Fear of Heights

by Mara White

  I have pangs of regret banging around in my chest as I stare at his determined profile while he gauges our surroundings. I can’t be in love with Ideal after our brief and desperate encounters, can I? But I can miss him already, and my imperfect heart wants to protest about letting him go.

  “Aren’t we just going to check?” I whisper.

  Ideal squeezes my fingers together so forcefully that I can feel them grate bone to bone. I bite my lip. No talking, I tell myself. Concentrate on the task at hand. Not the handsome man pressed against me, who I may never see again.

  My already-rattled mind fills with fear thinking of the last time I did this. I should be a pro at stairwell lurking. It wasn’t all that long ago that I did the same thing with Oscar when we went to save Jaylee. But we got caught. What the fuck was I even thinking by begging to come along? I’ll be a goddamn repeat offender. I can’t protect my girls if I’m in jail; I won’t be able to hold them. But I’m here to save my sister, I tell myself. I’m not doing anything illegal.

  Ideal motions for me to crouch low while he checks out the floor above us. I crouch where I am, but then he gestures furiously toward the area under the stairs.

  Oh, I’m hiding. You’re going. I get it. But… don’t leave me down here all alone.

  His footsteps fade quickly and I crouch painfully in the shadows, sweating and trembling as if my body were going through withdrawal.

  Then I hear new, louder footsteps approaching across the open courtyard. Once they reach the stairwell, I can see two men, only waist-down. Their slacks are business-like but cheap, with polished shoes. Not drug dealers. Maybe Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons. Or maybe government employees. I hide my face and offer a silent prayer that whatever happens, no one gets hurt.

  I hear the soles of their dress shoes slide across the tiled floor. Up they go, the same way Ideal went. I wish he wasn’t armed. I wish we hadn’t gone back for the gun. I take out my phone and text him that they’re coming. I hear nothing for a minute, then the muffled ringing of a doorbell. Once, twice. Hushed voices. A one-sided conversation, maybe on a cell phone or walkie-talkie. Just the other men’s voices. No sign of Ideal.

  A few minutes pass and the men descend, their feet scraping the stairs over my head, making my breathing grow louder. I can smell the fear coming off my own body. I think they must be cops or detectives. They stop in the courtyard and consult a blue folder—probably checking the exact same list Ideal and I have. It’s like a scavenger hunt, only it’s not fun, and no one is sure when or where it started. I watch them retreat through the arch, back to the street, and only then do I hear the approach of Ideal’s quiet, sneakered feet.

  He looks sexy when he’s high on excitement; he gestures for me to come.

  “Coast is clear. No one’s home. If she’s there, she’s in there alone.”

  “Detectives?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the men who’ve just left.

  “Private security, from what I heard—probably hired by your father. They got the right leads and they don’t need a warrant, so we watch our backs from here on out. You ready for this?”

  “Yes!” I whisper, throwing my arms around his neck. “Thanks for everything, Ideal—”

  “Don’t thank me, muñeca. You were exactly what I needed. But please, stop fucking talking.”

  “Ok, no more talking,” I whisper.

  He pulls me up the stairs, taking two at time, and we halt at the third-floor landing, in front of a door with a well-worn welcome mat. A sticker on the door proclaims “Éste hogar es Católico,” circled by a dried wreath with flowers. Whoever lives here cares for this place.

  “God, I hope she’s here. I imagined her gagged in some basement,” I whisper as Ideal gets down on one knee.

  He produces a flat, thin piece of metal that’s slightly curved at the end. He insets the metal into the keyhole and gently starts wiggling it. I’m fascinated by the simple idea that our skills are so extremely different. As I watch his agile, long fingers, I think how it felt to have them all over me, and inside me. How his touch melted my pain. How focusing on his pleasure brought me pleasure I never thought I’d experience again. I’ll miss you, Ideal. All I can think about is how much I want to touch him.

