All I did was tie his wrists together and take off his clothes.
For a joke.
A bit of fun revenge.
I swayed, dizzy on my feet. The sounds of Paris rushed around me, swirling into a crescendo. My eyes were trained on the boy, my date, in front of me. Minutes ago he’d kissed me, offered me sparkling cider. He’d smiled and invited me into his world, his life. Now he appeared to be unconscious.
He groaned again, and I ran to his side. Blood gushed down his arm, leaving a trail and dripping onto the grass. No. No. No. How? What had happened? I’d turned away for three seconds! Only a serious injury could cause that much blood.
Like a bullet wound.
But I never heard a gunshot. He was a waiter. I was a nice girl having her first date in Paris. Things like getting shot didn’t happen in situations like that.
Following my instincts from watching too many crime shows, I pressed the quilt against his arm to stop the bleeding. But I had no idea if it was working, especially in the growing darkness. Slowly, I pulled the quilt off and peered at his arm. The smell of blood and the protruding flap of skin sent my stomach into upheaval. I quickly covered it up. DOCTOR, my mind screamed.
“Doctor! Doctor!” I called out to tourists and couples walking past, but they ignored me.
Some pulled out their phones and snapped pictures. Others saw what looked like a questionable scene and hurried by, not wanting to get involved. And I had no idea how to say in French, “Help! A boy might possibly be bleeding to death!” Or, “I tied him up but I didn’t shoot him!”
I knew exactly how this would look to the police. Terrible. Like I was some crazy, gun-happy, screwed-up American teen. Or like I belonged to some secret, ancient society that murdered people for no apparent reason. Right.
I struggled not to pass out. Who would hurt Malcolm? And what if they were still watching? With a gun aimed at us? Or me? Crap. I dropped to the ground next to him, huddling close.
“Please, please be okay,” I whispered.
“Oh, now you want me to be okay,” Malcolm mumbled. “After tying me up.”
I shook with relief that he was talking and still breathing. I kept pressing the quilt against his arm. “Do you know who might’ve shot you?”
“Do you have a jealous ex-boyfriend?” he asked. A bit of drool clung to the corner of his mouth.
“This is nothing to joke about,” I snapped. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“It’s not that bad.” His eyes blinked open briefly. He felt his arm, wincing. “It’s just a grazing, I think.”
“Not that bad? You’ve been shot!”
I felt past the quilt to the cloth napkin tied around his wrists. The ties had to come off, and I couldn’t hide in his shadow forever like a coward. I had to act. And it had to be soon. Before this situation got any worse.
My legs trembled and panic set my skin on fire as I scooted around his body. The barrel of a gun could be pointed right at me, the shooter focused and aiming, waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger. I tugged at the binds, but they weren’t called my specialty knots for nothing. Only one thing to do.
“This might hurt but I need to pull you to safety while I go for help.” I hooked my arms under his shoulders and pulled.
I heard the ping first and felt the pricks of shattered tree bark against my back. I dropped to the ground. Sobs ripped from my throat, and I curled into a ball. That was why I never heard the gun shot. The gun had a silencer on it, which meant professionals.
“Savvy?”
“What?” I said in a tiny, scared voice.
“Come close and listen.”
I inched over to his side so I could see his face. Pain flecked his expression from the set of his jaw to the way his eyelids fluttered shut every few seconds.
“What?” I whispered. I couldn’t even hold his hands because they were tied up.
“I like you.” A twisted laugh escaped his lips. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”
“Let me get help.” I wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, to comfort him, but I curled my fingers into the grass.
“We need to run,” he said. “Help me up.”
“What if they shoot again? Or what if you pass out from blood loss?”
He glanced to the right and left as if hoping to spot the shooter. “If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead.”
I let his words soak in. This was a warning? For what? Eating too many chocolat au pains?
His words puffed out with each breath. “I try. To bring my dates. Home alive. Their dads like that.” He held his breath and grimaced with pain. “You run one way. I’ll run the other. Eiffel. Thirty minutes.”
“Shh. Okay. I get it. Don’t talk anymore.” This time I did run my fingers across his cheek, then I smoothed his hair.
“I’m serious. Go,” he barked.
The back of my neck tensed at the urgency in his voice, and I glanced around. The light from the Eiffel Tower and the street lamps still cast a romantic glow but this night had become anything but romantic. Most people rushed past us. We could both stay here all night like sitting ducks, just hoping the shooter would leave us alone. Or I could do as Malcolm wanted and run away.
“Fine.” But I didn’t move. I was rooted to his side, too scared to go, too scared to stay. I fumbled with the ties. “Let me get you untied.”
Then I heard another ping and the grass tore up next to me. I smothered a scream, grabbed my bag, and got to my knees.
“Go! Now!” His voice hitched. “I’ll slip out of these knots in two seconds.”
I choked back a sob. “Thirty minutes.”
Then I ran. I didn’t look back, but flew across the grass toward the main road. The thought that a bullet could be shooting toward my back made me run faster than I’d ever run before.