A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(10)
Author: Suzanne Young

I’m starting to hyperventilate, but the pain seems to fade with each swipe I take. I press a little harder as I run my fingers over the spot and soon there’s no more skin there. I cry out at the sight of it and cover my eyes with my shaky hands. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. But the burning in my shoulder is gone and it’s pure relief.

I swallow hard and lower my hands, turning to glance at the wound. Only when I do, it’s different. It’s . . . golden.

“Oh my God,” I murmur, brushing at the skin, but nothing else comes off. It’s a layer of gold, under the surface, gleaming in the yellow light of the streetlamps.

“No.” I shake my head, not sure what’s wrong with me. As if the Need isn’t enough. Now my skin? What the hell is wrong with my skin? I blink rapidly and back away from the warehouse, rubbing roughly at my shoulder, trying to get rid of the spot. The gold.

I stumble off the curb and I’m immediately flooded in light from an oncoming car. I scream, holding my arms up in front of me, my white shirt still hanging off my shoulder. Tires squeal. Metal bangs against my thighs and I’m knocked back; the force of it driving me into the ground where my head smacks the pavement with a sick thud. Everything goes black.

“Yo, girl,” I hear. “You alive?”

I blink slowly. No scene comes into focus. All I see is a glowing figure in front of me, a person outlined in light. He’s staring down, alternating between yelling at me and yelling into his phone.

Despite the throbbing of my legs and the daggers in the back of my head, I sit up. My body burns, my bones pull toward the guy, toward his light. Although none of my other Needs have ever glowed like this, I know it’s him. And suddenly images flash and I can see why I’m here.

“Francisco,” I whisper, feeling some relief as I say his name. He jumps away from me, shaking his head.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

There is warm liquid trickling down my cheek and I touch it. It might be blood, but when I look at my hand I can’t tell. All I can see is Francisco. And the impending shoot-out.

I can’t distinguish his features but I can tell he’s scared as he backs away. I groan, getting to my feet, ignoring the aching. I want to help him. I have to.

“You need to turn yourself in,” I say, brushing absently at my blood-soaked hair. “The police know where you are. They’re on their way.” And I can see what will happen if he tries to run. I know they’ll kill him.

“Who are you?” Francisco screams at me, taking his phone from his ear. I feel a jolt of fear as he thinks of striking me, but he doesn’t. He’s too frightened. “Who are you?” he asks again, his voice cracking.

“I’m no one,” I murmur, the words startling me. My tone is so calm, and I don’t feel like myself. All I feel is the Need.

In my head I can see Francisco dressed in black at the curb of a big stone house on the other side of town. He’s younger than I’d thought, maybe twenty? While he waits, his fingers tap on the steering wheel as his best friend, Leo, is inside the home, robbing it.

Leo hadn’t known the man was home. And he didn’t mean to shoot him. Or at least, that’s what Francisco tells himself. That’s what he wants to think.

When he heard the shots, Francisco should have left, but he couldn’t run. It’s not the way. And he needed the money for his grandma. Leo had promised him 50 percent just to drive.

Here in the street Francisco grasps the handle of his car door. “I didn’t do it,” he calls out to me, as if he can’t help but confess. “I wasn’t in the house!”

I nod and move toward him, needing to touch him. His light is so bright as it glows with his emotions, but I can feel that he’s not listening. He’s not doing what he’s supposed to. He’s almost over.

“Please,” I murmur, seeing his aura flicker toward me, as if reaching out to me. “It’s time. Your grandma needs you alive. She won’t survive if you go.”

He cries out at the mention of his grandmother and runs his hands roughly through his short hair. Suddenly I can tell he’s listening.

“Damn, girl,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t know what to do. He looks around the road, indecisively, and that’s when I reach out. Not because I’m trying to, but because I have to. The vines are back, pulling me to him.

My hot hand touches his forearm and I feel the skin sear underneath, a surge running through both of us. He yanks back, but it’s too late. He’s been touched. He’s felt it. He believes me.

Francisco is gasping as his aura fades from my vision. Now I can see that his hair is cropped short and there’s a ring piercing his dark eyebrow. He’s staring at me, his eyes glassy and trancelike, tears running down his cheeks. I see the fading mark of a handprint on his arm.

“What are you?” he asks, out of breath. “What the hell are you?”

His words hurt me, not like the hurt in my head, which is killing me right now. Not like the deep bruising I can feel in my legs as I stand here, half dazed. His words are exactly what I ask myself every night before I fall asleep. What am I?

I swallow hard. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I’m no one.”

I wait in the shadows of the alley until the cops arrive. It’s only a matter of minutes, but in that time, Francisco calls his grandmother to confess and then calls his girlfriend, who is waiting for him back at their apartment. And now he’s ready.

Three squad cars blare through the streets and stop in a zigzag around Francisco’s car. My shirt is buttoned up, hiding it, and I realize that I’ve forgotten my new jacket at Harlin’s. Which is just as well. It would have gotten filthy.

I watch as Francisco raises his arms above his head. No one seems to notice me among the flashing lights. I hear the cops radioing back to the dispatchers, saying they’ve caught the perp. I’m relieved. The shoot-out was avoided.

Francisco is bent over the hood of his car as he’s handcuffed and the officer is reading him his rights. Then a chubby, short officer with his gun casually at his side leans toward Francisco.

“Surprised the hell out of me, son. Thought you’d be running all night. What made you stop here?”

I tense, hoping Francisco doesn’t tell them about me. I don’t want to have to explain this—the unexplainable. What would I tell the cops? I’m a freak that’s compelled to help people against my will? That I’ve tried to stop but it hurts too much? I can’t explain what I don’t know. I start to back away when I see Francisco blink, looking confused. Finally, he just mumbles, “I don’t remember.”