  Something slams into my back so hard that my breath is ripped from me as my head makes a violent connection with the wall. My body flies toward the floor, without any warning time to put my hands out to break my fall. My chin hits first; it feels like my jaw shatters, then my ribs absorb the rest of my fall. I bring my knees to my chest instinctively and cover my head with my arms. I look above me just enough to see Ideal’s head being brutally smashed into the wall. Our attacker is bodyguard-built, with a chest like a barrel and forearms that could compete with the girth of my thighs. My first thought is surrender, but I realize that won’t keep us alive. I’m up against gangsters to whom drugs and money are the bottom line. Intruders simply get removed.

  But surely, I reason, these fuckers must know that Emily and I are worth much more alive.

  The assailant has Ideal pinned to the floor with a knee across his throat while his giant hands pat Ideal down and ransack his pockets. He produces the gun and stuffs it into the back of his pants, which snuffs out my faint hope of this guy being anything other than a thug. He’s the big troll paid to guard the door. He’s not a police officer, he’s not security, and he’s got no qualms about killing us.

  Gathering all of my fearlessness tested over the past few months, I struggle to my feet, despite the ache in my ribs and my face. I throw myself on his back, and my hands claw around his head, reaching for his eyes. I remember vaguely from college women’s self-defense classes that gouging the soft parts is always best for incapacitating attackers. Eyes, mouth, testes: seek them out, and destroy.

  His reaction is disastrous: he seems to crush harder on Ideal’s already compromised windpipe. If Ideal loses consciousness, I’ll have no chance of fighting this guy.

  In a moment of helplessness, I spontaneously chomp down on the meaty flesh between his shoulder and collar. It’s difficult to tell if I’ve gotten more than cloth, until he roars like a beast and his hands rise in my direction in an attempt to peel me off. He steps back, releasing Ideal’s throat, who sucks in a gasping pull of air that returns color to his ashen cheeks.

  The bully grabs my hooked legs that are encircling his waist, trapping me in a piggyback I had been using to my advantage. His head is nearly bald and he’s got rolls behind his thick neck. He turns around without warning and slams my back into the wall. My head smacks only marginally as I haven’t yet released the bite, but it feels like my spine barely survives the impact. Each vertebra in my back threatens to shatter under the weight of his full-body slam. When he moves forward to rear back again my brain reacts quickly, knowing I can’t take that again. I reach down and snatch both Ideal’s gun and another from his pants, tossing them recklessly to the side, hoping they don’t go off and shoot my partner. I also hope that Ideal’s recovered enough to help with my un-choreographed retaliation.

  “Ideal!” I scream as the guns hit the floor and the delicate bones in my spine get reacquainted with unyielding sheetrock.

  Then I hear a distinct click. The bully’s arms drop and release me. I slide down the wall behind him, my entire back screaming. The bully raises his big arms and shows his meaty palms. I step out to see Ideal still spread on the floor, but now with both guns pointed at our bone-crushing enemy.

  “Katie?” I hear a familiar voice ask through the door.

  “It’s her! Oh my God! We’re coming, Em, hold on,”

  I hear a happy yelp and I smile at Ideal.

  “Help me up, kittycat,” he rasps out, and I rush to him.

  There’s a bootprint on his neck and blood from his head has streamed down his face. He hands me a gun, which I retrieve with trembling fingers. I hate the very idea of guns: I’ve never touched one before. But I hold it as steadily as I can, pointed at the bad guy, as I offer my other arm
for Ideal to use as leverage.

  Ideal rises from the floor, takes a few casual steps forward, flips his gun, and deals three successive blows to the bone-crusher’s face. The first bloodies him, the second lowers him, and the third stills him. I hear myself groan as the force is inflicted. Even though he’s just attacked us, I’m loath to witness this violence. Now there’s blood on the wall, the floor, and all over Ideal.

  “Kate, are you there?” Emily squeaks through the door, waking Ideal from his blood-ridden stupor. We both. look up, then simultaneously scan the floor.

  “Yes! I’m here!”

  “Emily, can you open the door?” Ideal asks, and I can’t help but like that he’s remembered her name.

  “I can’t. Only a key unlocks it. Did you get that fat fucking asshole?”

