by Nova Rain
A week later, I discovered just how wrong. Patricia started knocking on my door in the middle of the night, checking to see if anyone else was in my apartment. My negative answers and my obvious frustration at being awakened at three or four a.m. didn’t deter her. She checked each and every room, and, once she didn’t find anyone, she apologized for acting crazy. Her last words before leaving were: “I’m just scared of losing you.”
That was all she wrote. I couldn’t have that in my life, no matter how hot Patricia was. I didn’t want to go to bed, thinking if—or maybe when—she would barge in. I liked her, I was having the time of my life with her, but no woman in the world is worth that kind of anxiety. To my relief, when I ended things with her, she asked for a transfer and disappeared from my life.
Hot water rushes out of the shower head. A sense of relaxation envelopes me as it hits my forehead. All of a sudden, images from the hospital fly right out of my mind. I am not worried about gurneys being rushed along the hallway, injury updates, and patient information. I am home, in my personal haven. Nothing can disrupt these moments, except a massive emergency.
I grab a white towel from the rack on the wall and shut off the water. My plans for that cold, November night consist of reading a favorite book of mine: Oscar Wilde’s “Dorian Grey’s Portrait.” Over the years, it has occurred to me that immersing into a fictional world helps me unwind. Within minutes, I will be lying on my couch and relaxing. I figure I will be asleep by midnight.
However, as I cross my bathroom, my plans are thrown right out the window. The tension I have been trying to get rid of comes back with a vengeance, as a sharp noise from my living room fills my ears. A heavy object has hit the hardwood floor with a thump, which is rather peculiar. I have a carpet in my living room, because I want to keep that floor in pristine condition.
Leaning forward, I sneak a peek through the small gap between the bathroom door and the doorframe. The rain that had accompanied me on the drive back home has not let up. Thick raindrops are pounding against the glass façade. Pale beams from the light pole outside outline a slender figure, decked out in black. A quick glance tells me how he has broken into my house. He has cut a perfectly round hole in the glass façade. Whoever he is, he has just knocked over a lion head figurine from the small table in front of the window. With a flashlight in his grasp, the stranger is tiptoeing across the living room. The beam is pointing up at my TV. Moving it to the right, he stops it at the dining room table. The light reflects off the keys to my BMW.
I have seen enough. Swinging the bathroom door open, I stride out into the hallway. Still, that son of a bitch is very fast indeed. His quick footsteps lead him to the table in almost no time at all. I dash off to my left, a shot of adrenaline pouring through my veins. In my eagerness, I let the towel drop to the floor. Stamping over it, I leap towards him, arms extended forward as he shoves the key of the car into his pocket. The sheer force on his right shoulder knocks him off balance. What happens next surprises me at first, but I welcome it nonetheless. His body is thrown across the living room with relative ease. I am a big man, and I had seen he was somewhat thin, but I wasn’t expecting that. Our bodies fall to the floor and roll towards my couch, as a squeaky cry flees his lips. Our course is only interrupted when he bumps his head against the leg of the couch. Finding myself on top of him, I grab him by the throat. An ear-piercing squeak puzzles me; yet, I am not given the time to think about it. A strong jab to my jaw stuns me. In the blink of an eye, he is free of my grip, and I am reeling in pain. I lean over to my right, squeezing my eyes shut. With a kick to my midsection, the little bastard pushes me away from him. I land flat and hard on my back, pressing my hand to my cheek.
Before I know it, the burglar is back up on his feet, and running towards the window. In his panic, his body smashes the glass, sending hundreds of shards out onto the lawn. His body lands on his side, before rolling across the soft surface. Bouncing up, he heads towards my driveway. My ears catch the distinctive sound of the doors unlocking. The loud rumble of the engine rips through the silence a moment before he puts the car in reverse. Its rear tires dig into the lawn and the dirt. Chunks of mud are scattered all over the front yard as he puts his foot down hard on the accelerator. The BMW’s high beams light up the empty road, smoke rising from its back tires. I watch as one of my most prized possessions disappears into the night, wondering about the identity of the person who has just stolen one of my childhood dreams. Because that’s what that BMW M3 was: a $120,000 dream.
