to. I didn't try to hide the crime."

"What did Nick tell the police?" I asked hoarsely. The frog had returned to establish residence.

"What I told him to tell them. They didn't believe it, but they didn't have anything to go on. Me driving him to the hospital proved I wasn't trying to kill him, but I still did time for aggravated battery."

He looked over and finally answered what I was questioning in my head. "Your name never came up. I threatened to cut off more than his arm if your name was mentioned. And if I couldn't do it from jail, he knew enough about my father's history to believe my threat could be enforced. And I'm certain the money my family paid him to help in his recovery went a long way in keeping him quiet."

I shook my head in disbelief. Christian was the one who'd actually saved me that night, not Slade like I'd always believed. I winced inwardly when I remembered fawning over Slade for coming to my rescue.

"You went to prison." A moment passed as I breathlessly added, "For me."

"I'd do anything for you, Mimi. Anything."

He looked over at me and then back at the road. The words were out before I could stop them.

"Then who is Abby?"

He threw me another fleeting look and then raised his right arm and looked at the tattoo on his bicep. He didn't answer me at first and I wondered if he was going to. I can't say why, but everything seemed to hinge on his response. He may have hacked off a guy's arm for me, but he had another woman's name notably memorialized with a tattoo. It didn't make sense.

"My older half sister. You remember how we used to play at Abigail Ramirez Memorial Park when you came over to visit?"

"I don't remember the name of the park, and I certainly don't remember that you had an older half sister," I admitted, shaking my head.

"Abby was born years before my mother met my father, and she died when she was a baby."

Abby was a sister I'd never known about. The heat I felt spreading through my veins found its way to my chest and my heart gave a flutter.

"I thought maybe Abby was your girlfriend or something," I said, trying to keep the deep sense of relief out of my tone.

"I've never had a girlfriend," he admitted. I couldn't tell if he was being boastful or if his tone was one of regret.

"Why's that?" I prompted. I absentmindedly picked up my phone and scrolled through texts so I had somewhere to look other than at Christian.

Instead of answering me, he reached over and turned up the volume on the CD player. “Bad Time” by Grand Funk Railroad floated through my car speakers. The lyrics describing a bad time to be in love were almost as taunting as the texts I had scrolled through and chose to ignore from Lucas.