The Wish Collector
Page 31

Jonah, in his skeletal mask, obviously looked even more frightening than the filthy meathead attempting to assault her.
“What the fuck are you?” the man asked, his gaze skittering over Jonah’s tuxedo and back up to his skeletal face.
“I’m the guy who’s making this my concern,” Jonah said, his voice a low growl that barely rose above the air conditioning units humming noisily on the outside of the building next to where they stood.
The man let go of the woman’s hair, and she crumpled to the side before catching herself and skittering backward like a frightened crab.
The man laughed, a sound as oily as the hair that hung lankly around his blubbery face. Jonah sighed. Great, now he was going to have to touch this dirty bastard.
“It’s not Halloween yet, little boy. Go home and tell your mommy she dressed you in your costume too soon.”
“Maybe what’s under here is even scarier, you fat fuck.”
The man squared his shoulders. “Do you know who you’re messing with?”
Jonah stepped forward, taking the bait. Something violent inside of him suddenly thrilled at this situation—not the fact that a woman had been about to be someone’s victim, but that he might have a good reason to shed this guy’s blood, to see him laid out flat in front of him. His palms itched with need.
Do I know who I’m messing with? Jonah laughed. “A greasy bully who preys on women half his size in a garbage-strewn alley.” Jonah realized his fists were clenched at his sides, his feet spread, ready for whatever battle this guy brought.
The man narrowed his eyes and shifted uneasily, obviously shocked by the lack of fear in Jonah’s voice, and the fact that he was advancing instead of turning away. And though the man had mocked the skeleton mask, that—and the fact that Jonah’s expression couldn’t be seen—probably made him creepier, a greater unknown.
The man pulled something shiny from his pocket and Jonah pulled back. It was a knife and the man pushed it toward Jonah. “Go on, get out of here, freak show.”
Freak show.
Jonah glanced quickly at the woman still on her knees and cowering on the ground, taking one step backward, pretending to reconsider the fight. The man lowered the weapon minutely, and Jonah turned away slightly and then swung around, advancing speedily and kicking at the man’s arm with all the might in his legs, the legs that had run miles and miles around Windisle every day for the last eight fucking years.
The man yelped, the knife clattering to the ground. Jonah kicked the weapon away and swung at the man with his fist in one coordinated move.
Cracking bone sounded and blood sprayed as the man let out a high-pitched scream, clamping a hand over his nose. “You broke my fuckin’ nose, you motherfucker.”
Then he began swinging wildly at Jonah, connecting one shot before Jonah ducked and sidestepped, his own fist connecting with the man’s squishy gut. The man doubled over, gasping for air.
Jonah swung his leg again, connecting with the side of the man’s head. He went down hard, splashing into a puddle of unknown origin, the dank liquid raining over Jonah’s shoes. Well, fuck.
Jonah took a few steps, picking up the knife he’d kicked away and returning to the man, still groaning on the ground.
Jonah brought the knife to the man’s neck, digging the tip of the blade into his skin and the man let out a wheeze, following the glinting blade with his fear-filled eyes as Jonah ran it over his sweaty skin. “Come near her again and I’ll make sure a blade just like this one slices right into your flabby gut. You got me?”
The man bobbed his head, stopping when it caused the blade to dig into his skin again. “Get up.”
The man hesitated for one beat as if he wasn’t quite sure if Jonah was playing with him or not and then he sat up, scooted backward and pulled himself to his feet, panting as if he’d just run twenty miles.
Blood continued to drip from his nose and the spot where Jonah had pierced his throat, settling into the rolls around his neck.
“Go,” Jonah rasped, stepping aside. The man ran, splashing through the murky puddles as he went.
“Thank you, mister.” Jonah turned around, returning his attention to the woman still kneeling on the ground. She rose slowly, obviously attempting to gather herself as she smoothed her clothing and ran her hands under her black-rimmed eyes.
Jonah nodded. “Go home to your little girl. Whatever you were doing to get yourself into debt with a bottom feeder like him, don’t do it again. Your daughter needs you to make good decisions. To make a stand for her. She’s counting on you to choose the right path.”
You’re choosing a path here . . .
The beaten-down woman in front of him still had a chance to make the right choice, to turn and head in the right direction. He sincerely hoped she would.
The woman nodded, swiping at a tear. “I will. Thank you. You have no idea . . .” She gulped. “Thank you.” She ran past Jonah, turning out of the alley in the opposite direction the man had limped a few minutes before.
You have no idea . . . Only, Jonah did have some idea. He knew what it was to feel beaten down, damaged beyond all fixing, hopeless, helpless . . .
Freak show.
Only he hadn’t felt helpless just then. He’d assisted someone more helpless than himself. Jesus, wouldn’t Justin be proud of him? He laughed softly to himself. “That one was for you, bro.”
The words brought him sorrow, but they also brought undeniable warmth to his chest that he hadn’t experienced for a long, long time. For a moment there, he’d felt useful, not the purposeless person he’d lived as all of these years.
As he walked, he put his hand in his pocket, feeling the solid smoothness of the phone he’d had Myrtle turn on for him the day before. He pulled it from his pocket now, glancing at the screen. There was one text message.
Clara: Where did you go?
He typed in a quick reply. Sorry, Clara. I had to leave. Thank you for the dance.
Fuck. Thank you felt far too inadequate. Or maybe it was what he was thanking her for that felt wrong. Thank you for making me feel alive again, even if for a moment. Thank you for making me feel like I might be worth something. Shit, talk about the best way to scare her off. No, true or not, he wouldn’t say anything like that.
He closed his eyes, picturing her as she’d been earlier, her shimmery ball gown draped over her beautiful body, making her look like something out of a fairy tale. Her hair had been curled, hanging down her back in shiny waves, the vivid blue and green mask that hid half her face making her lips—the only feature that could be well seen—appear especially pink and lush. God, he’d wanted to kiss her, to taste her—
Stop. Don’t even think about that.
He’d sworn there had been something full and weighty between them in that garden, something that felt a whole lot like mutual attraction, but if she was attracted to him, it was only because she hadn’t been able to see what he’d become.
And he’d watched her before letting her know he was there. He’d watched as she danced with the other ballet dancer he’d seen on stage at the theater and wondered if there was something between them.
For a second there, he’d thought the guy was going to kiss Clara and some feeling, spiky and hot, had made him grit his teeth. Jealousy, he’d thought. This is what jealousy feels like. But he had no right to that. None at all.
Clara: When can I see you again?
Jonah frowned, putting the phone back in his pocket, not sure how to answer her question.
The ride home went by in a blur as Jonah relived every moment he’d spent with Clara. He was still partially in a daze when he removed his helmet, the mask slipping off as well and landing on the ground.
“We’ve been worried about you.”
Jonah practically jumped. “Jesus, Cecil. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Well, now we’re even. What in God’s name are you doing out riding around town on that thing?” He gestured to the sleek black motorcycle.
“You’ve both been trying to convince me to leave Windisle for years, and now that I do, you’re complaining?” Jonah placed his helmet on the seat of the bike and turned more fully toward Cecil.