by Matayo, Amy
I won’t, but I reach behind me to slide the phone out of my pocket and hand it to him, glancing over at the faint glow of light that illuminates his mouth when he turns it on. He punches a couple numbers, then holds the phone between his fingers. His hands are the only thing I can see, but they’re saying a lot in the way they’ve gone limp and still.
“Still nothing,” he says.
“I know. I tried it a couple minutes ago.”
“I guess there just hasn’t been enough time for the police to organize a rescue,” he says.
It feels like hours, but it’s only been three minutes max. There hasn’t been enough time for the world to know that hell has descended on a concert arena in Seattle, locking several thousand innocent souls inside its fiery grip and refusing to let go. There hasn’t been enough time for news vans or twitter feeds or old-fashioned word of mouth. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.
“You’re right, the police need more time. All we can do now is wait for them to get here.”
Chapter Three
Teddy
I hate waiting.
In my profession, people move. People go. People make snap decisions without thinking because sometimes those decisions determine the outcome of a long career or quick slide into obscurity. It’s not that I have to be in charge; it’s that if I don’t think on my feet, people suffer. Dreams die. Livelihoods disappear. I’ve seen it once. I’ve seen it twice. I’ve seen it more times than I can count.
But I’ve never seen this.
Hearing her say, “all we can do is wait” bubbles across my skin like someone is dotting it with acid. I shift in place, contemplating. My heartbeat quickens with anticipation, my fingers itch to punch something, my shoulder brushes against her breast in ways that would normally find me leading her to a bed.
Right now, this chick could strip naked in front of me, and I wouldn’t be at all interested. There’s too much adrenaline pumping through my brain for the leftover endorphins to go anywhere else.
I don’t like to wait. I’m a doer. I’m not helpless.
“This is ridiculous,” I finally whisper, making a move to stand up. “Maybe we should just go out there and—”
“No.” Her hand grabs at my arm, and she squeezes hard, stopping my momentum. For the love of everything holy, her nails are sharp. I envision permanent half-moon shapes in a row across my left bicep, and not for a good reason.
But good reason or not, my adrenaline rush fizzles. She’s scared; despite the bravado, despite this being her job. I can hear the fear in her voice. She’s here to keep me safe, and is keeping that promise at all costs. Someone needs to keep her safe in return. In this second, that someone is me.
“I locked the door, remember? No one’s going out there but me,” she says. “I’m the one with the gun, and it’s my job to keep you safe.”
She has a gun? So much for feeling like a hero.
“You have a gun?”
“I work security. Of course, I have a gun. How else would I keep you secure?”
“That’s legal?”
“It is in Washington, if you have a special license. I do.”
Okay, fair enough, but the thought never crossed my mind. Guns make me uncomfortable and relieved at the same time. Considering we’re in such close quarters, I’m not sure which emotion is more predominant at the moment. If the shooter opens the door, you bet your life I’ll feel relieved. If it accidentally goes off in my direction, I think the answer to that is an obvious one.
“Is it loaded?” I ask.
“Yes, but the safety is on. There’s no danger of it accidentally going off, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She pauses. “Not all of us carry them, but thanks to psychopaths like this guy, some of us do. Believe me, I’m not really happy about it either.” She sighs. “I can holster it if you want me to.”
I swallow. I want her to, but I feel ridiculous saying it. I’ve been around guns before—at the shooting range, my dad took me hunting a couple times as a kid—but this one is designed specifically for shooting humans, at least in this situation. I’d rather not have that human be me, not out there or in this room. Still, I have no idea how to respond.
Turns out, I don’t have to. I hear it slip into place and snap closed.
“There. It’s aimed at the wall and away from you, so stay on this side of the room. But I’ll warn you, if I have a reason to use it, I will. And I won’t stop to ask permission.”
She’s a badass with a no-nonsense voice. I like it a little more than I should.
“If you need to use it, be my guest,” I say, sitting up and settling against the wall again. “I just hope it doesn’t come down to that. And please don’t accidentally aim it at me.”
“You and me both, and I won’t,” she says, scooting next to me. Her presence immediately makes me feel more secure, less alone. “And for the record, neither of us is opening the door right now. My job is to protect you, and that is what I’m doing. Besides, there could be more than one person shooting. I doubt it, but it’s possible. I would never live with myself if you got hurt on my watch. So don’t make any stupid moves toward the door again. Got it?”
Dang. This chick is tough, and I wouldn’t dream of arguing with her. I press my back against the wall and sigh, settling in when her shoulder brushes against mine. Just when I once again begin to feel comfortable, a gunshot blasts through the arena.
The sound of exploding glass rains around us, loud even inside this room.
The lights. He must have aimed for the spotlights.
The same hysterical voice shouts orders.
“Get on the floor now!”
A mass of people scream.
The gun goes off again, and I dive to the floor.
Bringing the still-nameless girl with me. Bodyguard or not, I’m a man, and she’s a woman, and I was raised to be a gentleman. Call me sexist if you want to, but anyone who does can shove it up their ass.
