Joel is furious. He paces my bedroom, his strides eating up the space, his blue eyes flashing at every turn.

“What the hell were you thinking, Evie? Why can’t you be careful?”

I wince, and I pretend it’s because of my leg—which is propped up on a pillow, an ice pack on my throbbing knee. My almost-fall the other day screwed it up quite a bit.

It’s not that bad, I tell myself. By tomorrow I’ll be able to walk properly again, and by the week’s end, I’ll be as good as new.

I should be glad it isn’t worse. I should be glad Micah kept me from falling and spraining my ankle or maybe even breaking my leg again. A shudder goes through me at the thought.

And I shudder again at the memory of his muscular arms around me, his strong body pressed to mine, those sky-blue eyes fixed on me... His scent of burned ink and musk, the intensity in his gaze, in his voice... I should be creeped out that he watched me and followed me—but I’m not. The way he helped me and then held me, his low voice... he made me feel safe.

Which is stupid. I don’t know him. His behavior is odd. He’s... so hot.

Oh God...

“Evie? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

My cheeks burn. “Sure.”

“Haven’t you learned that running through the town like that is dangerous? Especially with your leg still so weak. Wasn’t one accident enough?” My brother shakes his head. “Why do you have to go to all the seedy places?

“I didn’t go to any seedy places, Joel. I was downtown.”

“Exactly. Why can’t you stay near home?”

Anger warms my chest. “Why? You moved out and have your life. What am I, a prisoner or an invalid?”

“Neither.” His voice softens and he comes to stand in front of me. He kneels, putting his hands on the bed. His eyes are like a bright blue. He’s a looker, my big brother, that’s for sure. “Dammit, Evie. I want what’s best for you.”

“Really?” I lift my chin. “Getting out of the house is good for me. Meeting new people is good for me.”

“Your homeless friends.” His nose wrinkles, and he gets up, his face closing off again. “They’re the reason you had the accident in the first place. Why can’t you let this childish obsession go? Why not let the agencies and organizations do their thing? Why do you feel the need to meddle in their affairs?”

“Childish obsession?” I sit up. “Are you serious? Besides, they aren’t the reason an idiot run me over with his bike.”

“You were out there looking for trouble.”

“I was out for a jog.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Jesus, Joey. What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” He grimaces. “I don’t get into trouble and bring grief to my parents. I don’t break up with a nice guy for no reason. I don’t go—”

“Is this about Blake?”

“No, this is about thinking of others, not just yourself.”

“I think of others! Is this a joke?”

“Dammit, Evie!” His jaw clenches. “You just won’t listen. You make us all worry. That’s selfish. And what about your future? What about college? What about thinking ahead?”

My mouth opens and closes. In this family, no matter what I do or say, it’s always turned on me.

“Going to meet with the guys,” Joel says and turns to go. “Do me a favor and stay out of trouble, okay?”

He leaves before I find my voice. What use is answering anyway? I’m just never right, no matter what I do.

And worse still, a tiny doubt clouds my mind, a treacherous voice saying, what if he’s right? Not for breaking up with Blake, but about roaming the streets, thinking I can make a difference on my own?

I lean back on the pillows and close my eyes, feeling tired and defeated. Because, in the end, I have nothing to show for my efforts—no victories, no people saved, no sign I did something worthwhile. Just a leg that smarts in heavy weather, an ugly limp and whole lot of heartache.

* * *

Thankfully, the bus stop isn’t far from the sports store. I step off the bus and keep my gaze down. To my embarrassment, I have to use the walking stick I had after the surgery on my leg. It’s a purple and white stick, decorated with flowers like a starburst. For a walking aid, it’s quite pretty.

Oh sure, how incredibly sexy, Ev.

Yeah, as if anyone is watching. It’s morning time, and the tattoo shop is still closed. I hurry past it, my stick tapping on the sidewalk.

Someone steps out of a side street, blocking my way, and I jerk back, my stick screeching on the sidewalk. The guy grins at me and for a moment I just stare at him, stunned.

Blake.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt, and I hate how my voice shakes. I lift my chin. Don’t know why Blake scares me so much. He’s never hit me or anything, but he’s been giving me the heebie-jeebies lately.

