Hot Rocks

so he could get a closer look.
    And she came off the couch, swinging the wine bottle in a furious roundhouse. There was the hideous crack of glass on bone, the splatter of red wine like a gush of blood. The momentum had him spilling over backward as she stood in her half crouch, panting, the bottle still clutched in her hand.
    She dropped to her knees, fighting off a wave of nausea as she stretched out to try to reach him. She had to get the key out of his pocket, get the gun, get the phone. Get away.
    “No! Goddamn it.” Tears of frustration burned in her eyes as she strained her muscles and found he’d fallen just out of her reach. She scrambled up again, climbed over the couch, ramming it with her shoulder to nudge it across the floor. Just a little closer. Just a little.
    The blood roared in her ears, and her own voice, high and desperate, sounded miles away as she ordered herself to Come on, come on, come on!
    She dove back on the floor, snatching at his pant leg, tugging his body toward her. “The key, the key, oh God, please, let him have the key.”
    She glanced over. The gun was on the kitchen counter eight feet away. Until she’d unlocked the cuffs, it might as well have been eight hundred. Bearing down, she stretched out until the metal cut into her wrist, but her free hand reached his pocket and her trembling fingers dipped in.
    Those stinging tears spilled over when her fingers met the small piece of metal. Breath wheezing, she fumbled it into the lock, cursed herself again and gritted her teeth. The tiny click was like a gunshot. She offered incoherent prayers of thanks as she shoved the cuff off her wrist.
    “Think. Just think. Breathe and think.” She sat on the floor, taking a few precious seconds to cut through the panic.
    Maybe she’d killed him. Maybe she’d stunned him. She was damned if she was going to check. But if he wasn’t dead, he’d come after her. She could run, but he’d come after her.
    She scrambled up again and, grunting, panting, began to drag him toward the couch. Toward the cuffs. She’d lock him down, that’s what she’d do. She’d lock him down. Get the phone, get the gun, call for help.
    Relief flooded in when she snapped the cuff on his wrist. Blood trickled down his face, dripped on her hand as she pushed his jacket aside, reached into the inside pocket for her phone.
    The sudden blare of a car alarm ripped a short scream out of her throat. She jolted, looked toward the door. Someone was out there. Someone could help.
    “Help.” The word came out in a whisper, and she pushed herself to her feet. As she sprang forward, a hand grabbed her ankle and sent her slamming facedown onto the floor.
    She didn’t scream. The sounds she made were feral growls as she kicked back, crawled forward. He yanked, hooking an arm around her legs so she was forced to swivel, shoving herself up from the waist to use her fists, her nails.
    The horn continued to sound, like a two-tone scream, over and over while she tore at him, while he pulled her closer. Blood matted his hair, streaked his face, gushed out of fresh wounds where her nails ripped.
    She heard a crash, and one of her flailing arms landed on broken glass. The new jolt of pain had her rolling over, digging in with elbows to gain a few precious inches. Once again her hand closed over the wine bottle.
    This time when her body jerked around she had it gripped in both hands like a batter at the plate. And she swung hard for the fences.
    There was a pounding—in her head? In the room? Outside? Somewhere a pounding. But his grip on her released, his eyes rolled back and his body went still.
    Whimpering, she scuttled back like a crab.
    That’s how Max saw her when he rushed into the room. Crouched on the floor, blood on her hands, her pants and shirt torn and splotched with red.
    “Laine. Jesus God almighty.” He lunged to her, the cold control he’d snapped on to get inside, to get to her, shattered like glass. He was on his knees beside her, running his hands over her face, her hair, her body. “How bad are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Are you shot?”
    “What? Shot?” Her vision skipped, like a scratched film. “No. I’m . . . it’s wine.” A giddy bubble exploded in her throat and came out as a crazed laugh. “Red wine, and, oh, some of this is blood. His. Mostly his. Is he dead?” She said it almost conversationally. “Did I kill him?”
    He brushed the hair back from her face, skimmed his thumb gently