Still, I’m not going to let despair set in. Apparently, that thief hadn’t done his homework, and I was going to take full advantage of his oblivion.
Chapter Two
Monica
Almost perfect. Almost.
The high-end beauty is mine. I had to fight off a huge, naked guy to get it, but I had succeeded. And it was during that fight that I nearly broke my hand.
I am filled with worry when I pull my glove off. My palm and fingers have turned blue, and the pain is getting stronger by the minute. It was as if I had punched a solid block of ice. At any rate, this isn’t so bad. Sure, I needed to see a doctor, who’ll probably put my hand in a cast for a week or two, but that was just a small price to pay for the car I had stolen. The beamer’s owner wasn’t an ordinary guy. He was at least 6’4” and very masculine, exactly the type of man you don’t want to mess with. In a way, I was feeling proud that I had knocked him out. For the first time in my life, I had beaten someone twice my size. Had he overpowered me, I would have wound up in the hospital, being guarded by cops. Then I would have had to have gotten used to the idea of spending the next five or six years in a cell.
The street lights buzzed on Central Park Avenue as I spotted the yellow sign of “Pepe’s” pizzeria. I eased on the brakes of the BMW, a feeling of sadness washing over me. This was probably the last time I would drive this incredible machine. I doubted if I would ever experience this sort of power from a stock car. Within the hour, someone else would be behind this wheel. In truth, getting rid of her would solve most of my problems, or so I thought.
I pulled over on the right side of the road, caressing the gearstick. The beamer rolled to a gentle halt right outside the Italian restaurant. Just when I switched off the engine, the roar of another engine caused the windows to vibrate. I checked the driver’s mirror as one of the sweetest sounds ever overshadowed the honking of another oncoming car. That was a V8: in particular, the V8 of a Chevy Camaro. I just loved that car. I even stared at it in the mirror while it closed the distance between us. To add to the sound, it was orange, with two, black stripes in the middle. It couldn’t get any better than that.
I let out a sigh of longing, at the same time wondering if I would ever be able to afford one of those. I grew up with posters of Camaro’s and Challengers in my bedroom. They were fast, but it wasn’t just their speed that appealed to me. Besides, there were much faster cars than them out there. It was the whole package of looks, speed, sound, and heritage that got me. They had more than fifty years of history behind them.
For some strange reason though, the orange Camaro was not accelerating, although traffic was minimal. Instead, it was slowing down more and more by the second, until it stopped right next to the BMW. The passenger door was just inches from the driver’s mirror. There was a young man in the passenger seat, looking right at me. Lowering his window, he turned to me and smirked.
“Don’t even think about going anywhere, sweetheart,” he stated, his gun resting on the windowpane.
“Damn it…” I sighed, dropping my head into my hands. I had no idea who he was. I’d never met the guy, but he was very close to ruining my plan. I’d had to fight for this BMW, and this moron was holding me at gunpoint. Needless to say, my first thought was turning the engine back on. If he wanted this car, he would have to go through me. However, this had to be one of the stupidest ideas in history: a Camaro versus a BMW? On a city highway, just a couple of miles from the nearest police station? I
could imagine the two ways this could end, and neither of them was good. One, I could crash into oncoming traffic. Two, I could be arrested.
“Let me guess…” a deep, male voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “This is your first time boosting a car, isn’t it?”
I lowered my hands and glanced over at him. My stomach dropped, the moment my gaze landed on his chest. It was huge, and I had seen it in all its glory just minutes earlier. I could still feel the grip of his large hand on my throat. The big bruise on his jaw was the last clue. The owner of the beamer had somehow managed to find me.
“How the hell did you find me?” I wondered, my gaze shooting up to meet his. Almond-shaped, green eyes were fixed with mine. To add to my confusion, his thick lips had curled into a smile.