He takes a step closer and I fight not to back away. Dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket, his dark hair styled back, he smirks at me.

“What do you want, Blake?”

“I wanted to talk.” He waves a hand airily. “Since you won’t answer my phone calls, I thought to come in person.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Joel told me you work at this store nearby.” He clucks his tongue. “You know you could do much better with your life, Evie.”

“My life is fine, thank you, and it’s none of your concern.”

He takes another step toward me, and I thrust my hand forward to keep him back. He snorts. “Really, Evie? That how you treat your boyfriend?”

“Let me refresh your memory: we broke up.”

“No, you broke up. I never did. You like to play games, Evie. Which is why I choose to ignore your little ultimatums and your little tantrums every time.”

A chill goes through me. He’s crazy. “What do you want?”

His lip curls. “If you won’t see me, then you won’t be seeing your homeless buddies, either.”

“What are you saying?”

“I told you to keep away from them. If I see you talking to them, even looking at them, I’ll bust their legs, do you understand?”

I gape at him. “You’re threatening innocent people? Why?”

He shrugs. “I’m only looking out for you. So far you’ve been good, staying on the main street, not deviating. Just keep it up.”

“You’re sick.” My grip on my walking stick tightens. “Stay the hell away from me.”

“Uh-oh.” He wags a finger as he turns and walks away. “Language, Evie. Not very lady-like.”

Damn you, Blake.

I watch his retreating back until he turns a corner and disappears. Fear clogs my throat. I hurry to the sports store and slip inside.

My boss is there, looking pointedly at his watch. It turns out he isn’t overly happy with the two days I had to call in sick and my worsening handicap, and I can’t find it in me to care.

“You should take better care of yourself, Miss Kingsley,” he grumbles, squinting at my walking stick. “Customers at a sport store don’t like to be reminded of accidents that can happen to them while doing said sports.”

“It didn’t happen while doing sports,” I say. “It was—”

“I don’t care what it was. You’d better get rid of that stick as soon as possible.” He actually wags a finger at me. His neck is turning red above his white tennis shirt. “In fact, you’d better put it away for as long as you’re here.”

I gape after him as he walks away, muttering.

“Don’t mind him,” Cassie whispers, her blue eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” I stash the stick in the storeroom and do my best not to limp too badly. Of course I fail miserably, because my knee really hurts, and Blake’s appearance and threats have shaken me up pretty bad.

“Afraid he’ll fire you?”

I shrug. Losing this job wouldn’t be the end of the world, I’ll probably find another one soon enough. Maybe I should, and not tell Joel or anyone.

Why does the thought of not passing in front of the tattoo shop—not seeing a certain guy hanging out outside—make me sad?

I force my mind back on the job at hand. Customers come and go, keeping me busy. Going back and forth makes my leg ache so badly I want to weep.

When I finally leave, I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I’m also nervous, thinking Blake may be watching me from the shadows. So when I pass by the tattoo shop and nobody is outside, I’m glad.

Okay, that’s a lie. The sadness that hits me is terrible. Unbearable. I’m amazed that my feet keep moving, my stick keeps hitting the concrete of the sidewalk.

Micah isn’t there.

Maybe I left work earlier, I think as I continue to the bus stop. Or maybe he had to work later today. Or something happened to him. Maybe he’s sick. I remember the way he coughed, and I feel cold. Another face surfaces in my memory—of that young homeless man I lost, his sunken eyes and long stringy hair, coughing as if dying.

I almost turn back and walk into the tattoo shop to see Micah, make sure he’s okay. Almost. But instead I continue to the bus stop, thankful I don’t see Blake anywhere on the way.

I catch my bus and return home, my thoughts churning. When did this happen? When did I turn into an ‘almost’ kind of person?

As I unlock the door and enter the familiar hall, I realize I’m angry at myself. I’ve chickened out. I’m a coward. Blake scared me, but that excuse isn’t good enough. He’s just throwing threats about. He wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t dare.

I used to trust my instincts, my feelings. It’s as if the accident broke more than bones; it broke my faith in me. The girl I was a few months ago wouldn’t have hesitated to walk into that shop and make sure Micah was okay.

