Fun and Games Read Online Free PDF Page B

happened?
    “Ugh,” he said.
    “Oh God,” she said.
    Hardie forced himself to look down. Yep. He’d been impaled. Under his gray T-shirt he could feel blood trickling down across his right nipple, along his belly, past the waistband of his jeans. None of this seemed real. He took a breath, wondering if one of his lungs was going to collapse. Maybe pass out. Any second now.
    But nothing yet. Somehow, he was still standing.
    “Oh God,” the girl repeated, and immediately yanked the mic stand out.
    “No, don’t do—”
    Too late. The metal slid out of his flesh with a soft, wet shucking sound—like the meat of an oyster being pried from its shell. Hardie took an involuntary step backward, as if he could remove himself from the damage. The girl, too, edged backward, looked alternatively angry, shocked, and confused.
    “I told you… I told you I’d hurt you!”
    And make no mistake. The wound in his chest really fucking hurt, pain ramping up with every breath, it seemed. But somehow he was still standing, fully conscious. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it had missed everything vital—the heart, the aorta, the lungs, the liver. Then again, maybe she’d nailed his heart right smack-dab in the fucking center and he was going to bleed out in a matter of seconds.
    Hardie looked into the bathroom doorway for a towel, something to press against his chest. Maybe wrap around the wound. He took a step forward. Which freaked out the girl.
    “Stay the fuck away from me!”
    “I’m not going anywhere near you. Believe me.”
    The girl tried to focus on him. Every muscle in her body was tensed, but her eyelids were strangely droopy. The combination of anxiety and lethargy suggested the girl had been playing mix and match in a medicine cabinet. Maybe Lowenbruck kept a bunch of pharmaceuticals handy and this girl knew it.
    Whatever. Hardie took a few cautious steps into the bathroom, snatched the edges of a white terry-cloth towel and whipped it from the rack. He quickly folded it in half, held it under the entrance wound. Usually, the advice was simple: direct pressure, stop the bleeding. But what the fuck were you supposed to do when somebody impaled you?
    Hardie looked at the girl.
    “Why did you do that?”
    “You’re one of Them … admit it!”
    “I don’t know who you mean by Them, but I can assure you, I’m not.”
    “Then, what the fuck are you doing in here?”
    “I’m the house sitter.”
    “House what?”
    Her long dark hair hung down in her face, and her skin was dirty in places. Lots of scratches, too, along with a stray bruise or two. She’d bandaged up both of her hands—a sloppy, rushed job. Still, she was a pretty girl. Wide, full mouth, high cheekbones, and eyes that would be striking if she could manage to keep them open all the way—and somebody hosed her off in the backyard for a few minutes.
    “House sitter. I watch houses.”
    “Why would a fucking house sitter go sneaking around the house, checking every room? Don’t fucking deny it—I heard you!”
    Hardie had had enough standing. He carefully eased himself down to a sitting position. If he was going to pass out, he’d rather do it closer to the floor.
    “Look, honey, I just got here. Question is, what are you doing here? Because I’m pretty sure my booking agent didn’t mention anything about a crackhead with a mic stand, hiding in the bathroom.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Crackhead. Don’t you know who I am?”
    “Sweetie, I have no idea.”
    The faintest trace of a smile appeared for a moment, then vanished. Then she started trembling.
    Hardie had no idea who she was, but a story started to form in his mind. Beneath all of the patches of dirt and scratches and attitude, she appeared to be a perfectly young and healthy girl—not your average skinny L.A. junkie with buggy eyes and cheekbones that could cut tin cans. This girl had been well fed and cared for until relatively recently. Like, maybe even just a few hours ago. Maybe