Alone with You Read Online Aly Martinez

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Contemporary, Suspense Tags Authors: Aly Martinez Advertisement1

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I rolled my eyes as my dad lifted his hands like talons and roared.

I loved him, but he could be such a dork.

My mom giggled, the sound as gentle as snowflakes on a tin roof. “Just take the picture, honey. I’m sure it will be great.”

It wouldn’t be great. Not at the angle she was taking it. I’d probably be cut out of the frame completely, but then again, that was more than likely her plan. What were big sisters for if not to torment you?

Whatever. I didn’t particularly care if I was in the frame or not. The only reason I’d even agreed to a stupid picture in the middle of the mall food court was to finish my roll of film so I could get it developed. Film was a dying art—rightly so—and Sixty Minutes was one of the few places left in Watersedge that would develop it while you waited.

And, trust me, if you’d seen Brad Harris, you would understand why I was in a rush to get those pictures back.

“Say cheese!” Mom singsonged, no doubt through a breathtaking smile.

My mother was gorgeous in a way that made people stop and stare. Not in a sexy way. Not even in a traditional way. No, Keira Banks had a classic beauty that was all her own. Luckily, she’d passed on her red hair and green eyes to me and my sister. I hated my frizzy, orange curls most of the time, but she’d promised that one day they would turn into deep, rich waves of amber like hers. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I held out hope nonetheless.

I scowled at the camera, ready to get the dang picture over with and head to Sixty Minutes.

“You call that a smile?” Dad said, tickling my side. “I’m going to need something bigger than that, buttercup.”

“Dad, stop,” I grumbled.

Those were the last words I ever said to my father.

He fell face first, a gaping hole in the back of his head, before the sound of gunfire met any of our ears.

Chaos exploded. A symphony of screams and cries echoed off the white tile floors as the constant boom of a firearm played the bassline.

People ran. Everywhere. In all directions. Scattering and blurring past me in streaks of denim and cotton. I started to move, maybe to follow them, but some primal instinct inside me screamed at me to get down. Panicked, I looked at my mother. She’d know what to do.

She was standing only a few feet away, and our eyes locked just in time for me to see her body jerk from the impact. First, her shoulders, one at a time. Then her torso, her head snapping back from the sheer force of a bullet.

And then she fell, landing over the top of my father’s dead body.

“Mama!” I screamed, diving toward her.

The gunfire continued, each shot bleeding into the last.

Dropped to my knees, I took her hand. “Mama, Mama, Mama,” I chanted, hot tears streaming down my face. Blood leaked through her pale-pink sweater, and pure terror glistened in her eyes as she stared back at me.

I was only eight years old, and Hell was raining bullets all around us, but there was no mistaking the look on her face.

She knew she was dying—and she couldn’t figure out how to make sure I didn’t.

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped, and in a moment of clarity, I popped my head up to look for my sister. But the only thing I could see was death and despair. The once-busy food court had been transformed into a graveyard. Bodies lay crumpled over, rivers of blood merging into pools, those pools joining to form a sea of red. The screams had turned into moans and the shouts into whimpers. The few remaining living souls were hiding under the tables or clinging to injured loved ones much like I was.

Only, when I looked back at my mother, she was no longer injured.

She was dead.

My shoulders shook wildly, silent sobs tearing from my throat. I needed to run. I needed to get out of there. But the fear and helplessness were paralyzing. I rested my forehead against my mother’s the way she’d done to me so many times in the past, calming me after a bad dream.

I needed her—glassy-eyed and unmoving—to fix this. I needed her to sit up and tell me that it was over. I needed my father to rise to his feet and pull me into his strong arms, where nothing could hurt me. And I needed my sister to appear, take my hand, and tease me relentlessly for overreacting.

I needed this not to be real.

Suddenly, a man got up and darted toward the double glass doors. With one single gunshot, he dropped to the ground.

My scream mingled with the gasps and cries of others trapped and hidden in that war zone. Desperate, I scanned the area for help.


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