by Nicole Fox
“Oh!” She piped, genuinely startled. “It’s Erica!”
“Erica,” I replied. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dominic.”
I held out my hand for her to shake, making sure to keep my voice down when I mentioned my name. Her fingers felt tiny and cold in my grasp.
I imagined the rest of her would feel much warmer.
The drinks arrived. I sipped patiently at my whiskey, while Erica attacked her cocktail like a seasoned veteran.
“Rough day?” I asked, as she sighed with contentment at the drink.
“Oh, you have no idea,” she replied. “First at the office, and then at home, and––oh! Surely, you don’t want to be talking about this?”
I took her hand again. Already, it felt warmer. “Erica,” I murmured. “I am willing to talk about whatever the hell you want to talk about.”
She smiled, sadly somehow, and twirled the ice in her drink around with her straw. “There’s something new,” she said.
“So, Erica,” I pressed. “Tell me, what is it you do?”
“Oh, I’m just a paralegal.”
“Just?” I exclaimed, impressed. “That takes a lot of schooling!”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m actually studying to be a full-fledged lawyer, but...with everything going on...”
I wrinkled my nose a little. “A lawyer, huh? A fine, upstanding citizen of the law.”
She caught my meaning, and, for the first time, met my eyes.
“A lawyer plays with the law the same way a basketball player plays with a ball. There are rules, sure, but there are still plenty of ways to make sure the right people win. Especially...” She shimmied her hips. “With all that wiggle room.”
I laughed, at once mesmerized by the movement of her hips, the meaning of her metaphor, and, if I am being fully honest, the thought of her playing with balls.
“Well, Erica,” I said, shaking myself into focus. “I can tell you this: I am far more likely to need a lawyer than ever to be one.”
“Hey, if I need to practice, I’ll give you a call, alright?” She said, and together we laughed.
Knowing clearly the next step to take, I reached out and touched her leg. She gasped lightly, but did not object.
“So, Dominic,” she whispered, leaning close. “What is it that you do that might require a lawyer?”
I smiled mischievously. “I am a businessman of sorts. High risk, high reward, that sort of thing.”
She frowned. “I feel like I have never taken a risk in my whole life. Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed deeply, and continued to play with the ice in her cup. “Well,” she said at last, “I’ve always played it safe. Safe school. Safe job. Safe boyfriend. Safe life.”
I could hear the bitterness in her voice. It was as strong as the vodka in her drink. “And how’s that working out for you?” I pressed.
She snorted, then downed the remainder of her cocktail. “Peachy fucking keen,” she replied. Promptly, I ordered another drink for her.
“Funny,” I said after the drinks arrived. “If you’d talked to me a year ago today, I would have felt for you. Strongly. But now...sometimes a little safety can be nice.”
She glanced at me in surprise. “What made you change your mind?” She asked.
“Well, risk means that, sometimes, no matter how hard you try, people get hurt. Innocent people.” I sighed deeply, emoting my regret. Was I putting on a bit of a show for her? Yes, I was, but that did not mean that my sentiments were false. Besides, I could feel her fascination for me building with every word I spoke, and every sip of drink she took.
“I’d bet,” I said, gulping my whiskey, “that you’ve never had a conversation quite like this one, either.”
“No,” she replied, playing with the jewelry on her hands. I noticed there was no ring there, yet, her ring finger was indented, as if she was accustomed to wearing one. “Interesting,” I thought.
“It’s a shame,” I said. “I’ve been enjoying this. Haven’t you?”
She smiled, nodded, and then, out of nowhere, started to cry. In a second, I was up, with my arm around her shoulder.
“What’s the matter, Erica?” I asked.
“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just that... today, I caught my f-f-fiancé in bed with another woman, and...” She broke down into sobs.
Carefully, like one would handle a child, I scooped her out of the bar stool and steadied her on the floor. “Come with me,” I said. For a moment, she looked terrified, so I explained, “Don’t worry. We’re just going outside. Come on.”