“Actually, that was easy,” he replied, his tone calm. “The M3 is a total nerd fest. It’s got a very advanced security system, which allows the owner to track it at all times, and 24/7 helpdesk support. I called them, told them it’d been stolen, and they led me here. A pro would know how to deactivate that system.”
“Right,” I uttered, lifting my arm. I curled my fingers into a fist, because I knew what was going to follow. Pretty soon, I would be in handcuffs. This time though, he thrust his arm up and grabbed my wrist in midair, his smile disappearing.
“Try that again, and I might forget you’re a woman,” he growled, tossing a fierce glare at me. “Why the hell did you steal my car?”
“Because I admired the bodywork,” I responded, irony dripping from my tongue. “Why do people steal cars?”
“There are a lot more expensive cars in my neighborhood,” he remarked, his tone stiff. “One of my neighbors recently purchased a Lamborghini Gallardo. Why didn’t you steal that?”
“Look, I don’t owe you an explanation, okay?” I retorted. “You want to call the cops on me? Fine. Do it, but get off my back.”
“If I wanted you arrested, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he claimed as the volume in his voice lowered. “What’s your name, girl? I’m Sean, by the way. Sean Granger.”
“Monica Townsend,” I muttered. “Just out of curiosity, how much did you pay for this car?”
“If you won’t answer my questions? I won’t answer yours,” his response was sharp as his gaze stopped on my hand. “Whoa! That’s one nasty bruise you’ve got there. You should get that looked at.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I told him, pulling the key out of the ignition.
“Hey, Ryan!” he called out his friend’s name, looking over at me as he lifted my wrist up in the air. “Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to have a look at this?”
“No problem,” he smiled. “Remember: you owe me fifty bucks, buddy. I told you she’d buy it.”
Buy what?
The answer to my question came before I even could ask either of them. Cold water shot out of his “gun” and splashed against my face. Ryan burst out laughing like an eight-year old, whereas Sean just pressed his lips together. Despite my frustration, his request took me by complete surprise. I had stolen his car, I had put him through all this trouble, and the guy wanted to help me? Why? Out of the goodness of his heart?
“Ryan’s an orthopedist. I’m a neurologist. We work together,” he informed her. “I’ll take that.” He went on, snatching the key from my grasp. “Get in the back and buckle up. This won’t take long.”
I stayed silent as he got out of the car. I watched him walk around it, at a loss for words. I was feeling like a fool. Those two had trapped me, and they hadn’t even used a real weapon. Why hadn’t I noticed that Ryan’s gun was just a child’s toy? But this wasn’t the most dominant thought in my mind. Sean’s willingness to take me to the hospital had blown my mind. I wasn’t used to people being nice to me. And even if they were, they usually had an ulterior motive, which most of the time meant something sexual.
In the Metropolitan Hospital, I discovered who Sean and Ryan really were. Doctors, nurses, and orderlies greeted them with smiles on their faces. Sean seemed to be more popular than his friend was. As soon as we walked past a couple of young nurses, they started to chatter behind his back and giggle like schoolgirls. They acted more like two teenagers who had a crush on their teacher, than the professionals they were supposed to be. I turned my attention to Sean, somewhat confused with all this. Okay, he was a big guy, but he was in his late… No. In the craziness of the night, I had failed to take a closer look at him. I thought he was just another guy in his late forties or early fifties, having a mid-life crisis. Most, if not all, M3 drivers fall under that category, but he didn’t. I doubted he was more than thirty years old. His dark-brown hair was shining under the fluorescence. The smile he had on highlighted his strong jaw, along with the lines that crinkled out from the corners of his green eyes. He also towered over me. Sean had to be nine or ten inches taller than me, whereas his friend was about his height.
Minutes later, I was standing between them in Ryan’s office as they looked at the x-ray of my arm.
“Hmmm…” Ryan hummed. “It’s inconclusive. What do you think, Dr. Granger?”
“I have to agree with you,” Sean nodded, pointing up at what seemed like a tiny crack in my palm. “That’s your scaphoid bone, Monica. Although it’s unclear, it has to be treated as a fracture.”