It’s not getting into trouble. Not talking to homeless people. Not even saving the world. But it’s the least I can do.

* * *

Next day drags, probably because I can’t stop thinking of my plans to talk to Micah. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I think my heart is on overdrive, but the excitement is pleasant. Cassie sends me questioning glances, and I realize I have a smile on my face.

I need to calm down. This is stupid. He may even be outside when I pass on my way to the bus stop, and I won’t even need to do or say anything because I’ll know he’s okay.

But the butterflies remain, doing crazy flips in my insides as I bring shoes from the storeroom and help the customers try them on and as I hang the clothes back at their proper places.

A guy watches me from the door of the shoe shop across the street. I frown. Is everyone watching me these days, or am I going crazy? I turn my back on him and do my best to ignore him.

“What’s up, girl?” Cassie nudges me with her elbow. “Did something happen?”

I steal a moment when the boss isn’t looking and tell her quickly about Micah and our brief encounter.

“No shit!” she says, her mouth open, and I laugh.

The boss sends us a stern look, and we go back to work, tidying up and hiding grins. God, this work day will never end, and it’s only part-time. As I get ready to leave, Cassie turns her back to the boss and makes signs at me to call her afterward to talk.

I’d love to have a friend like that, to chat on the phone and laugh. Only I don’t think there will be anything more to talk about. My life is boring, and as for Micah... I’m just going to say hi to him, that’s all.

Boom go the butterflies in my stomach, exploding all over the place, making me feel slightly sick. Maybe I’m getting the flu or something. This can’t be normal.

I redo my ponytail, then check my face in the bathroom mirror. My eyes look too bright, my cheeks are flushed. I look feverish. Crap.

The day is gray, and a light drizzle falls as I hurry down the street. People give me and my walking stick curious looks, but I ignore them. I’m buzzing with nerves. A homeless young woman is crouched in an alley behind a dumpster, and my steps falter. She looks at me, her face thin and sad.

Mentally, I make a note to come back tomorrow and see how I can help her.

Keep out of trouble, Joel’s voice hisses in my head. Blake’s face flashes in my mind, dark with anger. Not your responsibility, Evie. Let them be.

If I see you talk to them, even look at them, I’ll bust their legs.

Jesus. I frown and pick up my pace, my knee twinging in protest. I shouldn’t be afraid of Blake. He’s a jerk, not dangerous. He’s all talk and nothing more.

Doesn’t change the fact he’s a jerk—patronizing and arrogant. He most certainly drinks—in fact, I’ve had to put up with his drunken ass more than once—and I’m pretty sure he does hard drugs, too. Why is it any safer being alone with him than with the people on the streets? At least on the street I’m not alone.

And as for Joel’s concerns, I am careful. Christ. It’s not as if I go out at night and hang around dark places where I may get jumped. If possible, I ask about the person before approaching them. Not everyone on the street is a junkie. Not everyone is aggressive. Besides, I have pepper spray in case I need it. I’ve never needed it so far. I keep away from those who drink or seem high on drugs.

I halt. Look back toward the alley where the woman crouched in filth.

This isn’t me. Finding excuses. Cowering. Letting a jerk’s words stop me. I can do something small, like forego my coffee and donut today and give her that money instead. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

As I turn and head back the way I came, I realize I’m smiling. I almost feel like myself again. Almost there.

I’m at the mouth of the alley, already searching one-handed in my bag for my wallet, when someone grabs my arm from behind and spins me around.

“You just won’t listen,” Blake growls.

My heart stops, then starts again, pounding against my ribs. I try to pull away. “Let me go.”

“Do you know I’ve marked in my memory every single loser you’ve tried to help on the street? I know their faces. Every single one you chose over me.”

Holy shit.

He nods at the alley. “I saw you looking at her as you passed. You thought I was joking when I said not to go anywhere near these scumbags?”

I twist in his hold, but his fingers clamp harder around my arm. “I’ll call the police.”

“Really? On the guy who saved your life after the accident?” He makes a dramatic face.

Oh God, he’s really crazy. “Damn you. Let me go.” I twist my arm again, and he releases me.

