Free The Edge of Honor by P. T. Deutermann Page B

the fuck’re you, anyway?”
    “I don’t know you, Marine,” said the man in a quiet voice, stepping into the lamplight for the first time. “But you know me. I’m Autrey.”
    The big Marine straightened up and stopped weaving for a moment.
    “Autrey? You’re fuckin’ Autrey?” He put his massive paws in front of his chest as if to push something away. “I don’t want no fuckin’ trouble, man.
    Not with you. Not over some twist. Shit. I’m gone.”-He staggered off toward the club, missing the gravel walkway, colliding with the hedge before floundering back toward the club building like a bear crashing through brambles.
    Maddy bent forward and started to gasp. Suddenly, she could not get her breath. The man who called himself Autrey came over to her swiftly.
    “Give me your jacket,” he ordered.
    She just looked up at him blankly, still trying desperately to get a breath. Then he reached toward her and started to take her jacket. She froze, then tried to back away, starting to panic again.
    “Hold still,” he said. “I’m going to take your jacket.
    You’re hyperventilating. I’m just taking your jacket. Hold still. You’re okay.” He took the jacket and bunched it into a makeshift sack. “There, now put your face into it, breathe slower. That’s right, little breaths, smaller than that, in, out. Good, steady it up. Now blow into the jacket. You got it. You got it, into the jacket, easy now, slow it down.”
    Slowly, she regained her breath as he stood in front of her, talking quietly, not touching her, coaching her with his voice. When she was finally able to lift her face, he nodded and then led her over to a car, a large four-door Chevrolet Impala. He opened the right-front door and steered her into sitting down sideways in the car’s doorway, her feet barely touching the ground. She slumped over, her face almost on her knees, her arms wrapped around her middle as she tried to control her shaking.
    She felt him standing nearby, his hand on her shoulder now. Suddenly, she experienced a wave of nausea. She looked up.
    “I think I—I’m going—”
    He lifted her out of the car doorway in one smooth motion and trotted her over to the bushes, where she was immediately very sick. He stood to one side and held her shoulders until she was still, then gently walked her back to the car. She heard the crackle of a cigarette pack and then the distinctive click of a Zippo lighter. She smelled the pungent aroma of tobacco and realized he was holding a cigarette in front of her face.
    “I don’t—I don’t smoke,” she said in a choked voice.
    “Take one drag,” he said. “It’ll kill the nausea. Go ahead.” He put the cigarette to her lips, and she hesitated, inhaled once in a shallow puff, followed by a little cough. “Deeper,” he ordered. “Inhale it.” She did, then exhaled slowly, trying not to cough. He took the cigarette away. He was right. The waves of nausea reaching for her throat seemed to subside back into her stomach almost at once. She looked up, but Autrey was a dozen feet away, retrieving her shoes and purse. He walked back and dropped them on the floor oa the passenger side.
    “I think maybe you need a lift home, miss.”
    She looked up at him. His face seemed foreign, almost Spanish, yet different from the typical San Diego Latino.
    He wore his hair in an uneven, spiky-looking flattop and was dressed casually in chinos and a loose-fitting long sleeved white shirt. His face was narrow and angular, with a prominent nose, heavy eyebrows, dark, even black, eyes, and thin lips. He was tall, perhaps six feet, with exceptionally wide shoulders, not big and beefy like the Marine, but rangy. He appeared to be on the verge of smiling, but she could not be sure in the semidarkness.
    “Uh, Maddy. Maddy Holcomb. And thank you, Mr … Autrey? Thank you very much. I—”
    “Yeah. Well, you’re very welcome. That didn’t look exactly like friendly persuasion. Do you have a car out