CRUEL (The Buck Boys Heroes Book 2), page 2
He flips the guy onto his stomach and skillfully ties his hands behind his back with my scarf.
The blue-eyed stranger stares at me. “Feel free to call 911 at any point.”
Fumbling my way through a thank you, I manage to press the emergency button on my phone.
“I’m… he… my purse,” I spit out between staggered breaths to the woman who answered.
The man who rescued me looks in my direction. “Tell them it’s an attempted robbery, and the assailant is subdued for now.”
I repeat each of his words into my phone and then follow that with the directions he calls out to me.
“I’m sending a patrol car right away, Ma’am,” the 911 operator explains in a reassuring tone. “Did you suffer any injuries?”
Shaking my head, I reach up to run my fingers over my forehead. I immediately feel something wet. “Oh, no. I think I’m bleeding. I broke my fall with my shoulder, but my head hit the pavement.”
“I’ll dispatch the paramedics as well,” she says. “Please stay on the line.”
Without any thought, I end the call.
I glance at my hand, and even under the dim light illuminating the darkened alley, I can tell that it is indeed blood.
“Don’t move, asshole.” The mysterious stranger gazes down at the man he tied up before he shifts his attention to me. “Are you all right?”
I lock eyes with him, but it’s so intense that I drop my gaze to the ground around me.
I realize that almost everything from my purse is strewn around me.
“My stuff,” I whisper. “I need to pick it up.”
Tugging out his pocket square, he dabs the soft fabric on my forehead. “You’re bleeding. You need to stay put.”
“I’m fine,” I insist as I start to reach for my belongings.
The guy on the ground catches my eye. “If I’m arrested for this, you’re going to pay for it.”
The mysterious stranger snaps his head toward the man. “Shut the fuck up. If you go anywhere near her again in this lifetime, I will personally hunt you down, and I promise you’ll regret it.”
I grab a tube of lipstick and my MetroCard. I try to extend my reach more, but I’m suddenly struck with a wave of dizziness.
“Sit still,” the handsome stranger instructs me in a curt tone.
Before I can argue, he’s scooped up most of my things.
He shoves them at me but holds tight to a red lanyard attached to a press pass from a concert I covered in the summer.
I watch in silence as he studies it.
His eyes dart to my face as soon as sirens approach from the distance. He hands me the press pass along with his pocket square. “It’s still bleeding. Apply pressure until you get to the hospital.”
“I’m fine, “ I whisper.
His dark hair halos his face as he stares into my eyes. He takes my hand to guide the pocket square to my forehead. “Apply pressure.”
Nodding, I manage a weak smile. “Thank you for helping me.”
He doesn’t acknowledge those words. Instead, he turns back to the man who tried to mug me. He leans close to him, whispers something in his ear, and then just as I catch sight of the reflection of the red and blue flashing lights of a police car on a window at the end of the alleyway, the handsome stranger takes off in a sprint in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” I call after him. “Please don’t leave me alone with him.”
“With me?”
I glance at the man who assaulted me as I inch away from him. I fully expect him to try and scramble to his feet to make a run for it at any second now that the police car has come to a stop and two officers are rushing toward us.
“You’re safer with me than you were with that guy that rammed his shoe into the back of my knees.”
Before I can ask what the hell he’s talking about, a police officer is pulling him up to his feet, while another asks me if I’m okay.
The reality of what happened finally hits me full force, and with a single tear trailing down my cheek, I tell her I’ll be all right. I know I will be. I’ve lived through far worse than this.
Chapter Four
Juliet
“Juliet,” Margot’s voice breaks the moment she rounds the corner to find me in an exam room in the emergency department at Lennox Hill Hospital.
“I’m all right,” I reassure her immediately with an outstretched hand. “I’m totally fine, Margie.”
She rushes to take me into her arms.
I wince at the strength of her grip as she hugs me. “I was so scared.”
Those are words that haven’t left her lips in years. Margot rarely cries. She’s stoic and strong, and when disaster strikes, she’s always the first to approach the issue with a level head.
This is different, though. The spots of blood that are staining the front of my blouse prove that I was injured at some since she last saw me.
I didn’t tell her that on the phone.
I wouldn’t have told her anything, but the doctor who examined me explained that I’d need someone to accompany me home.
The cut on my forehead wasn’t deep enough for stitches, and according to him, I don’t have a concussion, but the dizziness I experienced in the alley and again when I tried getting up from the stretcher was enough to concern him.
I called Margie then and told her I’d fallen and was at the hospital being checked to make sure that nothing was broken.
“What exactly happened?” she asks just as the doctor walks back into the room.
“Juliet is a crime fighting hero,” he blurts out.
Dr. Gavin Fuller may be good-looking and have a great bedside manner, but he’s terrible at upholding doctor-patient confidentiality. I saw him talking to the paramedics who brought me in.
“What?” Margot’s head snaps in his direction. “What are you talking about?”
