by Kira Blakely
It was unclear whether these people were just walking to their cars, or if they were about to make some kind of official comment on behalf of their company. Either way, I was quick to notice their sharp suits, polished shoes and clean-shaven jaws. They looked at their watches and each other, like they had important things to do, like save the world. Oh, the irony!
They walked as an entourage, slowly and silently, entirely ignoring the raging voices and abuses being hurled at them for what their company was in the process of doing.
Of course, I was incensed. Just seeing their smug corporate faces was enough to make me lash out, and I screamed as loud as I could. At one point, I was even jumping, holding my sign up, just so that they might see it over the heads of the other protestors who engulfed me on all sides. Then the pushing began.
My small frame didn’t allow me to see clearly where the shoving was coming from. My heart raced, because I knew something was going on. Someone had been hit, maced, or was being arrested. All I knew was that people were pushing against me. Elbows were being thrust in my direction, until one caught my face with a crackling thunder that sent me rolling backward.
I was falling back, my sign was ripping in slow motion, and I no longer had control over my body.
My head hit the concrete. I knew that because when I blinked my eyes open, a dull ache pounded at the back of my skull. For a few moments, I had no idea where I was or what I was doing there. I was helpless as a five-year old who had just fallen off her bike and scratched her knees. I stopped myself in time from calling out, “Mommy?”
The noises around me were loud, and now the sounds were different. They weren’t simply rage-filled shouts of protest. A skirmish broke out around me, but I couldn’t quite catch what anyone was saying.
I was on the ground, curled up in a fetal position with hazy vision that was only now beginning to clear. I had no idea what had happened until I felt blood trickling down my nose. Oh, yeah, someone had elbowed me directly in the face. Man down. Man down. The words rang in my head, but nobody was really paying attention to the girl on the ground. More punches were being thrown around, and I wasn’t sure who was fighting whom.
The fog cleared as my thoughts pieced together, and I could finally see what was happening. A man clutched some other man by the throat and his fist was bunched up, poised for another punch.
The hit I took must have disconnected some wires in my head, because the man holding the other one by the neck looked unrealistically gorgeous to me.
His hair was thick, neatly styled waves of sandy blond, like he was red-carpet ready, on his way to attend the opening of a film. His profile was visible to me, his nose sharp to match his chiseled jaw. His lips were thin but luscious, like they were made of some sort of velvet.
He loomed over me, holding the other man back by his neck, the muscles in his arms bulging. The spotlessly white t-shirt he wore clung to his broad chest. His shoulders were wide and strong, and his torso narrowed to where his jeans clinched loosely at his waist. What a beautiful man. I smiled, reminding myself that I was probably concussed and hallucinating.
The other man swung at him, and this Greek god ducked and avoided the thrust, punching him on his side instead. If I could, I would have cheered. What was even going on?
My body was reacting physically to this man’s presence, and he hadn’t even looked at me yet. He probably didn’t even know I was lying there on the ground staring up at him, googly-eyed.
His jaw was clenched tight as he glared and fought off the man. The other man’s attempt at a punch to his jaw only met with this Greek god ducking and taking him out with a crashing blow to the stomach. The other man flailed his arms, but the hunk twisted his arm, pinning it to his back. Someone else joined the fight and he fought this one off, too, with one quick sucker punch that made my gut soar.
I realized suddenly that it was no time to be aroused by a man. I was lying on the ground, possibly badly injured, in the middle of picketing for the habitat of an endangered bird species. But I couldn’t help but gawk at this man before me. He sent electric waves down my spine, and I couldn’t stop looking at him. Where did they manufacture the likes of him? And what was he doing at an environmental protest?
I tried to straighten myself up, hauling my body up using my elbows.
“Just stay down!” he said to me, and I collapsed back on the ground.
What the actual…?! Did he just turn to me and ask me to stay down? Or was I imagining that, too? He knew I existed. He knew where I was. Did he know that I had been staring at him, too? This was all too unreal for me. What was going on?
“You punched a girl, you idiot!” he roared.
His voice was like an elixir, smooth and deep. He could be the voiceover for a documentary on kitchen sinks, and I’d watch it, just to hear him speak. Surprisingly, his tone of voice didn’t match his actions. Even though he was fending off punches and teaching bad guys a lesson right in front of my eyes, he sounded calm and professional.
Goose bumps rose on my flesh as I stared at him. My mouth literally just fell open. What was happening to me? How was I slowly melting there, just looking at a stranger? And why was he barking out orders to me while fighting people?
