18

GLYNDON Red drips onto the concrete. Dark. Ominous. Drip. Drip. Drip. I follow the direction from which the blood is pouring and pause. Killian still wears the red shorts and has thrown on a black T-shirt. His muscles flex, but he doesn’t appear to be cold, or in pain due to the bruise peeking from his arm or the cut on his lip. That’s from where the blood drips, smearing his chin and collarbone. “Get in the car,” he orders with complete assurance. Someone honks because the crazy bastard stopped in the middle of the street, but Killian doesn’t pay them attention. I shake my head and try to bypass him. “I can always go back in there and pick up where I left off. The only difference is that you’ll regret the decision once your precious Creighton ends up in a body cast.” My fists clench. “Don’t.” “I heard he doesn’t tap out. So maybe he’ll be hooked to a machine in a hospital next time you see him.” “Stop it!” “Get in the fucking car, Glyndon.” The guy honks again and while Killian doesn’