The robber studied it briefly, then shoved it in his jean-jacket pocket. “Now the sweater.”
She felt nauseous as his meaning became clear.
“Hurry it up!” He glanced toward the clerk. “Get that money out, asshole!” Then back at her. “The sweater, babe. Now!”
Looking down the barrel of a loaded shotgun didn’t give her much of a choice or any sense of false modesty. Jen started to pull the pink cashmere sweater over her head. Slowly. Slowly. Thinking the entire time that she would rather die than have this man touch her.
CODY HAD TO MAKE SURE THIS guy was alone. That took a few minutes, but he hadn’t heard any gunshots yet, so he still had hope.
While he’d sneaked out in back of the convenience store, he’d formulated a plan.
Help me out here, okay? he prayed silently. At least let the two of them live. If this is the way you want my sorry ass to go, I accept it. But those two in there, they don’t deserve it—
Taking a deep breath, he kicked the front door open.
SHE’D JUST PULLED THE SWEATER over her head, still had her hands entangled in its sleeves, when she heard the noise.
Someone else—
“Hey, you!” the slurred, masculine voice said. “Whadda I have ta do ta get a cuppa—” He stumbled into the robber, causing him to turn.
Causing him to take the shotgun off her.
A drunk. Great.
Then the drunk moved so he was between her and the robber, then he turned, pretending to sneeze. His face angled so the robber couldn’t get a look at his expression, this crazy stranger gave her a look so full of fierce command, she almost shrank back. He inclined his head ever so slightly toward the counter, the movement miniscule.
And Jen realized he was no drunk.
The unspoken command in his eyes was unmistakable.
Get behind that counter. Now.
She did, crabbing back on her hands and knees, moving sideways over the slick linoleum floor, trying her best not to make any noise as the “drunk” continued to talk.
“Okay, okay! Hands up, I get it!” The stranger backed away from the robber, and Jen noticed he was doing an excellent job of keeping the man’s shotgun pointed toward his midsection—away from her and the young clerk. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
“Goddamn it, I said up! Up in the air, you bastard.”
What happened next went down so fast, she didn’t see all of it. The stranger moved so quickly, butting headlong into the robber and blessedly avoiding the shotgun. The gun flew up and fired, and chunks of the ceiling rained down, clattering against the linoleum. Jen got behind that counter in no time, and the young clerk threw himself down on top of her, covering her, then putting his hands over his ears, his wiry young body shaking as hard as hers was.
Then the sounds of fists.
One punch. A grunt. Two punches.
Then silence.
The clerk was crying, and Jen smoothed his short hair back from his face, offering comfort. She used her cashmere sweater, still tangled around her arms, to wipe his eyes. And hoped to God that their stranger was the one still standing.
She had the sobbing boy cradled against her as she looked up. The stranger leaned over the counter and smiled, his split lip bleeding.
“Guess I can’t ask him if he has any rope.”
“By the—by the car stuff, the oil and stuff,” the clerk gasped, then continued to cry. Jen’s eyes stung as she held him closer.
“Great. Be right back after I tie our friend up.”
She heard each decisive step as he strode across the store, paused, then walked back. Heard him unwinding rope. Then she almost started to cry herself as she pictured him tying up the man who had almost taken all of their lives.
“I’m okay,” the clerk gasped. “I’m okay.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ve gotta call my boss.”
“Call the police first.”
The boy was in no shape to do anything. Gently disengaging herself, Jen stood up, reached for the phone behind the counter and dialed 911.
“Where are we?”
“Don’t worry,” the clerk said, then blew his nose. She recognized the signs of masculine embarrassment in his eyes. “The address will come up on their screen.”
He glanced up as the stranger approached and placed a large cup of black coffee on the counter, then selected two raspberry doughnuts from the display and put them in a waxed paper bag.
He set the bag next to the coffee and smiled wearily at them. “Just tell ‘em there’s been a robbery and their man is right here, all hog-tied and waiting for them.” He reached into his back jean pocket and took out his wallet.
“I really don’t think—” Jen began.
He threw down a ten-dollar bill. “That should cover the rope, the coffee and the doughnuts. How’s he doing?”
“Okay, but—”
He walked over to a display, plucked down a small, travel-sized packet of tissues, then leaned over the counter, making eye contact with the clerk on the floor.
“You did real good, son,” he said, handing him the tissues. “You didn’t lose your head.”
The boy simply nodded.
The stranger picked up his coffee and bag of doughnuts, then started toward the door.
“But—” Jen said. “The police are coming. Aren’t you going to stay and—”
He held up his hand. “I’ve got to go. People are depending on me.”
“But—”
He smiled, then grimaced in mild pain as the expression pulled his split lip taut. “Darlin’, I wish I could stay, but I can’t. You’d better get dressed—the police should be here shortly.”
Jen glanced down. Clad only in a delicate, lacy demibra, she might as well have been topless in front of him. But it didn’t bother her. Not now. She’d almost been killed.
“Wait!” She pulled her sweater over her head, flipping her long hair out of the neckline. “Wait! I don’t even know your name or how to thank you or—”
“You don’t want to know me,” he said and walked out the door.
2