With my arm still around her shoulder, I led her to the door.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered again. “I’m so stupid. This is probably the least sexy thing a woman can do...”
I had us halt outside the door. Then, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pair of cigarettes, and offered her one.
“Oh. I don’t smoke.” She protested, but I cut her off.
“Of course you don’t,” I agreed. “But tonight, if anyone in the world needs a cigarette, it’s you.”
She chuckled wetly, then took the offered cig. I raised the lighter and lit it for her before attending to my own.
“Look,” I said, after we smoked in silence for a while. “I’ll be honest: if you were just some dumb floozy, I would say, yes, crying is not an attractive thing to do. But, thirty seconds after you opened your mouth, I realized there is more to you than that. I like talking to you. Do I want you to stop crying? Of course I do, but not because I think it’s ugly or anything. It’s because I hate to see a good, beautiful woman cry.”
“Ha,” she laughed, taking a drag of her cigarette and choking a bit. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t I?” I said. “Let’s see: I know you’re a good girl, who’s always done what she’s been told. I know that, even though you look stunning in that dress, you don’t at-heart believe you do. You think you look fat, and much too old for it.”
She stared. “How could you possibly...”
“The way you hold yourself,” I explained, flicking some ash away. “Arms and legs crossed. Hunched over. As if you are trying to make yourself look as small as possible. You’d turn invisible if you could.”
Another tear fell from her eye and paused in its descent on her cheek. It was beautiful, like a crystal on white linen.
“I also know that, because you came here, there is more to you than those things,” I continued. “You being here means that you are adventurous, and looking for a second chance, and––”
“Listen, buddy,” she interrupted, her voice as sharp as a knife. “I don’t know who you think you are, prying into my thoughts like that, but I’m telling you now, to back off. You don’t know anything about me, and––”
I grabbed her round the waist and drew her to me. She jumped, startled, but then allowed herself to be guided, right up against my body, right up against my lips. I kissed her, hard. I could taste the salt of her tears. Her eyes widened in surprise, and then, slowly, fluttered shut, as she lost herself in the pleasure of it.
“If I don’t know anything about you,” I whispered, “then how come I knew you really needed that?”
She chuckled, then smiled, wiping her eyes dry. I noticed her cigarette on the ground––she had dropped it in the ecstasy of the kiss––and retrieved it for her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for yelling.”
“Hey, Erica,” I replied. “You yell all you want. Yelling, I can take. It’s tears that get me nervous.”
She laughed, and puffed her cigarette, playing with the smoke as it trailed from her lips. We did not kiss again, but I noticed her standing much closer to me, as if drawing from my warmth. Like that, we remained outside for a while, chatting and smoking, until, at last, the need for another drink drove us in.
During our brief time outside, the atmosphere of the bar had changed dramatically. The three Crooked Jaws were no longer in the corner,
but now in the center of the bar, hollering and drinking together. A ring had formed around them, and it was only my great height that allowed me to see what all the fuss was about: a knife, held high in one guy’s hand, about to be drawn down between the knuckles of his buddy. Overheard, onlookers tossed money around, betting and ordering drinks.
“Perfect,” I think. “No one will even notice us.” The knife did not worry me. I had grown accustomed to dealing with weapons far more threatening than that.
Feeling thrilled at my prospects with Erica, I slid out the bar stool for her and bought her a drink. After our kiss outside, she seemed much more confident. She sat up straighter, flexing her tits out to their most-appreciable view, and even ceased plucking at the end of her dress––something she had been doing all night to make sure it never rode up too high.
“I knew it,” I reflected aloud. “There’s something awesome in you.”
She smiled with those lips that had curled so easily around my cigarette, opened her mouth to speak, and–
“Dominic? Dominic Molina?”
I whirled. The voice––thick, scratchy, and male––was one I prayed I did not recognize. I located the speaker: one of the drunken Crooked Jaws, his eyes wide with stupid recognition. His gaze was fastened directly on me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered, sinking my chin as low as possible behind the collar. Still, the idiot approached, like a dog upon a rattlesnake.
