Lynx Woods by P. A. Brown

Author:P. A. Brown [Brown, P. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary
ISBN: 9781602725959
Google: 9SjVQgAACAAJ
Amazon: 1602728259
Barnesnoble: 1602728259
Goodreads: 7084618
Publisher: Amber Allure
Published: 2009-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

* * *

A noise awakened us. I came swimming out of a deep sleep to find Charlie’s leg thrown over mine and his arms still around me.

I heard it again.

Breaking glass.

“Shit.”

Charlie was off the bed in a heartbeat. He yanked on his shorts and tossed me my clothes before heading for the door, a T-shirt clutched in his big hand.

“Charlie,” I whispered hoarsely, not wanting him to go charging downstairs before we had a chance to check out things.

He waved me into silence, then held his finger to his lips.

The sound came again. Definitely glass shattering.

“My studio!”

And he was gone. I heard his bare feet slap on the wooden stairs, and I ran after him, only a couple of strides behind him.

Before he got to the studio, he made a sudden right, skidding into the hall. I heard a door open and slam shut and he returned, carrying a rifle. Fear surged through me as I followed him to the 120

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studio, where he threw himself inside, rifle held in both hands.

Something flickered and glowed in one corner of the big room, and I smelled the stench of burning gasoline. Charlie charged past me.

I remembered seeing a fire extinguisher in the kitchen, and I raced into the room and grabbed it.

I heard Charlie yelp and I ran back into the studio and began spraying the flames, the hiss of expanding CO2 filling the room.

The small fire sputtered and vanished under clouds of cold fumes.

Outside lights suddenly flared on, and we heard the roar of a heavy truck engine. I thought I also heard the sound of wild laughter, then silence fell as the vehicle sped away into the night.

But not before we heard, “Faggot! Go back where you came from!”

So, the kid from Walgreens and his buddies had found me at Charlie’s, after all. I groped for the wall switch and blinked away tears as the studio exploded with light. Dark panes of glass reflected back our disheveled images except in two windows, where the glass had been shattered and lay in fragmented pools on the studio floor.

Charlie limped toward me, still clutching the rifle in his hands.

He set it down against an easel and sagged into an old wooden chair, letting his face fall into his hands.

“Charlie?” As I reached out to touch his rigid shoulder, I saw blood on the floor. “Jesus, Charlie!”

I knelt and cradled his foot. A slice of glass wedged into his heel, and we both winced when I grabbed the piece between two fingers and eased it out. A fresh flow of blood poured down his foot, dripping onto the wooden floor.

I released his foot carefully and stood. “Keep your foot 121

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elevated. I’m going to get something to clean that gash. I’ll call the cops while I’m out there—”

“No.” Charlie sat bolt upright. “No cops. Don’t call them, Tyler.”

“Charlie, this isn’t the same as some punks harassing me on the road. This was attempted murder.”

“Murder? I doubt it. They just want to scare us.

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