by Fields, MJ
A man dressed like a police officer runs toward me with his mouth foaming white, and I shriek as he makes direct contact with my body, knocking me down and running over me, his heavy feet stomping and running over my arm like he’s hitting a parked car.
Then, more people come toward me, but Slade drops to his haunches, and like a wolf, he raises his huge, muscled arms and knocks people down because anyone who dares to come close will be removed. They’re falling backward from the force of his upper body while I’m still here, on the ground.
His eyes are completely vacant and dark when he says, “Grab my neck,” with a mechanical voice.
A woman to my right drops onto the floor—not from his arms, but from something else, as if she was hit with a bullet. My mouth gapes open, but no sound comes out.
Finally, Slade yells, “Get on my back now!”
A horrible chill moves through my body as I grab on to him, just like he told me to, and his large hands wrap behind the backs of my knees. He stands to his full, enormous height and begins to really run. With adrenaline pumping hard, I can’t feel anything but his energy bursts. His body is so hot that it’s practically steaming as he jets through the shrieking masses, crouching his form, likely to keep from being a target because he’s bigger and faster than anyone else, weaving expertly while shots spray all around. I have no choice but to shut my eyes from the sickening view of people dropping, but after a moment, I open them again because I’m too afraid to not see. We reach the opposite end of the club where Slade pushes a huge metal door wide open, stepping out into the night.
The humid air spins around me as the door slams shut behind us.
It’s so dark. We’re in a back alley with nothing but desolate concrete and cries. There’s an ambulance in the distance. Slade sets me down. My knees buckle, but he immediately holds me up beneath my arms.
“Can you stand?” His voice is still robotic, a complete change from the man I was with a minute ago.
Or was it hours ago?
With nothing other than sheer will, my legs manage to straighten. Slade anxiously wrings his hands. I look down at my calves, seeing splotches of black against my tan skin. It’s blood. Mine or someone else’s? My arm pulses in pain. Chunks rise from the back of my throat, and I turn around, sprinting toward the alley wall. Dropping to my knees, I vomit alcohol.
I can feel his body behind me.
“Shouldn’t you go back in? Help people?” Trying to stand, I desperately grab his forearm, my voice cracking. I might faint.
His eyes are asphalt black. He’s Slade in body but not in mind. The man I know is seemingly gone.
He spits out the word, “No.”
My hands tremble as though it were thirty below while sweat streaks down my face. “What about the rest of the people in there? I saw a rush into the—”
He cracks his knuckles and blinks wildly. Exhaling, he turns left and right with his eyes in a squint before stuttering, “J-just try to relax. I’m sure the police have been notified. You’re safe.” The mechanical beast has morphed into a man, bewildered.
“Slade?” I’m dazed. What’s going on here?
He places a warm hand on my damp forehead, pushing my hair back, away from my face. I expectantly stare at him.
“You’re okay.” With those words, his eyes soften. “I’m not carrying,” he continues, keeping his hot hand on me. “But, if I go in, all commando-style, the cops will see a man they don’t know who looks like he’s got a plan. They might shoot me, assuming I’m an enemy. But you’re okay, right? Are you hurt or just scared?” His eyes flit over me in assessment, as if he didn’t see what just went on inside the club. As he lets out another long breath, his gaze bores into mine as though he’s willing me to understand. His confused eyes now look … sorry?
A stray hair gets caught against my lip. “I-I think so.” And then it registers that I just threw up. My thoughts are jumbled and delayed.
“How can you be calm right now? My friends—” I gasp. “My friends are inside. I’m supposed to be with them.”
We turn around as a group of people comes flying out of the exit, panting and talking in unison over each other.
A girl screams, “Where is Ryker? He was next to me, and now, he’s gone.” Pause. “He isn’t answering. Can you guys try him? I need to go back for him!”
“There is club security,” Slade starts again, forcing my attention back to him with his deep voice. “Trust me.”