The dark-haired doctor looks to me for guidance. Since he let the cat out of the bag, I try and shove it back in. “He’s making a joke.”
The serious look on his face doesn’t play into my charade, and it takes all of one second for my sister to notice that.
She turns her attention back to me. “Juliet. I want you to tell me right now what the hell happened.”
“Language,” I warn her with a smile. “There are children here, Margot. I saw them bring in a pregnant woman. She had her sweet little daughter with her. She stopped to talk to me in the waiting room.”
“You’re stalling,” my sister accuses. “Don’t do that.”
She’s right. I am stalling because telling Margot that I was mugged will send her back to California, and she’ll drag me with her.
“She stopped an assailant.” Dr. Fuller continues his quest to inject himself into our conversation. “She tied up a mugger with her scarf.”
What the fuck?
My gaze lands on him. “Doctor…”
“My cousin is a detective with the NYPD,” he explains to my sister. “He called me a few minutes ago to see how Juliet is doing. The man in the alley confessed to an attempted mugging. Juliet tied him up. She restrained him until the police arrived.”
Margot’s hand jumps to cover her mouth. “Oh my god.”
“She deserves a medal for catching one of the bad guys.” He shoots me a megawatt smile.
“Juliet.” Margot takes my hand. “You’re so brave.”
I want her to believe that. I want her to see that in me because I know she values courage more than almost anything else.
“What about the woman he mugged?” she questions me. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Dr. Fuller answers. “She’ll be a little sore for a day or two and might sport a few bruises, but thankfully, her arm broke her fall, so she’s good. She’s really good.”
“I’m confused,” I confess to Dr. Fuller when Margot leaves the exam room to order an Uber.
“Confused as in you don’t know your name or…”
“Confused as in why didn’t you tell my sister the whole story?”
He offers a hand for me to slide off the exam table. “What part did I leave out?”
I take his hand to stand. “You know what part.”
“Do I?”
I look up at his face. “You do.”
“The paramedic explained what the mugger told him when he was checking him out for injuries.” He motions to my hands. “You tied him up with your scarf. You were hurt in that scuffle. My cousin backed that story up.”
“He did?”
“They got a full confession out of the guy at the police station,” he goes on, “I suspect you’re talking about the identity of the woman he accosted.”
I nod in silence.
“Your sister was scared,” he says quietly. “I was outside the room when she arrived. I heard the fear in her voice. I sense she’d take it a lot harder if she knew you were the woman he mugged.”
“She would.”
“It’s not my place to tell her that you defended yourself like a champ because he was trying to nab your purse.” He looks down at the tablet in his hands. “If and when you think she needs to know that, you’ll tell her, but that’s between the two of you.”
Still confused as to why he keeps saying I took down the mugger myself, I sigh.
“New York City is a great place.” He smiles. “A few assholes are lurking about, but for the most part, the rest of us are the cream of the crop. Do what you need to do to put this behind you. If you’d like to speak to someone about it, I can recommend one of the best.”
I smile, grateful that he’s intuitive enough to know the impact that today had on me. “Thank you, but I’ll be all right. I’m resilient.”
“You’re also someone I’d want coaching me in a boxing ring.” He laughs. “Pop a couple of ibuprofen later if you need them to help ease the head pain.”
“I will.”
“Other than that, you’re good to go.” He pats my forearm. “Take care of yourself and anyone else who needs it.”
I let out a squeak of a laugh. “I’ll try my best.”
Chapter Five
Juliet
An hour later, I take a seat on the edge of my bed and let the weight of the last few hours settle over me.
As soon as we got home from the hospital, Margot insisted on making me a cup of tea.
I don’t drink tea. She does.
To appease her anxiety, I dutifully sipped from the mug of green tea she prepared for me. I would have preferred a tequila shot, but I knew, deep in my heart, that my sister felt a need to take care of me.
She made small talk about her work and the weather and then retold a story about the first dog we ever owned.
It’s her go-to when she’s overwhelmed.
She’ll retreat to a childhood memory that comforts her.
After I finished half of the tea, I told her I needed a shower, and after a two minute long hug, she finally let me go.
A light knock on my bedroom door lures my gaze in that direction. “What is it, Margie?”
The door slowly opens a crack. “I forgot to ask if you want to watch the show with me when you’re done your shower. I’ll skip ahead to episode six for you.”
I smile when I catch sight of her face as she peers around the half-open door.
“I can circle back to the other episodes another time.”
“I love that you’d be willing to do that for me.” I smile. “I think I’m going to turn in after my shower. I have a big story to work on tomorrow, so I want to get an early start on that.”
It’s true, but I need a moment to breathe on my own.
I need time to decompress and absorb what happened so I can put it behind me and wake up in the morning ready to face the day.
“I get it,” she says. “I’ll probably watch one more episode and hit the hay too.”
I nod. “I love you. Sleep well.”
“Love you,” she bounces back. “Dream good dreams, okay?”
