Need You, Need Me (The Need Series Book 1)

by Lewis, Meghan

  Need You,

  Need Me.

  All rights reserved: Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system; without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of semi-fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s exaggerated imagination, based on some actual events. Contains strong adult content and language. Not intended for young readers

  © August,2014

  Written by Meghan R. Lewis

  Edited by Laura Windom

  Illustrator Adam Pizurny

  Dedication

  Thank you for the memories.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter One

  Seeing that cop get stabbed in the middle of Front Street changed everything. I have always been particularly good at dealing with all of the crap life threw at me, but even years later, it still gets to me. I remember that shithole of a night and replay it in my mind almost every night before I go into work, so I never forget how bad things can really get.

  I was standing on the sidewalk wearing next to nothing, courtesy of my job at Hammers. Being a shot girl isn’t exactly the high-flying job I had in mind for myself, but holy hell the money is just too damn good. The asshole who thought it would be funny to grab my tip money and high-tail it to the door is now leaning against the cop car, face bloody from where he “tripped.” When I say tripped, I mean Paul, Paul Morris happened. He has been my best friend since I was ten years old, and currently, he is my bodyguard/bouncer inside the club. All the girls have one, with good reason, obviously.

  The cop had just started taking our statement when in a blink of an eye, a broken beer bottle had been launched into the cop’s neck.

  Good God, the spray.

  Before anything else could happen, a hand grabs me around my neck, and the same bottle, now covered in blood, is at my throat, and I’m being backed up slowly.

  What the fuck? This has certainly put the finishing touches on my already shitty night.

  I slide my eyes to the left and see Paul. Paul is six foot five inches, a solid two-fifty, and at this moment, the palest I have ever seen him. Somehow it amazes me how the man is now as calm as the lowest tide. Breathing steady and hands relaxed, his only giveaway is a slight twitch in his neck right below his jaw. He is clenching his teeth. I seem to be the only one that notices. Come to think of it, I am always the only one who knows what Paul is thinking and what he is feeling, well, as much as he’ll let me anyways. We have an unspoken language and can have an entire conversation without a single word being muttered. I’ve never seen him lose his control in a situation. Everything about him screams control, but as of right now, he is hanging onto a thread. But then again, I have never had a broken bottle held to my throat before.

  Now this kind of thing doesn’t happen every night, but that’s not to say I haven’t had my bumps working downtown. There have been a couple of broken ribs and a bloody nose, but the worst was when I had a finger snap in half, that is until tonight. I’ve never had a weapon pulled on me before, especially not a broken bottle pointed at the main fucking artery in my neck.

  I keep my eyes dead set in Paul’s. I refuse to look anywhere else out of fear of panicking. Paul is here and is the only reason I am holding on to what little sanity I have left.

  I catch out of my peripheral the injured cop being hauled away by his brothers in blue and loaded into an ambulance. Then I am pulled back to my not-so-little situation. Paul, Drunken Ass, and–obviously–I are standing on the sidewalk. If it wasn’t for the broken bottle to my throat, you would think we were just three friends shooting the shit with one another. Drunken Ass’s alcohol level seems to be taking its toll, and Paul and I both know it. It’s a waiting game because drunks are irrational and can turn on a dime. Hopefully this won’t be too much longer.

  Two tiring hours later, I’m sore. I’m not in the most comfortable position after all. My back is pulled back against the drunk guy’s front with his left arm wrapped around my shoulders, his hand spread up my neck and holding my jaw. His right hand is white-knuckled around his weapon of choice, a broken, bloody Bud Light bottle. To add to the uncomfortable situation, he has me leaning slightly to the left. My whole left side is on fire with burning and sore muscles–I should really start working out. Then I go back to the beer bottle, which is ironically my beer of choice.

  Oh, an ice cold Bud Light and a big shot of Crown would be incredible right about now. Actually, it would have been great about two hours ago.

  I don’t find myself doing the whole life-flashing-before-my-eyes thing because I am very much in the here and now.

  Drunken Ass has gotten a little too close a couple of times, and I can feel the nicks are swollen and stinging. Needless to say, my thoughts don’t have the capacity to wander; I need them here with me.

  He didn’t want the cops too close, so they have set up their camp a little ways down the street at a safe distance, well for them anyways. They tried to pull Paul away from the scene. They didn’t want more people involved than necessary, but Paul being the friend he is–God bless him–stays put and tells them to leave him be.

  The weird thing about all of this is that no one has any idea just why this guy is doing it because he doesn’t talk; he doesn’t say a word. That makes him even more dangerous to me. It is as though he doesn’t see the point of talking because he can’t be talked out of this situation.

  I’ve closed my eyes without knowing it, so I shoot them open and look at Paul again. I’ve decided this has gone on long enough; I see Paul is thinking the same thing. Good. I mouth the word “three” and shoot my eyes to the left. Paul gets it. He always does.