Trust him? Yes, he saved me. But something about him changed in there. He was cold and completely robotic. Nothing like the man I’d thought I knew. Maybe it’s me? I’m too out of sorts to think clearly. Everything is a horrible blur. My memory can’t be reliable. No, it isn’t.
“I’m staying a few hotels down on the strip. Let’s go.” He moves to take my hand.
“Now?” I ask, eyes wide.
He takes my palm in his, lifting me from the ground. The sounds of ambulances and fire trucks increase in volume. Flashing red lights come closer as cold sweat pours down the side of my face. My makeup must be dripping. I turn back, seeing mayhem amid the giant, brightly lit buildings.
“You aren’t going back there.” His voice is firm. “And it isn’t a good idea to stay in this area either.”
He squeezes my hand, and we walk away. The balmy night air sticks against my skin. I should ask him more questions, like where we are going, but I can’t seem to gather the words. Screams of terror echo around me. Is it my fevered imagination or my memories? Or maybe it’s all happening in real time? But Slade’s hand is in mine, and somehow, my legs move.
The Slade I saw in the club has vanished, and in his place is the man I know who is solid, strong, and in control. I shake my head, feeling absurd. I was under extreme stress. He was only trying to help me. His eyes didn’t darken; my mind was playing tricks. I grip his hand harder, not wanting him to let go. Slade is amazing. It’s me who’s unhinged.
Silent but quickly, we make it to his hotel. Which one it is, I still have no clue. The main floor rings with the sounds of gambling—cha-cha-chinggg—while carpeted floors in wild colors make my heart pound. Does no one know what’s happening a mile down? Faces here are all normal. Glazed and staring at the slots in front of them, barely blinking. I see a group of people hollering at a craps table. A woman in a white dress calls out for a miracle before rolling dice. The crowd around her cheers, fists pumping into the air.
“Security is everywhere,” Slade comments. “I know the guys who run this hotel.”
A man in a dark suit stops us with a neat smile as we make our way across the floor. He’s shorter than Slade with hair trimmed to his skull. The men comfortably shake hands, like old friends.
“You coming from the club? Just heard about the shooting. Got a call from Rob a few minutes ago. Your boys are on their way back here, too.”
“Sounds good. We’re going up to my room.”
After pounding their fists, we move on. Sanam’s face plunges into my brain, and I stop moving.
“Hang on, babe. We’re almost upstairs.”
“My friends—”
“I know. When we get up, you’ll call ’em.”
Entering the elevator, he slides a white card through the reader before pressing the number nineteen. Walking to the end of the corridor, we stop at room 1952. He swipes the card again in a reader on the door, and the light flashes green. Pushing it open, he holds the door for me to walk through. I don’t. Instead, I wait for him to go before me. His brows turn down.
I swallow hard. “C-can you go in first?”
“No problem.” His body softens in understanding.
He circles the room. Rationally, I know everything is fine. I mean, the shooting wasn’t even here. Still, I need this reassurance.
“We’re all good,” he calls.
I step inside. He holds the door as it shuts, avoiding a slam.
Waiting in the middle of the room on gray wall-to-wall carpeting, I’m awkward and upset, wis
hing I had a sweatshirt or something. I’m freezing in this tiny outfit.
“Come here.” His voice is so strong and sure. Bending down toward a small duffel, he takes out a white Hanes T-shirt. “Wash up and change. Bathroom’s there.” He points to his right.
“I can’t.” I touch my arm, and suddenly, it hits me. I’m in pain.
His eyes move straight to it. “Let me take a look.”
He presses his hands against my bicep, and I wince as he massages from my shoulder down to my elbow.
“You’re going to bruise pretty badly. Nothing feels broken though.”
He moves to the bathroom. The sound of running water comes through the door. Moments later, he’s back with a glass full of tap water and two pills. “Just some Advil.”
He hands them to me, and I swallow it down.