She buries her head underneath me, her body shaking everywhere…putting a few cracks in all that bravado. If she wants to take care of me, she can. But I’ll do the same for her. She’s not the only one who doesn’t ask permission.
* * *
Jane
I’ve been underneath him for several seconds, and I’m silently praying he doesn’t move. I’m supposed to be tough, but right now, I’m terrified. The screams have subsided, but I can still hear them in my mind. How many people are dead?
I’ve never cried on the job, and I won’t cry now, but a single tear manages to escape. Crying is a private thing for me. The kind of private that can have me sobbing uncontrollably in a dark bathroom one minute and walking out as if nothing ever happened the next. Emotions run deep inside me, deep deep, yet most people never see anything but my smile. It isn’t the way I like it, but it’s what I’m used to. For twenty-seven years, it’s been the outward disguise that keeps me safe.
The irony of the moment isn’t lost on me. So much for safety.
I sniff into his shoulder. He must take it as a sign to move because he shifts—first one leg, then another. And then he’s off me, and I’m aware that the make-up I’ve worn since six-thirty this morning is more than likely lying in a puddle underneath my head. I swipe at my eyes just in case the lights come back on. It’s black as night in here, but I’m still embarrassed. Bodyguards shouldn’t cry, not ever and particularly not in front of the person they’re trying to protect. For one second, I consider apologizing, but then I don’t. This isn’t the time for wasted pleasantries. For someone I just met, he’s already seen me at my worst.
Hold your head up, Jane. And look people in the eye. And for heaven’s sake, smile. Little girls should never be without a smile. Don’t you want people to think you’re pretty?
My mother’s well-intentioned but misguided voice echoes from a hollow place in my past. A place that knows smiles don’t fix things, and pretty isn’t always an asset.
I sit up, but Teddy doesn’t let go of
my arm. For that, I am thankful. All that trying not to cry has left my throat raw. All that worrying about my make-up has left me feeling shallow. I feel around for the water bottles and open one. The water is warm, but that hardly matters. It quenches the burn, and I swallow half the bottle in three quick gulps. Only then does it occur to me to offer Teddy one.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took your water. Want one?”
A single breathy laugh escapes his lips. “Maybe later. And for the rest of our stay, my water is your water.”
“You make it sound like we’re at a hotel.” I regret the words the second I say them.
“I’d give anything for that to be true.” I know he means he would like to be out of this situation—not that he would want to be at a hotel with me. But still, I feel myself blush.
“Same.” An uncomfortable silence descends. One that has me questioning his earlier meaning. Best to ignore it and change direction.
“I’m sorry about the tears.” I nod toward the floor and run a finger under both eyes. “Normally, I’m not that emotional.”
In public.
He scoots a little closer until our shoulders are pressed together, his hand still on my arm. It’s something I’ve quickly discovered about Teddy Hayes. He likes close contact. Maybe only when he’s in danger, but there hasn’t been a moment inside this closest when he hasn’t been touching me somewhere.
“I don’t know about you,” he says, “but normally people aren’t shooting at me. I’d cry too, if I remembered how.” My heart pinches. Something in that statement speaks of a sad past, but I don’t have time to decipher it.
The sound of footsteps outside the door makes us both freeze. My breathing stops, and his breathing stops, and time marches backward and forward and upright and upside down and then settles five seconds later with a resumed tick-tock-tick of the seconds. I feel around for my gun, but release it when the footsteps recede. Farther. Farther. Gone. I return the gun to its spot against the wall and breathe deeply as we settle next to each other again. I understand it now, his need to remain in close contact. I press into him a little further. The desire for human connection has never been more intense than in these last few minutes. It’s what keeps me feeling a little more like a valuable commodity, and a little less like a moving target.
And I need to feel human.
“What’s your name?” he whispers.
“My name?”
“Yes. You already know mine. I think I should know yours just…just in case.”
In case something happens, he means. In case we don’t come away from this and I’m the last person he ever talks to.
Panic loosens its fist around my lungs while dread unfurls itself in my gut. Two very distinct emotions engaged in a war of extremes. My teeth begin to chatter, but I take a deep breath and give him what he wants. It’s the least I can do.
“It’s Jane. My name is Jane.”
* * *
Teddy
Jane.
Her name is Jane, and it takes everything in me not to utter something like a gasp of unbelief, or a protest that her name can’t be Jane. It can’t. No one names their kid Jane anymore. No one thinks of the name Jane. It’s plain. It’s the author of seventeenth-century literature. It’s common. No one likes the name Jane.
Except me.
Since I was fourteen and had a vivid dream that I’d married a blonde girl named Jane. I’ve secretly been looking for her ever since. I never told anyone about it.
What are the odds I would find her here?
Hope surges and crashes at the exact same time.
Chapter Four
Jane
He hates my name, which makes no sense. Because even though it’s boring and I’ve never met anyone with the same name as mine, unless television characters and ancient book heroines count, it’s not that bad. Still, I heard the low ‘huh?” when he whispered it, even if the reaction was brief.
“What’s wrong with Jane?”