  “Did a little metal tool get kicked under the door?” Ideal asks, ignoring her question.

  “Huh? Oh…” We hear her rummaging around, then the lock-pick gets passed back out through the space where the door meets the floor.

  Ideal grabs it and starts to manipulate the lock. With the other hand he touches his battered neck.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, but hurry. They could be back any minute.”

  We are crouched down, so close together that I can smell Ideal’s blood and hear his every breath. As he gently coaxes the pick in the lock, I hear the brute’s ragged inhalations behind us. I turn to check on him, glad he’s not dead. Just passed out, but breathing. He’ll wake up with one hell of a headache. If I listen closely around the rush of blood in my ears, I swear I can hear Emily’s breath on the other side of the wall too.

  There’s no one else around. The whole building seems to have gone silent.

  As Ideal works on the lock, time stops, and details swell. I know logically that we’re not out of danger, but a feeling of peace washes over all of my senses. Once again I feel comforted by the connection to life, my sister’s living breath, my own heartbeat, the blood of my lover sliding gracefully down his face. A lone drop of blood slips from Ideal’s brow and dings to the floor. I watch it fall and create minute splatterings, around a perfect circling of wet crimson. My finger goes to it and impulsively swipes. I bring it to my mouth and let the red melt across my lips—an impulse to somehow savor this moment, capture this feeling.

  Ideal looks at me with his perfect brows raised, and we smile, because nothing I do fazes him. He likes me crazy. He leans in to kiss me and in the same moment the door gives. I almost tumble face first into the apartment as the door swings open to reveal Emily looking very much herself, quite rested and healthy.

  “Excuse me,” she says, stepping over us briskly. She beelines for the unconscious guard and kicks him swiftly in the stomach. “Take that, asshole! Who’s in charge now? Huh?”

  Ideal grabs her around the waist from behind, gently wrapping a palm across her mouth, and I bring my finger to my lips to tell her to be silent. Her eyes widen and then smile and she nods behind his hand. We fly down the stairs, and Ideal motions us both on into the basement instead of going back out the way we came in. We cross through a laundry room, where the cement floor is wet and smells strongly of bleach. Ideal rummages through some tenant’s laundry folded in a basket on top of a washer. He grabs the back of the neck of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head. He runs it under water in the nearby trough-style sink and uses it to wipe the smeared blood from his face. I watch Emily stare as his toned back muscles ripple. He grabs a new, clean t-shirt and pulls it over his head, but not before giving Emily and me full view of his washboard stomach.

  He ushers us back into some sort of dark utility space. I stop to catch my breath and put my hands on Emily’s shoulders.

  “Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Oh, God, Em, did anyone touch you?”

  “Just that fat fuck you knocked out, when he grabbed me off the street, he practically snapped off my finger,” she says, passing a digit with a metal splint wrapped in medical tape in front of my face.

  “Oh, thank God. Only your finger?” I’m laughing and crying. “So you’re okay—just locked away and they left you alone?”

  “Well, the finger hurt like hell, Kate. And he bruised me all over when he stuffed me into the van. But I fought him off. I made him bleed with my kicks. I gave him some serious scratches.”

  A look of satisfaction crosses her face. She actually looks amazing—healthy and invigorated, bursting with life. Minus the makeup and styling, she’s more familiar, and somehow all that much sweeter. I grab her and smash her into a hug, something she rarely permits. She freezes for a second and then hugs me back.

  “I’m so sorry, Em, that this happened to you. It’s my fault that you were in danger. Mom and Dad have been beside themselves and—”

  “Who’s the hot guy with the braids, Katie?” she whispers, apparently not listening to a word that I’ve uttered. She really is remarkably unscathed.

  “Oh. Ideal? He’s a friend. He’s the one who actually found you. We need to pay him for the rescue.”

  Ideal turns at his name and beckons us forward. He holds a door open and we step into a cement courtyard, this one littered with garbage cans and some discarded mattresses.