“I will,” I reassure her.
As soon as she’s shut the door again, I dive my hand into the pockets of my denim jacket. It’s a standard move since my sister often comes into my room to collect laundry, even though I’ve told her time and time again that I can handle it on my own.
My fingers brush against something soft, and for the first time since I left the alley on a stretcher, I remember the stranger’s pocket square.
I tug it out of my pocket.
Three red dots of my blood are a startling contrast against the light gray silk. I trace a fingertip over one of the dots, but it’s dried now.
I flip the pocket square over to find two letters embroidered into the fabric in a shade of thread not much darker than the silk itself.
K.B.
I bring it closer to get a better look.
The lingering scent of cologne on the silk stirs something within me. I hold the pocket square to my nose and inhale deeply.
It’s a warm scent, spiced with musk and woodsy notes.
It’s delicious and inviting and conjures up an image of the stranger and his brilliant blue eyes, and carved from stone features.
“K.B.,” I whisper the letters as I trace a finger over them. “Who are you?”
In a metropolis this vast, with millions of people filling its more intimate corners, the chances of me ever running into him again are slim to none.
I tell myself that, yet at the same time, I make a mental note to take the pocket square to the dry cleaners on the off chance that one day I’ll come face to face with my savior again.
“You outdid yourself, Juliet.” My boss beams as he reads over the rough draft of my next story.
Smiling, I nod. “You know how much I love the feel good articles.”
“Feel good?” Pushing back from his desk, he stands. “They’re great, but they don’t rake in the ad dollars, do they?”
I know it.
I’ve heard it time and time again.
My job as a writer for one of the most popular gossip blogs in the country should be something I’m proud of. When I landed the interview with RumorMel, I saw it as a way to get my foot in the door at Marks Creative.
Marks is a global multi-media company that runs many magazines and websites. It’s also the driving force behind a cable network.
I’m most interested in one particular publication that falls under Marks’ umbrella. New York Viewpoint is a news magazine with digital and printed subscription rates totaling tens of millions.
I read my first copy of the magazine last year, and I was hooked. Before that, I had earned a degree in journalism from UCLA, edited a community newspaper, and worked for two regional digital news outlets in Anaheim.
Being offered the job at RumorMel meant a step up the ladder toward my future. That’s how I view it.
Melburn Meekes, the namesake of the website, is nearing ninety now. He started reporting celebrity gossip in a column in a national newspaper more than sixty years ago. He still checks in occasionally, but since he sold his brand to Marks, it’s under the direction of my boss, Hugo Conall.
“Give this another sprinkle of your magic touch, and I’ll post it within the hour,” Hugo says as he scans my face. “What happened to your forehead, Juliet?”
I run a finger over the bandage I put on when I was getting ready for work this morning.
I tried styling my hair to cover it. I was going for a long bangs look but couldn’t get my hair to stay in place. I finally gave up and decided if asked, I’d come up with an explanation that is short and sweet. The problem with that is I’m drawing a blank.
“Don’t tell me.” He huffs out a laugh. “You drank a few too many celebratory shots after you scored those pictures. The next thing you know, you ran straight into a wall that you didn’t remember was always there.”
Unsure of what to say, I smile.
“It happens to the best of us.” He runs a finger along his chin. “I wrote a breaking story twenty years ago that left me with a long scar right about here.”
I’ve noticed that scar. I thought it added character to his face. I had no idea it was the result of a night of drinking.
“Spruce this up.” He hands the paper I printed my article on back to me. “I want it online for the masses by the time they sit down for lunch.”
Chapter Six
Kavan
“Are you nursing a broken heart, Bane?”
I look to my right to catch sight of a man I didn’t invite here. Unfortunately, Sean Wells shows up at the most inopportune times. It’s a habit of his. I consider it a bad habit that started when we met as teenagers at The Buchanan School. It’s an elite boarding school upstate funded by the outrageous tuition that New York State’s most influential parents happily pay so their sons can carry the burden of being Buchanan alum on their shoulders forever.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I question as he sits his ass on the barstool next to me.
“You were checking out the breaking news about Corla Berletti’s engagement ring.” He taps his fingertip on the edge of my phone case. “That rock she’s wearing beats the one Graham got Trina.”
The mention of our mutual friend and his wife brings my gaze up to Sean’s face. I focus on his brown eyes. “Graham did all right.”
He nods. “He has a beautiful wife he adores. I’d say he’s doing better than all right, Kavan.”
Graham Locke fake married his assistant to appease the wishes of a man he considers a father. As they navigated through that, they fell in love.
Judging by the peace that has settled over Graham that worked out for him.
“Don’t try and change the subject.” Sean thumps his closed fist against the wooden bar luring the bartender’s gaze in our direction.
The guy offers Sean a curt nod. That tells me that he knows exactly what Sean wants. I do as well. Scotch neat and preferably the most expensive label they offer.