  My left hand has fallen asleep, so I wiggle my fingers to try to get some feeling back–damn pins and needles. I flex one finger.

  One. No sound.

  No, Paul, don’t tense up. You will give something away, I beg with my eyes.

  Two. Still no sound.

  I shift my feet just a little to get my bearings.

  THREE!

  I throw myself as hard as I can left.

  Shit!

  As soon as I feel it, it’s gone, but the damage is done. Paul’s hand flies to the bottle before it goes any deeper and connects his Mr. Right fist with Drunken Ass’s Mr. Face. Spot on as usual. Thank God for small miracles, and I am free.

  Holding my neck, I stagger a few feet away. After Paul gets the bottle away from him, he holds Drunk Guy, down on the ground until the cops get to him. When they put the cuffs on him and start to walk him to an awaiting squad car, Paul relaxes and looks around for me. As if on cue, we both take a deep breath in and exhale at the same time, our eyes never leaving each other. He walks over to me, looks at my neck and shoulder and leads me to ambulance. He doesn’t say a word, but his f
ace says it all.

  Great. This is going to be fun. Free rides for everyone.

  I roll my eyes at my own weird humor to lighten the tension in my own head. We ride in the ambulance for-ev-er! Jesus, I know I’m not dying, but some sirens would have been nice. We pull up and the back doors open. I stand up off the most uncomfortable gurney ever and step out. The EMS guys are trying to talk me into sitting back down, but seeing Paul’s face, they know they are fighting a losing battle. They give up and escort us through the sliding glass doors.

  Gotta love Saturday nights.

  As we pass curtain after curtain, we hear a different story emerge from each one.

  “I told you it was loaded; why the hell did you pull the trigger, you asshole!”

  Next up: “I don’t know what she took. I came home and found her like this in the bathroom!”

  And finally: “It just hurts like almighty hell–Can you just stop playing with it, pull it out, and let me leave already?

  That last one makes me laugh, and I feel some of the last bit of tension fade away from me as I see Paul’s small smile. Thank, God!

  Sitting in my curtained off, semi-private area, Paul helps me get my bikini top off and my hospital gown on, and then he goes and sits down on a chair in the corner. He doesn’t leave my side when the nurse comes in to take me to X-ray. Only when I am in the room where they actually take the x-rays, does Paul stay put behind the glass. Now, here I sit, back in my “room,” up on the bed and stare at my feet.

  Shit I lost a shoe. It gets better and better tonight, I tell you what.

  As we wait for the doctor to read my x-rays and come stitch me up–I didn’t think it was that bad–I chance looking at Paul. His beautiful, dark brown eyes are looking right back at me softly, but they are riddled with concern and what looks like guilt. I want to make a joke out loud, but all that comes out is a small cough.

  “May,” Paul says, almost to where I can’t hear him.

  “Yeah. I know, Paul” I say to the floor.

  “Close.”

  “Yeah, man, too,” I counter.

  “So how are we doing in here?” the doctor asks, flinging the curtain to the side. Safe to say, we both jump.

  “I had a beer bottle put into my neck,” I say in a ho-hum kind of way. You know, no big deal.

  “I see. Well, the x-rays are all negative for any broken bones, so I’m just going to clean and stitch you up, and then you can get out of here.” He sighs while reaching for his latex gloves.

  “You alright, Doc?” I ask, just making conversation.

  Doc looks at me with a smile. “Yeah, just another Saturday night. I’m going to have to give you a numbing agent because to be honest, this is going to hurt like hell. You are going to have fifty-eight stitches total. It’s not too deep, but it is wide. This is going to take a little time, and you will have a slight scar.”

  “Awesome. I’ll just tell people I got stabbed . . . Oh, wait . . . I did!” I laugh.

  “May,” Paul whispers to the floor, shaking his head and rubbing his hand across his forehead.

  “It's done; it’s over. Paul, I am begging you to please let this go.”

  Yeah, I am begging.

  A loud sigh is all I get from him as he stands up and walks over to me to hold my hand through the procedure. It’s not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be, but I suspect that it is because Paul was there.

  After the Doc is all done and I’m all bandaged up, I get my discharge and the papers telling me how to care for my injuries, and we head out to the cab Paul has called.

  Christ, I have to go back there.

  Another long ride, which I am grateful for actually, and we pull up to the corner of Second Street because Front Street has been blocked off for the investigation. The club’s video camera at the door should make quick work of that. Talking to the cops is always a nerve-wracking thing, but more so now because one of their brothers was involved, so no detail is left out. I tell them what happened, Paul tells them what happened, and then we repeat it all again. They take some pictures of the bruises and stitches, hand out their cards, and try to get Front Street back to normal, at least somewhat functional anyways.

  Ha. Good luck with that.

  The club has cleared out even though it is only one in the morning, and we all go about shutting it down for the night. I think everyone has had enough for one night. DJ Kid leaves the music on, but not as loudly as if a thousand people were packed in here. It’s not the usual music; it’s slightly calmer, and it is very much welcomed by all in the building. I finish counting out my till and put my stuff away with the help of our bar back. Putting my flips flops and jeans on is a little challenging, but with some help from one of the other girls, we get it done.