“I won’t say it again,” he hisses. “Stay away from the streets. My girlfriend keeps better company than that.”

His girlfriend. The guy is a psychopath. I watch him as he walks to a sleek black car, climbs in and speeds away.

Shit. Will Joel believe me if I tell him what happened?

* * *

After the scare Blake gave me, I just give up and go home. I’m jittery and need to talk to someone about him.

I look for my brother, but he isn’t home. Out with his buddies, my mom says. Dad’s still at work.

Not many options there. Mom it is.

“Mom...” I sit next to her on the sofa and try to think what to say not to stress her. I don’t want to have my family freaking out over Blake and forcing me to stay indoors. I spent enough time at home these past months to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.

Mom is a pretty woman with her dark brown hair and blue eyes. Joel looks like her a lot. She’s absorbed in a fitness program on TV and cuts me an annoyed look.

“What is it, honey?” she mutters. “Can’t it wait?”

“It’s about Blake.”

She sighs. “Is the crisis over? Are you two back together?”

“What? No.” My hands writhe in my lap as if they don’t belong to me. “No, we’re not. Mom, Blake is sick.”

She frowns, glances at the TV, then back at me. “Sick?”

“His mind is twisted.”

“Don’t be theatrical, Evie. What do you mean?”

“He’s following me around. Says he doesn’t want me talking to people on the street.”

Unbelievably, Mom’s gaze softens. “Oh, honey, he’s looking after you. Can’t you see he wants to be with you? He’s—”

“He’s crazy, Mom. He threatened to hurt any person on the street I talk to.”

“He’s joking, Evie... You know he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Do I? “How do you know he won’t?”

“He’d never hurt you. Has he ever done anything to you?”

“No, but he was there! He told me I shouldn’t talk to the homeless and then—”

“See? He’s looking out for you. He brought you to the hospital after your accident. He cares for you.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. Both she and Dad, not to mention Joel, think Blake is a saint. “I’m telling you, Mom. Something’s off with that guy.”

“Just stop going to dangerous places, honey.” Her attention is back on her TV program. “Blake is right. You could get hurt.”

* * *

I won’t let Blake destroy my life. I won’t live in fear. I need to be myself again.

Yet when I see a man rolled up in a sleeping bag lying on a bench, I hurry past, an itch between my shoulder blades. Is Blake watching me?

Christ.

The morning flies at work. I stash the walking stick away again, and the boss says nothing. Cassie and I exchange hurried words as customers go in and out.

Well, Blake’s threats won’t stop me from seeing Micah. I’m worried about him. Blake wouldn’t dare touch him. Micah isn’t one of the homeless he marked.

Then why am I still scared? Shaken.

My boss manages to keep me later than the end of my shift, and I say nothing, hoping to keep my job. As soon as I’m allowed to go, I grab my walking stick and my bag and hurry out and down the street.

The tattoo shop comes into view, and I slow down.

Damage Control. What an odd name for a shop. I swallow hard as I cross the street and stand in front of its narrow facade with the colorful tattoo designs stuck inside the glass and the neon blue sign over the door.

I wipe my palms on my pants and suck in a deep breath. Letting it out, I push the door and enter. Bells jingle overhead, startling me. The door clicks behind me, shutting out the noise of the street.

Soft ambient music and the buzzing of tattoo guns fill the air. A thin Goth girl with long black hair sits in an orange armchair, flipping through a magazine. The chains on her boots clink as she swings her leg up and down.

There’s a tall desk, manned by a muscular, dark-haired guy. He looks up at me expectantly, his handsome face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen.

“How may I help you?” he asks, and I suddenly feel eyes on me from every direction. When I glance around, sure enough I see heads poking over booth walls to see who walked in.

Self-consciously I lean on my stick and wish I’d left it outside when the eyes swivel to focus on it.

“I, um.” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Micah?”

The guy behind the desk lifts a dark brow. “Are you?”

“What?” I blink, confused.

“Are you asking me if you’re looking for Micah?”

I blink again. Is he serious?

Then a corner of the guy’s mouth lifts, and I relax. Right. Very funny.