“What?” His hand flinches as though I’ve surprised him, but I don’t wait for an answer before I decide to give him another reason to grimace.
“I was just being nice earlier. Teddy isn’t that great either, you know. I’m not sure what it means, but it’s probably something awful like full of oneself or thinks he is God’s gift to women or—”
“It means God’s gift,” he says, interrupting me.
“What?”
“Teddy. It means ‘God’s gift.’”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep. But go ahead and finish what you were saying.”
I blink and darn it, I have nothing. If my train of thought was heading somewhere, it just derailed over a steep mountainside and landed in a heap in the lowest part of the valley.
“Figures.” It’s all I come up with.
The edge of his shoe bumps against mine. “Just so you know, I happen to love the name Jane. Have since I was a kid.”
Despite fear squeezing nearly all emotion from me, my heart gives a barely perceptible thud. Except for my mother, little old ladies, and literature buffs, no one’s ever loved my name. Plain Jane was my nickname all through school, even when I was winning childhood beauty pageants. Smile pretty, Jane. No one likes a frown. Probably the reason my classmates came up with the nickname in the first place. That kind of confused insecurity sticks with you.
“Don’t patronize me. No one likes my name.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he says. “For your information, back when I was fourteen I—”
We hear it at the same time. A siren. The it turns into a them all at once when one siren is followed by another and another and another. Doors slam. Men yell. A bullhorn blasts. A gunshot. Another. A Law and Order episode is happening outside the room.
Our breaths mingle as Teddy looks at me, and I look at him. I know he’s looking at me because I feel it all around us.
This is good.
This is bad.
Maybe it’s both.
* * *
Teddy
I’m worried, but I refuse to show it. If I were alone in this room, they might find me crouching in a corner, trying to get away from the sound of bullets and screaming, but with Jane in here with me, I refuse to let myself feel anything but fierce determination.
The plan works until her cell phone rings.
We have service!
The vibration cuts through my bravado like the sound of the police bullhorn that echoed only seconds ago—the blast reminiscent of a protester waxing poetic in the middle of a reverent prayer service. I dive to answer it, she dives to answer it, both of us crashing against each other in a frantic hope to connect with the outside world. Maybe it’s her mother. I wish it were mine.
She reaches it first, only to fumble and send it clattering loudly across the concrete floor. By the time I blindly locate it, the ringing stops. I put the phone on silent, then hold it out toward her. Both of us are winded. Both of us are disoriented. My temple hurts from slamming into some part of her body in the darkness. Maybe her shoulder, maybe her shoe.
Her phone’s battery is at four percent.
Blood rushes between my ears as I wait for it to ring again, or for us to be discovered. That drop was loud. Sweat collects on my upper lip. I’m cold and hot, clammy in the spots where all my joints connect. After a few harrowing moments, there’s still no sound of approaching footsteps. I slump against the wall on a relieved breath. Maybe the sirens drowned out the noise, but we’re safe. Things are deathly silent on the other side of this door, way too silent for a room filled with so many people.
“Who was it?”
I can feel it, the way her body winds itself so tightly she could spring on me and everyone else. Body rigid, eyes sharp, hand squeezing mine in a death grip, breathing shallow. She skips right over my question.
“Do you think anyone heard it ring?”
She can’t keep the quake from her voice. I shake my head, hoping to convince her. If anyone h
eard it, if this ends badly and we’re discovered in this room, I can’t have her thinking she was at fault. Even if it was her phone.
“No, I don’t. I think the sirens covered up the sound. Who was it?”
“My mother. She calls every Thursday night around this time. It won’t take her long to start worrying, especially if I don’t call back. She hates my job. Tells me so every time we talk.”
Understandable, though I don’t voice it. My mother hates my job as well, even though it already paid for her house. She’s constantly worried I’ll be the target of some obsessed fan. The jury’s still out on what exactly motivated everything tonight. If the news has broken, there are probably twenty texts from her on my phone already.
I can’t think of my mother’s worry right now. “Can you text instead? She won’t be able to hear you whispering.”
“Good idea.” Her voice shakes. She’s terrified even though she’s doing a heck of a job covering it up. She’s one of those people who masks negative emotions with quick wit and biting words. I know what the disguise looks like. I wear it myself.
“Now that the police are here, maybe she will have heard something. The news will be national pretty soon, and it might be better for her to hear it from you.”
“Okay, but I don’t have much battery left.”
“Type fast. See if she knows anything.”
She comes to life and her fingers start tapping. If hope could be expressed in the tapping of letters, it would be shooting out her fingers in rainbows. I read over her shoulder and slowly watch the colors fade into nothing. A few minutes later, Jane sighs and sets her phone on her lap. I’m as discouraged as she is.
Her mother knew nothing, but is now scared to death. And curse of all curses, Jane’s phone dropped to one percent during the exchange. We can’t afford to use it again. Now we have no way to contact anyone, a feeling more dire than being locked inside this closet. That’s what this night has done—spiraled straight to hell on a magic carpet complete with scorch marks around the edges.