  Walking out of the office and moving towards the door, I take a quick scan of the main floor and stop in my tracks.

  “Dammit, Paul,” I say out loud to myself and walk slowly over to him. He’s standing where he grabbed Drunken Ass after he made the money swipe. “Paul, you got to let this go. It’s not the first time; it won’t be the last. Although this was the worst, but it’s over . . . Please?”

  Nothing. I get nothing back from him.

  Walking very slowly, as I don’t know if he knows I’m there or not, I join him by his side and take his hand. He tightens, only a little bit, and it doesn’t take much to feel his heart pounding, almost humming.

  Adrenaline, pure adrenaline, courses through all of us whenever something like this goes down. This is different for him though. The adrenaline hasn’t subsided at all.

  I slide my backpack off my uninjured shoulder, turn him to me, and wrap my arms around his waist, gently for my sake, not his.

  He puts his hands on the back of my shoulders and runs them slowly down my back. He lets out some deep breaths, and I try to gage where his head is, as we start to sway. J.T. and his former boy band are singing about a girl being gone–90’s flashback anyone?

  It’s very warm, so warm and calm, and it is very welcomed at this point of the night, or I should say morning. We continue to sway until the song is over. Our fellow co-workers give us a mock applause.

  Smart asses.

  We pull away, and Paul picks up my bag. We walk out of the club and make our way to the employee parking lot. Holding hands is just second nature to us. It’s not a relationship thing, but it’s more of a we-are-safe kind of thing. Paul brings my hand up, gives it a light brush with his lips, and I smile a little. That was sweet, but he needs to start talking to me about this and soon. I give him his time though to work it out on his own.

  “Too close, May,” he reiterates, but this time it’s almost like he is saying it to himself, having a conversation in his head.

  Finally! I say in my own head and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not much, but hell at this point, I’ll take anything.

  “Could’ve been worse,” I say, trying to make light of the situation. It’s all I can think of to do at this point. Paul tucks me into my car, and I roll down the window. Turning down the radio, I ask him, “Are you going to be alright? Do you want me to stay over?”

  After contemplating the offer, he replies, “No . . . Do you want me to stay with you?”

  “If you want to then by all means; you know the way.”

  “May, this won’t happen again . . . ever.”

  A statement. A fact. A promise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO YEARS LATER

  Kevin: Isn’t that a little dangerous?

  Me: Well, it’s not life or death or anything. It’s just another fight.

  Kevin: But you get hit, right? Like in the head or the face?!?!

  Me: Well, yeah . . . Kind of go after what you can.

  Kevin: May, I don’t know . . . why do you have to fight guys?

  Me: Because it’s co-ed and learning to be better means you have to fight people who are better than you . . . There is a ref you know.

  Kevin: I just don’t want you to get hurt.r />
  Me: I’m trained . . . I’ll be fine.

  Kevin: Alright . . . Hey, are we going to ever talk about me coming out there so we can actually meet?

  Me: Yeah, of course. Shoot me some dates that are good for you, and we will go from there.

  Kevin: Alright, darlin’ . . . Be great . . . xoxo

  Me: I will . . . You too, babe . . . xoxo

  And so ends another conversation with a great friend that I have never met, and a huge smile is now plastered on my face. I always kind of laughed at dating sites, but I’m not laughing any more. No way in hell did I actually think I would meet someone. I met Kevin a couple of months ago through a site, just looking for someone to talk to. When I saw his picture and read his profile, I sent him a message. I called him Peanut Head, and it was all downhill from there. We talk almost everyday about everything. There’s something comforting about talking to someone who doesn’t interact with your daily life. We talk about sports, work, sex, you name it, we’ve talked about it. And he’s coming to see me? Six hours is a long damn drive.

  I get up from the computer and give a big stretch. The twinge in my shoulder says that I should have tapped out a little sooner instead of trying to hold out. Actually, it’s screaming bloody murder at me. Hello, Aleve and ice pack.

  As I start to ice my shoulder, my phone rings. I know it’s Paul.

  “Hey, man . . . What’s up?” I say, trying to lighten up the already tension-filled call.

  “May, get your ass to the gym . . . Now.”

  This doesn’t sound good.

  “Paul, I know I should have tap–“

  “Now!” The phone goes silent. He hung up on me!

  Shit. Getting my ass kicked before work never felt good, but a lesson is a lesson, and I have to learn mine the hard way sometimes. Good-bye, ice pack. I will miss you.

  Driving to the gym wasn’t as bad as it used to be. I have my pre-gym ritual now. I blast System of a Down out of my speakers to get me ready, but today, S.O.A.D just wasn’t doing it. There is nothing to prepare you for getting your ass handed to you by your best friend. And I think this one in particular is going to be harder than all the others.