Page 5 of Petrichor
“Is he dead?” the kid suddenly asks as I take off my gold knuckles to yank the knife out of my shoulder with a groan. I let my guard down fucking twice tonight.Twice.Fuck I need a drink.
“Yeah,” I reply, cleaning my fingerprints off the handle of the knife with a kitchen cloth before dropping it on the floor.
When I look left, the older boy is holding his side with a painful expression. Joseph must have bruised some ribs when he went hard on him.
He spits on his father’s corpse as he turns his glaring eyes on me. He should be thanking me for killing the son of a bitch, not giving me the stink eye. He has balls of steel, but he needs to learn respect.
“Keep your glare off me unless you want to end up like them, boy.”
He glances at the two corpses in the apartment with a grim expression. “I bet you told them the same thing before killing them.”
“He didn’t,” the little kid whispers.Is he defending me?
My injured shoulder hurts like a bitch as I roll it. Nothing torn or broken, thankfully. I slide my handkerchief under my shirt and press it on the wound. Not much blood, but I might need a couple of stitches. I turn around and make my way to the front door.
“Where are you going?” the little kid asks softly. He must have heard me walking away.
“Out of here. The police will arrive soon,” I say without halting my steps; they aren’t my problem. I need to take care of a personal matter now. Delia. My nails sink deep in my palm as I move to the landing where silence welcomes me. I look left and right. The other three doors are closed—people know who we are and don’t want to have a problem. I can only hear the faraway vrooming sound of cars from the broken window.
As I head to the stairs, the kids come out of the apartment. The boy is giving his little brother a piggy-back ride while holding the metal pipe. He’s advancing slowly, dragging his feet, with a pained look on his face. He must have a bruised rib or worse.Merda! Why of all the nights do I have to deal with this shittonight?
“Put him down,” I grumble, halting my steps.
“What?” The boy stops with a wary expression on his face. Fucking kids.
“I’ll carry your brother. You can barely stand.” He doesn’t move and tenses as I get closer, his angry eyes falling on the blood covering my shirt over my shoulder.Perché a me?“You can barely fucking walk. Do you want to hurt your brother rolling down those stairs?”
“Riv,” I hear the little kid whisper hesitantly.
“Why do you care?” the boy demands with a suspicious tone.
I sigh with fucking irritation. “If dead kids are involved, the police are going to investigate more closely, and I don’t want to grease extra palms because of a stubborn, idiotic boy who doesn’t know his place.”
He ponders my words with a strained look on his face before he crouches down and lets his brother go. They are really getting on my nerves now. I need to find Luca and get the fuck out of here.
The smaller kid takes a cautious step toward me, eyes squinting my way. I wait for him to reach me, and his small hands lift and grab my shirt. His fingers travel up my chest under my pec. They can’t go any further since he’s tiny.
“You’re big,” he says. He doesn’t look afraid of me. His eyes are sad and slightly red, emphasizing the streaks of gray in his irises. I’ve never seen such light eye color before.
“Are we going?” The boy’s words shake me out of my thoughts.
I lift him in my arms bridal style, and ignoring the light sting in my shoulder, I start descending the stairs. His little body is incredibly light. I can feel his bones under my hands. Did that dead fuckernot feed his children at all? His tiny hands are gripping the fabric of my shirt so tightly, it will wrinkle.
“I won’t let you fall,” I softly tell him. I don’t fucking know why I feel the need to reassure him. I’m not myself tonight. I got distracted twice, stabbed once, and now I’m taking care of two mistreated kids. What. The. Actual. Fuck.
From the corner of my eye, I check on the older boy. He’s following us closely, his face all scrunched up in pain.
Instead of going for the front door, I take the back door out of the building. The light blanket of clouds is releasing a fine drizzle. Not wanting to remain near the crime scene, I look around and then head toward the street. The kid suddenly lets go of my shirt to raise his palm out and feel the rain on his skin. He has a contented expression on his upturned face now. A small smile curls his chapped lips. I haven’t seen such sincere joy in a long time.
I keep walking until I reach the big tree on the other side of the parking lot. I go down on one knee to set the kid on his feet. He pushes his nose against my shirt for a moment before letting go. His big brother is leaning against the tree trunk, breathing heavily.
My hair feels wet as I push it back with my hand. And suddenly I feel a light brush on my lips. The kid’s fingers. I turn stiff starting to push myself up.
“If you hurt him, I’ll kill you,” the older boy threatens me, lifting the pipe.
I let out a derisive sniff. This snot-nosed punk is fierce, but too frail to be a real threat.
“Stay still. He just wants to see your face,” he then explains as his brother keeps moving the wet tips of his fingers gently over my cheeks, nose, brows, forehead, and down to my chin. I should stop him, and yet, I remain immobile.
