102Clare always walked home by herself. She didn't much mind the streets of Boston, even when it was after dark and more than shadows lurked in the alleys. She let the lustful glances of half-drunk men roll off her body like rain; it didn't bother her, for she knew exactly what she was worth and what she was doing in the world. It was a wonderful feeling, to be so sure of herself—but nevertheless, she carried pepper-spray in the pocket of her coat and a slim little pistol in the bottom of her purse.
It was too soon after dusk to be cold. The still-warm night air caressed her cheek as she strode briskly along, her walk strong and sure. Her grey eyes took in every detail of her surroundings without flickering or flinching, giving no sign of her alert demeanor. She absently traced the crucifix of the rosary that nestled in her pocket, going over her shopping list and the dinner menu in her mind. Not very important, if you ask me, contributed a small voice in her ear. Cooking for one isn't much trouble anytime. You can have whatever you damn well please and no-one would care. No mother to scold you for eating dessert first, it pointed out wickedly. Clare pursed her lips and made a mental note to find that annoying little part of her mind responsible and shut it off.
The hum of an engine purred behind her. It was a black SUV, windows tinted, license-plate sprayed over. She knew better than to look directly at it; instead she turned and walked up the steps of an apartment building, taking the steps two at a time until she was two flights up. Clare stood, and listened, and waited, swinging her purse a little to feel the weight of the gun. God, that was the one thing she hated about Boston, the damn mobs and gangs and whoever else felt like getting some guns and shooting each other. But though she'd heard about them, and seen their cars, her heart hammered in her ears as she heard the sound of car doors opening and closing, and the hydraulic hiss of the back trunk being opened. She shrank against the wall and opened her purse as there came muffled speech and what sounded like a groan of pain. Then there were two pops, like a soda can being opened…and the sound of something heavy dragging across the pavement. Clare took her pistol and pressed her eyes shut, listening with every fiber of her being. Please don't let them come in here…please don't let them find me…Mary, Mother of God, please don't let them find me… And she was praying the rosary with all her strength, gun cocked, breath coming fast. There were heavy footsteps, and a flurry of foreign words—Italian or Spanish, she couldn't be sure. It still froze her blood. The footsteps paused—she saw a shadow twist around the corner—and then there was the blessed sound of a car revving, a door closing, and the engine growling away down the street.
"Thank you Mary, Mother of Jesus," she whispered, taking out her crucifix and kissing it. Just as a precaution, she slipped the pistol into her pocket and ventured forth nonchalantly.
Dear God. She stopped.
There was blood on the pavement, a small splotch of it, more in the street, in the gutter. A drop here…a brush of it there…like a trail of breadcrumbs. Her spine chilled. Leave it be, leave it be, leave it be, that small voice in her head whispered frantically, terrified. But she took a step toward the alley, horrified and fascinated. The shadows were dark…another step…there.
"Jesus Christ," she said in a sort of supplication, and put her hand against the brick wall.
Two figures. Blood. One of them was speaking, bending over the other, crying out in a strange mix of tongues. She couldn't understand him. She couldn't understand this. But something compelled her. She took another step closer.
"Fucking hell, Conn," the man gasped. His hands and chest were covered in blood, and he bent over a prone figure. The man on the ground was pale even in the shadows. "Fuck. Fuck."
All at once Clare stepped forward. "Let me help," she said, holding up her hands to show she was unarmed. "Please, let me help." She didn't know why she felt this strange surge of protectiveness and sorrow and pity but it overwhelmed her. She dropped to her knees, fighting the urge to gag.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Connor, wake up," the man pleaded. "Don't do this to me, fuck, oh fuck..." He trailed off, breathing hard.
"Move." He let her push him aside and she went to work, hands shaking, her mind blazing through every first aid lesson she'd ever learned. No bullet holes, but no pulse...his skin was still warm...and she saw the rings of bruises around his throat. "Okay," she said. "Okay, listen to me." The darker-haired man looked at her with glazing eyes, his hands shaking. "Do you know CPR?" He hazily shook his head. "All right then. Here." She pressed her cell phone into his bloody hand. "Look, hold down the number 2 button and when someone answers, hold the phone up so I can talk." With that she concentrated on the second brother-somehow she knew. They were brothers. Maybe twins. She placed her hands on the man's chest, locked her elbows, counting out the compressions.
Okay, Miss Hotshot, you have all the answers. You used to be a lifeguard in the eleventh grade. She fiercely shoved away her doubts, giving him two long breaths. Best kiss you've had in a month, kid, she thought to herself. But it wasn't her fault that all the men she met were either assholes or married. Or just taken out by the mob.
A/N: This is my first fanfic, so please be gentle! Any comments and/or suggestions are much appreciated!