“I think he works here.” I glance around again, searching for him, but the curious eyes have disappeared back inside the booths. “Or maybe you know where he might be?”

The guy clucks his tongue and chuckles. “Micah!” he calls. “A pretty girl here to see you.”

My mouth falls open. Fire licks my throat and cheeks. Now the guy is laughing out loud, a hand on his side. Why is he so keen on seeing me self-combust? Do I have ‘easy-to-tease’ stamped on my face?

But then Micah comes around the desk, his cheeks flushed, too, and I realize the teasing is probably meant for him. Typical guy thing.

“Cut it out, Tyler,” he says, then stops in his tracks, his blue eyes bright.

My mouth runs dry. My mind blanks out. God. My memory is faulty. I didn’t remember him quite so handsome. His smoothly-shaved jaw is strong and square, offset by a soft mouth and long-lashed eyes. His short hair glints like metal, and his thin gray T-shirt stretches over his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Faded jeans hang low on his narrow hips, and I can’t help but stare at his package. Impressive is the word that springs to mind.

He tilts his head to the side and hurriedly I look away. I think the skin on my cheeks must be blistering by now.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

That makes me look up again. Now he looks concerned. He probably never saw a flush so dark before. “Yeah.” Funny he’s asking me that, though, because... “Are you okay?”

His brows draw together. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were coughing and then...” I grimace. And then what, you stopped stalking me? “I just wanted to check on you,” I finish lamely.

His blue eyes widen.

This was a bad idea. Scratch that, it was a terrible idea. I’m suddenly aware that the guy behind the desk is still observing us, curiosity lighting up his dark eyes.

“I should go,” I say. “I mean, I see you’re fine, so now I know. I’m glad you’re well. Really glad.” I tighten my grip on my walking stick. Stop blabbing, Ev. “It was good seeing you.” And I mean it.

“Wait.” He takes a step toward me, reaching out. “You came to check on me?”

“Yes.” Is that so weird?

He’s still staring at me as if I’m from another planet. Colors shift in his eyes, shades of blue, from the hue of a cloudless sky to the turquoise of the lakes and the dark blue of the ocean. Emotions—shock, doubt, anger, then a tiny flare of hope.

It’s as if he doesn’t trust my words. As if he doesn’t think I’d care enough to check on him, and the thought makes my heart ache.

Micah touches my cheek, his fingertips trailing on my jaw. A faint smile curves his lips. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and tugs me toward the exit.

The guy behind the desk whistles, and there are a few more catcalls from the booths. A fresh wave of heat goes through me—but it’s mostly from the feel of his strong hand around mine, the heat of his skin piercing me like a flash of lightning.

As we leave the carpeted area of the shop, my stick taps on the floor, and Micah turns to look at it.

His smile fades and he stops. “What the hell happened?”

I shrug. “Twisted my knee a little. It’s still not entirely healed from the accident, so...”

“My fault,” he whispers. “You ran to get away from me, and then this happened.”

“No.” God, no. “Not your fault.”

His jaw works. “We can talk another time. This—”

“Have coffee with me?” I didn’t plan this, and have no idea what makes me so bold—but I don’t want to leave, not yet. His closeness is like the summer sun, warming me.

He hesitates, his hand still around mine, strong but gentle. A strong emotion darkens his sky-blue gaze, but it’s one I can’t name. “But can you walk? Can you—

“I’ve been on my feet all day. The stick is just to help my knee heal faster.” Christ, Blake was right. Who will want a cripple like me?

His jaw clenches. “You’re not a cripple. Who’s Blake?”

Oh God, did I say that out loud? Crap. I did. “Nobody.” I want to clap a hand over my mouth, to keep any more words from spilling out, but Micah has my fingers gripped tightly in his and doesn’t let go when I try to pull away.

“Come.” He tugs on my hand again, and I follow him outside, not even looking up.

My stomach is like a stone. Only I could screw up like that with the hottest guy I’ve ever met up close.

And it shouldn’t matter. I didn’t know why he was watching me before, but now I think I have a good idea. That fleeting emotion in his eyes I couldn’t identify before?

I’m pretty sure it’s pity.