Are people back at the club, still waiting for help, while I’m here in a hotel room, drinking water? I stare at him, open-mouthed. I feel like I should apologize for thinking he was a monster in the club. How could I have thought that of him? He left more quickly than he should have, and it’s my fault. He should have stayed. I’m a terrible person. I need to thank him. I need to say a lot of things. But, most of all, I want to roll into a ball and cry. As I stare down at the blood splatter on my calves and thighs, my stomach rolls. How am I going to clean myself up? Whose blood is this? I feel dizzy.
He takes the glass from my hand. “I can help you wash.” His eyes are knowing yet gentle.
“No, it’s okay. I can do it.” My voice comes out shaky and small.
“Your arm hurts. Let me help you.”
He turns around, reentering the bathroom. Hesitantly, I follow behind.
Moving to his knees, he turns the tub faucet on. He runs a hand beneath the spray, presumably to check the temperature. Satisfied, he lifts a small bottle off the bath’s ledge and squeezes liquid into the water. Bubbles immediately spring up. Blinking, I stand there, staring. Should I stop him? The smell of vanilla wafts through the air.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” His voice is strong, deep, and soothing, like a balm.
I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
“You think you can get undressed on your own?”
I shake my head, biting my lip and trying not to cry. My arm hurts so badly, and just the sight of my bloodied legs has my stomach turning. “I can just get inside the bath with my clothes on. That might be easier for me—”
“I’ll undress you. Looks like we’ve got a pattern between us, eh?” A little smile sits on his lips.
“You realize you’re making a joke right now?”
The smile finally reaches his eyes, green with swirls of blue. Nothing about them is dark. He’s gorgeous.
Holding the top of my dress with his left hand, he drags the front zipper down with his right, not breaking eye contact. Trust me, his body seems to say. His hands don’t rush, as though he’s trying not to startle me.
Still, I shake.
The dress is undone, but his hand keeps it from falling. Slade takes a towel draped over the tub and presses it against my chest when I gasp, “I was supposed to call my friends.”
He holds me in place. “The police must have gotten over there quickly. Call now.”
He lets go, and I jet back into the bedroom, finding my purse on the floor. I tear it open, pulling out my phone.
I dial, and she answers after the first ring.
“Sanam?” My voice cracks with relief.
“Yes, it’s me. Oh God, Lauren. Where are you?”
Keeping the towel up with a shaking hand, I turn to face the wall. This is my small attempt for privacy. Tears well in my eyes, tickling my nose. If I allow myself to cry hysterically, it will be impossible to stop. I swallow hard, trying to control my emotions when I ask, “Is everyone okay?”
“Yes. We were hiding under the table. But you … you were gone,” she sobs. “Shots were everywhere. It was gang-related. A rap feud. They said a gunman went into the bathroom—”
“No, I wasn’t inside at the time,” I assure her.
Wetness slopes down my face.
“Thank God,” she whispers like a prayer. “Reza is sending a jet for us in a few hours. Come meet us. No one wants to stay in this horrible place for another second. It’s hell here.”
I should leave and tell Slade thank you and good-bye. But I can’t go back home to my quiet and empty apartment. It’s just not possible, not yet. “No. I’ll head back tomorrow, as planned.” My voice comes out surer than I actually feel. “I bumped into a friend.”
“Someone you trust? I’m not so sure this is a good idea. You’ve just been through a lot, and we’re all leaving—”
“Yeah, I trust him.” I squeeze the towel between my fingertips.
Any of us could have died tonight.
“S-so glad you’re safe.” I can hear her short and choppy breaths, as though she’s slightly hyperventilating.
“Okay. I’ll see you back home tomorrow.”
I put my phone away and step back into the bathroom. My chest is tight. I feel relief but also dread. All the what-ifs are still fresh in my head.
He reaches out, touching the side of my face. “They’re okay?”
I lean my head into his palm when I remember he wasn’t alone either. “Did you connect with your friends?”
He shrugs casually. “I’m sure they’re fine. You ready?” His fingers dip inside the tub. “I added some hot water.” He puts his wet palm out to me before averting his head.