  “Heads down,” he says before we rush across the expanse. Ideal tries another door on an adjacent building. He’s moving us farther away without returning to the street where we could be seen.

  That door is locked, but we see another, propped open with a brick. Inside, the basement laundry room is dim, but there appears to be no one around. I hold hands with my sister as we wait for Ideal to direct our next move. His chest rises and falls beneath his newly acquired t-shirt, and despite his love for adventure, Ideal looks stressed. I reach up and touch the gash on his head.

  ‘It’s nothing, leave it,” he says, gently dismissing my hand. “I’m trying to think of the best way to get you two home.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “I’m not about to let everyone out there think I’m cooperating with the police, sabe’? A car service should do you. Just take her straight to the precinct and call your people from there.”

  “Where will I say that I found her?”

  “They’ll take a statement—fuck—probably call up the press. She’s gonna tell the truth. Just tell them she got to a phone, called you, and told you where she was. Say that guy was lying on the floor when you got there.”

  “No phones in the house. They didn’t have any. They took my cell away before they brought me in. No computer, either. Just a TV,” Emily informs us. “That couple, Javier and Lisel, they only watch the Spanish channel.”

  “I’ll tell them Jaylee told me last time I went to see him. What can they do to him? He’s in jail already.”

  “Muñeca, you so fucking wrong it’s scary. You ain’t got no idea what you doing. They can take him down on the inside probably faster than on the street. Tell them you got an anonymous tip—a phone call from a blocked number and you went by yourself.”

  “They’ll think I’m stupid. Why the hell would I go alone? Why wouldn’t I just call the police, Ideal?”

  “Right—but it’s the best we got. They’ll believe you. You white and rich and beautiful—they’ll believe anything you say. Trust me on that. Profiling works in reverse too,” he says with a wink.

  “So—we have to say goodbye?”

  “’Fraid so, kittycat. Nice to meet you, Emily,” Ideal, says extending his hand to her.

  Emily rushes forward and captures him in an enthusiastic hug. Ideal hugs her back, a sheepish smile overtaking his face. Then it’s my turn to say goodbye to my unexpected hero. He hugs me sweetly, then pulls back sustaining my face between his hands.

  “If you need me, you let me know, okay?”

  “I will,” I say, trying to tell myself that I have enough already. Don’t be selfish with Ideal. The last thing I need is a third man in my life. That would be gluttony—an unhealthy addiction.

  “I’ll see you ‘round,
Kate,” he says quietly, then takes my mouth in a kiss that replaces words.

  He lingers with my hand in his for a bittersweet breath, and then lets go.

  I wrap my arm around my Emily’s shoulder and pull her close. She leans into me and accepts the affection. For the first time in years, she feels like a sister.

  As we head along the side of the building to make our way to the street, Ideal whistles. I turn back to see him motioning for us to return to the shadow of the building.

  “I’m not going back,” Emily says with a shaky voice, pulling on my arm.

  “Em, he’s just trying to help.”

  We go back. Ideal looks frantic when we reach him. Maybe this wasn’t very well thought through. But the end goal is on my arm, so I’ve already stopped caring.

  “It’s too damn risky like this. We can’t leave a trail. It’s not only me and you that would be targets—it’s your people in jail. Not just Jaylee, Kate, but his dad too.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “We got to make this look like an escape. Not some kind of fucking rescue.”

  “So… Emily and I could leave in separate cabs. I go home and act like nothing happened.”

  “Not that easy. I don’t want to screw over Javier and Lisel. They protected her and didn’t let ‘em touch a hair on her head. Look at her.”

  “They were really nice to me, even though they refused to let me go,” says Emily. She must be recovering: she’s batting her lashes at Ideal.

  “I’ve got a friend that drives gypsy. We put a blindfold on her and have him drop her at the precinct.”

  “No blindfolds,” says Emily definitively.

  “It’s either that or I knock you out. Then, for every question they ask, you just answer ‘I dunno.’ You don’t know where they held you—you don’t know who they are—you don’t know why they let you go,” Ideal says, his face again full of excitement instead of dismay.