"How you like the taste of that, you perv?"

  The punk's knuckles slammed across my jaw again before I could answer.

  He hit pretty good for a- a what? A sixteen year old? Seventeen at the most.

  Good Lord… I'm getting my ass kicked by children.

  By the end of this thrashing, my ego was going to hurt as much as my jaw.

  Of course, there were a lot of them—four besides Alicia Sliversson herself—and there was only one of me. That made my ego feel a little better.

  My jaw, though?

  My jaw cracked as he hit me again.

  "What do you think, perv? You had enough?"

  I spit my own blood right into his face in a spray.

  "Gah! What the hell, man? That's sick!"

  "If you would just shut up for a minute and let me explain," I growled, "Maybe it'll spare you busting a knuckle on my teeth."

  "Oh you want to explain? And just how do you think you're going to explain poking around our van when you thought we weren't looking, huh? Or hanging around the office all day, watching us. Didn't think we noticed, did you? Well, we did. And now Sarah says you're tying to peek in through her window? What the hell is with you, man? What do you want from us?"

  "I want-"

  His fist hit me again, mid-sentence. He yelped as the skin on his knuckles tore against my teeth.

  Don't say I didn't warn you.

  It would have been pretty tough of me to say that out loud. But I didn't.

  I just let another mouthful of blood dribble off my lips onto the alley pavement.

  "All… I want… is her."

  I looked at "Sarah." She just wrinkled her nose at me.

  "Yeah, we kinda figured that, you creep."

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  "It's not what you think."

  One of the punks raised his bloodied fist again.

  "Wait! Wait, just- check my coat pocket before we start in with that again, will you?"

  With an exchange of suspicious glances, they frisked my pockets.

  "It's just a wallet."

  "Open it, dipshit."

  They flipped the worn leather open and froze. Those suspicious glances became tinged with concern.

  Punks or not, they couldn't miss the card preserved in thick plastic—the one that had a picture of my ugly mug printed just above the words: RAY LEONARD - PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR - AFFORDABLE, DISCREET, RELIABLE.

  "This you?" asked one of them, "Affordable, discreet, and reliable, huh?"

  I spit more sour blood out of my mouth.

  "Sure. Don't that sound like me?"

  "Uh-huh. So, you're a private dick. So what? What are you bothering us for?"

  "Because of Sarah."

  Her companions looked at "Sarah" with new interest.

  "Expect her name's not Sarah. Is Alicia. Alicia Silversson. Isn't that right, honey?"

  She glared daggers at me, pure darkness roiling in her eyes.

  "See, while you punks are out having your joy-ride down the coast, Alicia's parent's are sitting at home, wringing their hands, and wondering what's become of their poor little girl. So they hired me to come find her and bring her home."

  "Sarah's" friends looked at her, unsure what to think. She ignored them, her eyes bored into me.

  She looked furious. At first.

  Then amused. Then she threw back her head and actually giggled.

  "Oh! So that's what this is!"

  She walked toward me, bent down so she could look me straight in my bloodied eye.

  "You're not a pervert, after all. You're my knight in shining armor. You came all this way to heroically rescue me from myself—take me away from all this before any of my bad choices catch up with me?"

  Something like that.

  "Sure."

  "That's very noble. There's just one problem."

  She leaned in close, so she could whisper.

  "I don't want to be saved."

  Then the toe of her boot caught me under the ribs so hard I almost lost my lunch. I doubled over, tumble face-first into the cold pavement, holding my aching belly and whimpering liked a whipped puppy.

  Alicia's punk friends whooped and hollered. Apparently, it was all very hilarious.

  "You can go home and tell my parents the same thing. I don't want to be rescued, I don't need to be rescued. Hell, I'm having the time of my life!"

  I just groaned and squirmed around a little on the rough asphalt.

  "You're a runaway, Alicia. And you're in over your head. You should go home before- urk!"

  Another totally unnecessary boot to the stomach cut me off.

  "You tell mom and dad that I'm not their little girl anymore and I don't need them looking over my shoulder. I'm gonna do what I'm gonna do. And the next time they want to send some cheap private dick to track me down… don't. I'm never going home again!"

  "I feel-"

  I coughed before I could get the words out. I took a deep breath and tried again.

  "I feel like you could have made that point without the kick to my guts."

  She didn't answer. I don't think she was even there anymore.

  I couldn't see her. I couldn't see anything but blackness and the red smudges clinging to the edges of my vision.

  Somewhere behind me, a car engine rumbled to life. I heard tires hiss against asphalt and tear off into the night.

  By the time I peeled my face off the pavement, Alicia Silversson was gone—vanished into the void—and I was alone on my hands and knees in the dirty alley behind a cheap motel, coughing, groaning, and trying not to vomit.

  All in all, not the worst Tuesday night I've ever had.