by Ted Stetson
matter if I look like a drowned rat? What does it matter what I look like if they’re going to hurt me?
But she dried her face and her hair a little. As she was finishing the bell over the door rang and she turned to the opening door. It was the guy who had been chasing her. Great. Now she was caught between the mugger and the robbers.
"We're closed," the big guy said, but the mugger didn't seem to hear him. He walked straight to the table. He was wearing a camouflage baseball cap, a dark green army surplus coat and old jeans.
"You dropped this," he said, his voice soft, and extended her torn umbrella.
"Oh." He hadn't been trying to mug her; he'd been trying to return the umbrella she'd lost. She'd been running from him for nothing.
"Thank you," she said and he squinted at her.
"Laura?"
She blinked. How did he know her name?
"Do I know you?"
"High school."
She shook her head. "That was a long time ago." She studied his green eyes, his rugged face, his smile.
"Kyle," he said.
"Kyle Anderson," she said. Of course she remembered him. She had almost said, Little Kyle, but he wasn’t little anymore.
"I had a crush of you," he said shyly like the teenager of long ago and sat down.
"We're closed," the big guy said, but Kyle, without looking at him, put up his hand for him to give him a minute.
"You've changed so much." She studied his face. Once he said who he was she remembered his voice, but his face was so different.
He shrugged.
"Heard you went to college?" she said.
"Not for long. Joined the Marines."
"Really." She’d never thought little Kyle that type of person.
"Saw action."
"Is that what happened?" Her eyes went over his face.
"After the service I turned pro."
"Pro?"
"I fought UFC."
Her face was a blank.
"Ultimate Fighting. Mixed Martial Arts."
She shook her head; she didn't know what he was talking about. He certainly wasn't little Kyle anymore, the little Kyle bullies picked on.
He rolled his shoulders in a gesture of indifference.
"You married?"
"No. Now, there's a war story," she said and smiled and he smiled back at her and she had this feeling that maybe here was something, but it was quickly shattered.
"HEY YOU," the big guy shouted, "we're closed."
Now Kyle looked at the guy and a change came over him, though nothing outwardly changed. His eyes hardened and his face became blank.
She turned to the big guy and begged him with her eyes to leave them alone for a minute. He didn't need to involve Kyle or to hurt him; she'd get him to leave, but the big guy was tired of waiting and charged around the counter like a bull.
"Kyle," she said, about to ask him to leave, but he’d recognized the fear in her eyes. She knew he saw it and she saw the iron in his. Then he grinned at her and she was frightened for him, Kyle didn’t know he had a gun.
“Kyle –” she started to say, but was interrupted.
"Hey you," the big guy said as he came to the table, reaching for his gun.
By the time he got to the table he had one hand behind the apron gripping the gun.
Kyle exploded up from the table. He hit him in the gut with his right and while the guy backed up bending over, he hit him so hard in the jaw he lifted him off his feet. The big guy was unconscious before he hit the counter.
The sound of the counter cracking and glassware crashing to the black and white tile floor filled the quiet restaurant. Framed memorabilia fell off the walls and shattered on the hard tile.
"Sam, what's going on?" the gravel voice in the back said.
Kyle looked at her and she said, "I think it's his partner."
The kitchen door opened suddenly, a little man with a gun in his hand stood there. Kyle grabbed the table, the salt and pepper shakers and ketchup dispenser tumbled to the floor, and threw it at the door. The guy fired the gun, the sound an explosion in the small restaurant, and Kyle recoiled back a step, as the table landed on the counter and caromed into the shooter. The shooter went down as did every piece of glass and flatware that hadn’t already fallen now fell, shattered and crashed as if would not stop falling.
After a minute it was quiet.
Kyle smiled at her, then sank to the floor.
“Kyle,” she cried and rushed to his side. She kneeled on the floor. “Kyle,” she said. He’d been shot in the right shoulder and was dazed; he must’ve hit his head on the floor. “Kyle.”
She looked at him, he was bleeding and she didn't know what to do. Kyle looked at her and that dopey teenage I-have-a-crush-on-you expression filled his face. Then his head rolled to the side and his eyes closed.
“Kyle?” she said. He didn’t respond.
She saw where the big guy had dropped her cellphone. She feared leaving Kyle, but she rushed to it, picked it up and hurried back to him. With unconscious Kyle in her arms, she dialed 911.
*****
About the Author
Ted Stetson was born in Brooklyn and graduated from the University of St. Thomas in Houston, Texas. He lives in Oregon with his wife and son
Find out more at https://www.tedstetson.com
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