“Oh, you can’t hide from me, Jasy-Baby. Not in this place,” he cackled, now practically beside us. Erica looked on in silence, her mouth agape.
“Listen, sure,” I grunted, deepening my own voice. “I don’t know who it is you’re talking about, but if you don’t leave me and my girlfriend alone, I’m afraid I’ll have to––”
“What? Have to what?” He sneered. With a wicked grin, he leaned down over the table where he and his buddies had been sitting, and plucked the knife that had been left, still quivering, buried in the wood. “You can’t do nothing here, tough guy,” he sneered. “Not in Fang territory.”
He jabbed the blade at us––mockingly, with no intent to cut. Still, Erica squealed, and recoiled back on her bar stool.
“Well, Mr. Fang, or whatever your name is,” I said, slowly rising to my feet. “I want you to think about this real hard: could I be the person you are looking for? Possibly. But what if I’m not? You got a bar full of innocent people here, me and the lady included. Now, why don’t you put the knife down, and she and I will––”
“No,” he hissed, raising the blade for a killing blow. “You come onto our territory ground, ain’t no one innocent. You of all people should know that––argh!”
He sprung, roaring, through the air, the knife blade flashing. Like a snake, I shot my hand out and knocked the weapon aside, then landed a punch square on his jaw. He hit the floor, and I whirled to Erica.
“Erica,” I said, drawing my pistol from its holster. “When I say so, run!”
Chapter Five
Erica
“When I say so, run!”
His words fly from his mouth so quickly I cannot hear them. All I could see was the knife blade, driving down at us like a shard of ice. Then striking and flipping end-over-end into the chaos of feet in the bar crowd. Dominic grabbed my hand in his left fist. In his right, he held a gun.
“Jesus Christ!” I gasped. “What the hell is going on?”
The attacker, who’d been knocked off his feet by Dominic’s punch, regained his stance. Around him, other men erupted in anger, drawing from their leather jackets more knives and, in one case, a gun.
I was completely frozen. What new horror was I to be subjected to? This is not at all what I was looking for–
“Erica?”
Dominic’s voice. A hard squeeze of my hand.
“Ready...run!”
He bolted. I remained, stupidly, my ass glued to my seat. And yet, his grip on my hand held fast, for, a half a second later, I felt myself being whipped onto my feet and yanked, at a million miles an hour, along the length of the bar.
“Get them!” Someone from behind us cried, and I heard the sound of tables being thrown and glass shattering on the floor.
BOOM! A bullet flew overhead, digging a crater the size of a saucer into the far wall. I screamed and tried to bury my head in my hands, but Dominic kept dragging me along.
“No, you idiot, don’t shoot!” I heard someone cry. “We’ll hit each other! Knife them, boys! Knives!”
“Them?” I echoed stupidly. Why the hell did they want to hurt me?
All around me, people screamed, dashing for the exit. Dominic used the chaos to seize me around the arm and drag me underneath the bar, to hide, at least momentarily, from view.
“You okay?” He pressed, touching my shoulder. I realized I was breathing so rapidly I was nearly hyperventilating.
“No!” I gasped back, and he squeezed my hand.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Because I am, and I’m going to make sure we get out of here safe. You got it?”
I nodded, taking a moment, despite the danger, to admire just how cool and collected he was. He looked no different than a businessman at a difficult meeting.
“But if we’re gonna do that,” he continued, “You have to listen to every single thing I say. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Where are they?”
A hyena’s voice thundered across the bar. It was nearly empty now, save for us and the group of attackers––the Crooked Jaws, I think Dominic had called them. By poking my head out beyond the shadow of the bar, I could see them approaching. I did so quickly, making sure that I couldn’t be seen–
“There they are!”
Damn! By a blink of an eye, and a flit of the hair, one had spotted me.
“Jump!” Dominic bellowed, and together we burst from the ground.