“Meaning?” I squinted up at him.
“You’ll have to wear a cast for a while,” Ryan explained, “for ten days at least. Excuse me. I need to go get the technologist.”
“Great,” I sighed, tearing my gaze away from the x-ray.
“Ryan will write a note for your employer,” Sean assumed a soft tone. “Who would have thought punching me would get you a couple of weeks off?”
“Employer…” I murmured as a smile of bitterness formed on my face.
“You do have a day job, don’t you?” Sean asked, furrowing his brow.
“Let’s just say I don’t work a nine-to-five job,” I suggested, running my hand through my hair.
“Oh, I get it,” he claimed. “Models don’t have steady hours. Here’s what I don’t get. You girls are supposed to make pretty good money. What made you want to steal my car?”
My first thought was belting out “I’m not a model.” But, within moments, I figured out why he had said such a thing. This was his lame attempt to cash in on the favor he had done me. He would follow that up with another stupid line, and let me know what he wanted, in bed…
“Nice try,” I groaned, glaring up at him. “Come on, spit it out. What do you want?”
“Excuse me?” he cocked an eyebrow, his face twisting into an expression of surprise.
“Oh, don’t act all innocent,” I demanded, raising my tone. “I know your kind. You only help somebody when you want something in return. What is it?”
“I just think you’re good-looking,” Sean shrugged his shoulders, unaffected by my little rant. “And no, I don’t want anything in return. But if you try to steal my car again, make no mistake. I will have you arrested. Goodnight.”
At that, he turned around and strutted out of his friend’s office, leaving me even more baffled than when he found me in his car. Sean wasn’t a typical, selfish guy. I had known him for an hour or so, and this was crystal-clear about him. There was more to him, but I didn’t think I would ever find out. He was mad at me. Even if he wasn’t though, he had no need for someone like me. I would mess up his life far more than I had that night.
Chapter Three
Sean
What in the world was that?
There were many answers to that question, all of which could have been true.
Monica was a woman of unbelievable beauty. Long, dark-red hair, hazel eyes, lush lips… Even in her black coverall, her curves were noticeable. Big breasts and a perky butt stretched her top and her pants as well. Three days later, I was still wondering why I had failed to realize that the burglar was in fact a woman. Perhaps I could blame it on the tension that had overwhelmed me. My house
had never been broken into. Whatever the reason behind my failure, I couldn’t deny that Monica Townsend was a temptation. But was that temptation sweet? No. It was fierce and ready to pounce like a wildcat. A few minutes with her almost made me forget a lot of things I knew about women.
Well-behaved? Mellow? Cool-headed?
None of the above.
Rude. Loud. Rough around the edges. Bad tempered.
Those were a lot more accurate.
She was definitely not the kind girl with whom I was used to socializing. And maybe that was the reason why she had drawn my attention. I turned the ignition in my car, and all I could think of, was the moment I caught her in it. Then, our conversation flashed before my eyes, reminding me of the feisty burglar’s—poor—manners. She had an even worse attitude in the hospital, which didn’t make any sense. I believed she would treat me better after my kind gesture, but her outburst showed me the magnitude of my mistake. If anything, it was further proof of her weirdness.
I needed to speak to someone about all this, and there was no better candidate for that than Ryan Bailey, my friend and colleague. I had mentioned my frustration to him more than once at work, but a hospital is not suited for such conversations. There was just too much work to be done, and neither of us could afford thinking about things other than work. So, I asked him to meet me at “Jayden’s,” a tasteful lounge café in my neighborhood.
A melodic acoustic guitar introduction was lacing the air as I strolled in. Scanning the hall for an empty table, I recognized Bradley Cooper’s wonderful voice. His duet with Lady Gaga was setting a romantic mood. Under any other circumstances, I would enjoy that particular song. It was beautiful in every way imaginable. I loved the meaningful lyrics, and, although I was never a fan of Lady Gaga, she had done an amazing job in this ballad. Locating a table by the window, I crossed the café, glad that I would soon get to talk to Ryan about Monica.