Page 33 of Chasing Amanda

Mark flipped him over, lifted his head in both his hands, and smashed it into the floor one more time. The man went limp.

Mark looked up to see the T-shirt guy back in the door, eyes wide.

Sweatshirt guy stood in the kitchen with his hands up as if Mark might attack him next.

Amanda sat on the floor. All three of them were staring at him.

“He’s alive,” Mark said. “If he moves again…”

Sweatshirt guy joined his friend in the doorway. “We won’t let him out.”

Not that he’d be able to walk a straight line, but Mark nodded his thanks anyway, then asked, “The police?”

“On their way.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He lifted Amanda off the floor—she weighed less than his pack—and laid her on the sofa. “Tell me what hurts.”

Tears filled her eyes. “My back. Everything. But I don’t think anything’s broken.”

Her left cheek was red and swollen. He dabbed it with his fingertip. “He hit you here. Anything else?”

“I’m okay.” She rested her head on his chest. “I’m okay, Mark. Thanks to you.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Amanda blinked her eyes open. It was too bright.

She squinted and stretched and winced at the stabbing pain in her back.

The events of the night before rushed in. She sat up, careful not to move too quickly.

The pain was manageable.

She was on the couch.

Mark was asleep on her old club chair, his head tilted at a terrible angle. The remote control rested on his right knee.

For a few hours, people had packed her apartment. Neighbors and cops, paramedics and firemen.

The police took their statements. While one team of paramedics carried that horrible man away on a gurney, others checked her over thoroughly. They wanted to take her in for X-rays, but the pain in her back had already begun to subside. She had a terrible bruise, but nothing worse.

While she’d been arguing with the EMTs, Mark had located the building manager and asked him to fix the broken door. The man promised to have it fixed the next day, but Mark wasn’t willing to wait. Apparently, he was persuasive, because the manager—usually notoriously slow—pulled a door jamb off an empty apartment and repaired her door right away.

Meanwhile, a couple of her neighbors donned gloves, mopped up the intruder’s blood, and swept away the remains of her lamp.

At some point, Mark had searched her kitchen cabinets until he found a small bottle of brandy. She’d bought it to make chocolate mousse for a party, but she’d only used an ounce. After everyone left, Mark poured the rest into two short glasses and handed her one.

“Drink that, please.”

“I don’t drink.”

He traced the bump she could already feel lifting on her cheek. “It’s just a tiny bit. It’ll help you sleep.”

Sleep sounded very good. So she’d sipped the brandy, then swallowed four ibuprofens with a tall glass of water.

She’d showered, scrubbing until her skin was bright red, trying to scour all the remains of that disgusting man off. Then she’d slipped into her pajamas and returned to the couch, where she laid her head on Mark’s lap. She couldn’t bear to be alone. He stroked her hair with his left hand, sipped what was left of his brandy with his right, and watched sports news.

And like he promised, the brandy went to work, and she drifted off.