Storm

Chapter One

CHAPTER 1

The self-defense class had been a waste of sixty bucks.

Becca hadn't felt like a victim going in, but she sure did now. When she'd seen the flyers around school advertising a three-hour session with a "women's defense specialist," she'd been eager to sign up. But the instructor—really just some college kid named Paul—had been texting half the time, happy enough to pocket their cash in exchange for halfhearted instructions about body blocks and eye gouges. She'd lose another Saturday scrubbing kennels to make this money back.

She'd left her cell phone in her locker, so after class she went to get it. Her best friend had left fourteen texts about some drama with her mom, so Becca stood in the shadowed corridor to write back. Quinn wasn't exactly patient.

The night air bit at her flushed skin when she slid out the side door, making her wish she'd brought a heavier jacket—but at least the promised rain had held off. Darkness cloaked the now empty parking lot, and her car sat alone near the security lamp in the middle of the cracked concrete.

This was exactly the kind of situation Paul had warned them about: secluded and solitary, offering little visibility. But Becca welcomed the darkness, the silence. She almost wished she smoked, so she could lie on the car's hood, flick a lighter, and make up names for the constellations while nicotine burned her lungs.

You should be so cool.

Her key found the lock, but the door handle to her aged Honda refused to release. She muttered the obligatory prayer, but nothing happened. Sometimes it took a curse.

Then she heard a muffled shout, a distant scuffle on pavement.

She froze, more curious than afraid. A fight? Here? She saw the combatants, just at the edge of the security light over by the east wing. Three guys fighting, two on one, it looked like. One caught another in a headlock, and the third swung a fist at the captive's midsection while he struggled.

They weren't saying anything, making the violence cartoonish and unreal, like watching an action movie on mute.

The kid in the headlock twisted free, his liberty quickly rewarded with a fist to the head, sending him into a stagger. Another punch brought him to the ground.

Then he didn't move. One of the other guys kicked him in the stomach.

She heard that. And the sound made her remember that she was just standing in the middle of a parking lot, watching.

Becca dropped beside her car. Breath whistled into her lungs. She didn't want to open the door and have the sound or the light draw their attention. She'd call the police. An ambulance. The whole frigging cavalry.

She thrust her hand into her bag for her cell phone.

Dead.

Damn Quinn and her fifty bazillion texts. Becca swore and punched the phone against the pavement. The cover snapped off, skittering away under her car.

Helpful, Bex.

She peeked around the front bumper. The fallen boy lay in a crumpled pile.

They kicked him again.

"Get up," she whispered.

He didn't.

She tried to make out who the kids were. Some senior boys got off on violence. She knew a few of them firsthand—some only by reputation. The Merrick twins, maybe?

They were circling now, like vultures. One nudged the fallen boy with his foot.

Then he kicked him. "Get up."