In a single, fluid movement, Dominic threw himself sideways, up and over the bar. I clung to him, allowing him to guide me over, but in spite of this, I still wasn’t quick enough: my hip, shielded by nothing more than a single sheet of fabric, collided with the edge of the bar in a rolling impact of pain. Dizzy, I crumpled rather than slid to the other side of the bar, where I hid, trembling in fear.
Dominic, meanwhile, drew his gun and held it over the horizon of the bar. Boom! He fired. I saw a light burst in a shower of sparks. Boom! The jukebox exploded, the music suddenly silenced.
“Bad aim,” I thought, until I realized that he wasn’t aiming for the people. He was trying to scare them. And, by the way they now hesitated to approach the bar, I could tell it worked.
“Through the kitchens,” Dominic ordered, pointing towards the large, silver door at the far end of the bar. “Now!”
I bolted. Then, my stupid high heel caught on something, and I tripped, my ankle twisting agonizingly beneath me. I cried out, struggling to move, when, next thing I knew Dominic’s arm was around my waist and he was carrying me through the door.
The heavy metal barriers slammed shut behind us. “Help me!” Dominic cried as he grabbed the end of a heavy metal shelf and began dragging in front of the door frame. Swallowing the pain in my hip and ankle, I leapt up to help him.
Suddenly, I heard a cough behind us. We whirled to find a chef, his hands raised in trembling, his skin as pale as the dough which he served.
“Y-you can get out that way,” he stammered, pointing to the far end of the kitchen, where an emergency exit sign waited to guide our way like a holy symbol.
“Thanks,” grunted Dominic, pocketing his gun. Steady as could be, he grabbed my hand and led me, limping heavily, to the door.
It swung open, revealing a cool, dark alley.
“Let’s go!” He said, charging out. We looked left: a towering brick wall, lined with barb wire. We looked right: an empty alleyway, leading to the main road. It was to this that we darted.
“Freeze, Broken Spire!” The voice came almost as powerfully as a gunshot, ricoch
eting through the filth-strewn alley. Behind it, men appeared, filling up the exit, guns and knives leveled at us. And this time, I realized, they wouldn’t be afraid to shoot.
“Back to the kitchen!” Dominic roared, seizing me once again and whirling around. Crash! We slammed against the kitchen doors which, this time, remained closed. Through the misted glass I saw the face of the chef, now glowing with savage triumph, pumping a key in his fist.
“It’s a trap!” I cried. “They’ve led us here to shoot us!”
“No, no they won’t,” hissed Dominic, slowly backing away. “Gunfire draws cops, and even the Crooked Jaws are smart enough not to get cops involved. Isn’t that right, Tony?”
The guy leading the foray leered, grinning. “True, very true,” he growled. “But I’ve always found knives more fun. Get ‘em, boys!”
They lunged.
“Erica!” Dominic snapped. “That wall! Can you climb it?”
I tore my eyes away from the approaching men and gaped at it. It was made of rough-hewn brick, offering handholds that might benefit a professional rock climber. But me? I was proud if I managed to do my Pilates twice a week.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m not strong enough––ah!”
Without warning, Dominic suddenly scooped me up. I expected him to throw me on his back, but no, he hugged me against his chest, so that my legs closed around his chest and I clung to his neck with my hands. Then, he––amazingly, astoundingly, arousingly––began to climb.
I had little time to wonder why he did not put me on his back, for the Crooked Jaws soon revealed it: knives, like flashes of silver moonlight, flying through the air.
“Dominic, watch out!” I screamed, as the first one clanged against the brick wall inches from his ear. But he could not dodge: he could only keep climbing, faster, faster.
“You animals!” I screeched at the attackers, hoping to distract them. “You dirty fucking pigs! Mother-fuckers! Assholes! Ah!”
Dominic seized the top of the wall and hurled us over in a single wrenching of his great muscles. I heard barbed wire tearing at his leather outfit, and more blades striking against the brick. Then, in a whirl of color and nauseating light, we fell, fell, fell, through the air, and–