Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

moment with all the care and coldness of the sex worker she once had been. Without warning, she dug her nails deep into his dick, twisted, jerked as hard as she could, and slammed her knee up into his crotch.
    He managed to deflect most of the knee shot, but not all of it. Whooping for air, staggering, retching, he went to his hands and knees. He wasn’t in any shape to hang on when she yanked her fancy purse free of his fingers and ran out of the house.
    Thanks to Miranda the Mouse, Cherelle found that her car keys were handy for once. She grabbed them out of her purse, flung herself into the front seat of her car, and jammed in the ignition key.
    By the time Socks pulled himself to his feet, she would be long gone.
    Ignored by both the fleeing Cherelle and the wretched Socks, Miranda waited through the man’s cursing and retching by retreating to the living room and watching warily. When the color of his skin was closer to white than green, and sweat no longer stood out on his forehead, she figured that Socks wouldn’t belt her just because she was there and he was hurting. She reached down behind the couch and walked over to him, or at least as close as the kitchen door. If she was wrong about his state of mind, she wanted a head start.
    “I’ll kill her,” Socks gasped, leaning against the counter.
    Miranda sincerely hoped so. Cherelle was the first woman Tim had stayed with for more than a few months. Her boy deserved better than a hard-edged whore.
    “You’ll have to catch her first,” Miranda pointed out. “I can help with that.”
    Socks straightened some, winced, and straightened some more. It would be a few days before a woody felt good, but he’d been through worse and still beaten the hell out of the guy who kicked him. “Yeah? How?”
    Miranda held out the plastic coded key and recited Cherelle’s mocking description of just how to get to her room at the Golden Fleece.
    By the time Socks left, he could recite it too.

Chapter 29
    Las Vegas
    November 3
    Early afternoon
    T he sound of groaning woke Tim up. Vaguely he realized that he was the one making the low, ragged sounds. He opened his eyes and tried to focus. It didn’t work. All he saw was a big gray stripe with light kind of shining down either side.
    And he hurt. God, he hurt.
    Memory slashed at him like knives. A glass case full of gold and jewelry. Greasy gun rags. A spitting sound and Joey flopping around on the floor. Socks kicking him. Handing Tim a gun.
    “Oh, shit,” Tim groaned. “I killed him.”
    Then Socks shooting Tim.
    His old jailhouse buddy.
    He tried to kill me.
    Spinning and falling and grabbing at the file cabinet.
    Jesus, that’s what’s in my face.
    With a shove and a twist of his lean body, Tim slithered out from under the metal file. He would have worried about the crashing and scraping noises, but his chest was a pulsing fire that shot waves of agony and nausea through him. If he hadn’t already been on the floor, he would have fallen there.
    Joey lay less than six feet away. Mouth slack, blind eyes open, skin white as only the dead can be, stinking of death.
    And Tim had killed him.
    Gotta get out of here.
    After a struggle he got to his hands and knees and from there to his feet. The pain made him whine like a whipped puppy, but there was no one to comfort him. He staggered toward the back door, the one that led to an alley. From there it was just a few more alleys over, and he would be home.
    It felt like miles of walking naked over burning coals, only the fire was in his chest rather than his feet. All that kept him going was the same animal will to survive that had made him team up with Socks in the first place. In jail, if you didn’t have a strong buddy, you were everybody’s bitch.
    It was pretty much the same on the outside.
    He fell on his hands and knees again when he reached his mama’s back door. Opening it, he went full length onto her kitchen floor.
    Miranda shrieked before she realized that the intruder was her son. “Timmy! Oh, my God! What happened?”
    “Shot.” He flopped over on his back and passed out.
    Even Tim’s wild Hawaiian shirt couldn’t entirely hide the spreading patch of blood. With a sobbing prayer, Miranda went to her knees. The one joy of her life was lying bleeding on her kitchen floor.
    “Timmy?” she cried.
    He didn’t answer. His breathing was hoarse.
    The world went cold and very clear around her. Without hesitation she went to the phone and dialed the