I take a hard swallow and drop the towel. My dress falls off with it. Trying to remove my strapless bra, I wince. I stop and go for a second attempt, this time using only one arm. I move my upper body for easier access, but it’s tricky.
He seems to notice my discomfort. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just my bra. It’s taking me a minute with only one hand.”
“Turn around.” His voice is gruff.
I slowly pivot.
Not a second passes before his deft fingers settle on the center of my back. “I won’t look, okay?” Unhooking delicate white lace, he removes the bra from my breasts. His fingers then move to the top of my panties.
Oh God.
He slowly drags them down. I shiver as his callous fingers slide down the outside of my thighs. I bite my lip, both nervous and turned on. I could have taken off my underwear without his help. He’s doing this because he thinks I can’t. I should stop him. But he’s doing it, and I’m—
They’re on the floor, loose at my feet. I lift one foot and then the other, leaving the scrap of white lace behind.
“I’m going to turn around and give you my hand again.”
Slowly, I circle back. His hand is out and body turned away, as promised.
I use my toes to push my underwear into the corner. Gripping his fingers, I step one foot at a time into the steaming tub. Once covered in soapy suds, I sigh, “I’m inside, Slade.” Not for the first time, I realize how good his name feels in my mouth.
“Did your friends have any information?”
“It was a rap feud. Sanam thought I was trapped in the restroom, which I wasn’t. And I—you and I, we ran away.” Again, it dawns on me that I’m safe and sound while others are hurt or dead. “And you left the scene because of me. We should go back. I shouldn’t be here, in this bath, while others are—” My voice breaks off as I grip the side of the tub, ready to sit up.
I could have done something more. I should have pulled people out with me.
His hand touches my shoulder, keeping me down. “No. The only person’s safety you need to worry about is your own.”
“I know it’s stupid to say”—I laugh sardonically—“but I really didn’t think something like this could ever happen to me.”
He licks his lips. “No one ever does, Lauren. That’s how it always goes.”
Slade turns around, and I swipe the tears falling down my face with warm bath water. He sifts through puffy white towels, searchin
g for something. When he doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for, he leaves the bathroom.
“Hello. I need hand towels please.” Pause. “What do you mean, you’ve run out? I need one.” Pause. “No, I can’t use the large ones.” Pause. “Forget it.” The phone slams.
Coming back into the bathroom, he’s rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s hard to use a huge towel in a tub. It gets wet and heavy. It will be hard for you to clean yourself up. It’s all right. Just lift your leg up for me.”
“I can do it myself,” I whisper.
My stomach churns when I remember my legs are bloodied. That’s why he pulled off my underwear. He was trying to spare me the view.
Oh my God.
“Let me clean you. Don’t be afraid, okay?”
I can only blink.
Trusting him, I raise my left leg against the edge of the tub, cringing at the blackness strewed about my legs.
“Just close your eyes. Don’t look at it.”
He grabs the soap from the edge of the tub, and my eyes screw shut. The towel presses warmly against my leg. I open my eyes, unable to stop myself from looking at Slade. Slightly open-mouthed and face in concentration, he wipes the towel against my skin. Cleaning me with careful strokes.
Bending forward, he asks, “How is your arm?”
“It hurts.”
Moving the edge of the towel up higher and higher, he reaches the juncture between my thighs. My body quivers.
“They’re scraped up. I see bruising starting to form on the right. Can you lift your left arm for me?” He coats the corner of the towel again with soap.
I do as he said, letting him wipe off evidence of the night. How can a man so huge be so gentle?
He moves methodically, as though he’s done this all before. I want to ask if he has. With hands so sure, without any trembling or fear, it’s as though he was born for this role. Slade moves, walks, and stands with utter assurance.
I’ll take care of everything; his body seems to say.
Soon, I’ll be clean. And then we’re going to sleep. And then I’ll wake up and say good-bye.
No! my mind shouts.
His large form looms over mine as he turns the hot water back on. The sound batters against the older water. “Warmer?”