“Are you okay?” He turned to me again before shoving someone else out of his way, and I got my first real good look at him. Oh, my God! His face was perfection; nature had achieved the perfect symmetry of features. He had cool blue eyes, or they could have been gray, with perfect eyebrows. His cheekbones were high to match his nose and jaw, and his neck was long and muscular.
My eyes slowly charted the rest of his body. A distinct bulge in his jeans did the trick, and my nipples hardened. This couldn’t actually be happening! I suddenly wanted to cry out, and he shook his head.
“Don’t move, Miss!” he said, and turned to some other guy he was trying to hold back.
“Stop pushing, asshole. There’s a lady on the ground,” he yelled in someone’s face. Oh, I finally realized what was going on. He wasn’t just sucker punching people left, right, and center. He was trying to push the crowd back from around me, to make some space, and to make sure that I didn’t get trampled on by the throngs of protestors.
Every time he turned to say something to me, every time I heard his voice, I felt myself break a little. Nobody had ever had this magical, physical reaction on me before. This was unheard of. I still couldn’t be sure if I was imagining it or if it was real. Was he really that attractive? I could almost taste his breath in my mouth. I imagined an intense, luxurious chocolate flavor to match his refined good looks.
I suddenly felt silly. This man was trying to do a good deed. As if protesting the wind farm wasn’t enough, he was also trying to keep a fellow protestor out of harm’s way. And here I was fantasizing about how his tongue would taste in my mouth and the bulge in his pants.
I tried to straighten myself up again, this time actually managing to sit up. My head felt instantly dizzy.
“Just lie back down, Miss,” he said, but I was trying not to look at him, so that I wasn’t distracted from my mission. I had to get back up and start protesting again. My fall should have been only a small impediment in my path, and this guy was just making a big deal out of nothing.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled and rubbed the back of my arm over my face. I was still bleeding from my nose. The ache at the back of my skull wasn’t dull anymore, more like someone pounding my head with a sledgehammer. I had to get back up, and I managed to wobble upright, barely standing on shaky legs.
“You’re going to be hurt again if I don’t keep this crowd back,” he said as I took an unsteady step toward him.
“Miss!” he shouted, starting to lose his calm.
People were shouting and screaming around me, pushing against my body. I was being engulfed again, and my breath constricted. I could barely move through the thrust and tug of the crowd. The handsome Samaritan probably couldn’t single-handedly keep the crowd away from me anymore. My eyeli
ds were closing. I couldn’t breathe.
“Come here!” he said, his hand tightly gripping one of my arms. He was pulling me in a different direction from the rest of the crowd. Just the touch of his fingers on my skin made my eyes yank open. It was like I had never been touched before, like he had breathed life into my soul. He was taking me somewhere, and I didn’t have the energy or will to protest.
He had found a clearing at the back of the crowd. “Sit down.” His voice was strangely authoritative as he tugged me by the arm. His fingers still gripped my arm as he pushed me down.
I slid down, my back against a wall, as his hands guided my shoulders. My face slid against his body, faintly grazing the bulge in his pants as my bottom bumped against the ground. Ding Ding Ding!
“Uh, thank you,” I said awkwardly, but he seemed to ignore me.
“You need to sit and keep still,” he said from above me. I looked up. His head shielded the hot, San Francisco sun’s glare and a halo-like effect encircled his face. His eyes were narrowed and focused on my injury. His brows were crinkled. I felt like a child looking up at an adult.
“I need to get back up and protest my cause,” I told him weakly.
The man shook his head, and for the first time, I saw him smile. That beautiful mouth tilted and the smile even reached his piercing blue eyes. His teeth were bright white and very straight. Again, perfection.
“You can protest again when we’ve fixed you up,” he said, and then bent down in front of me so that our faces were now aligned.
Even through my bleeding nose, I could smell him. He smelled of expensive cologne, musk, oak, chocolate, and everything else that was nice on this planet. I tried to keep myself from smiling.
“Your face is covered in glitter,” he said, his smile widening.
“It’s from my poster. It tore when I got hit.” I don’t know why I was explaining this to him. He was studying my face closely, tracing the deposits of glitter on my nose and chin.
“A protest sign made in glitter? Someone should have told you this isn’t the ‘70s anymore,” he said, resting one of his hands on a bended knee and regarding me with interest. His ‘70s comment was about more than just the glitter on my sign. I knew he’d taken in the conch shell earrings, the beads around my neck, and my unruly auburn hair, which I didn’t blow dry ever as a matter of principle.
“Someone should have told you to not manhandle women,” I snapped, my eyes narrowing. I wasn’t about to blush and giggle and demonstrate how long I had been admiring his physique. He didn’t need to know that.
“Besides the glitter, your face is also caked in the blood dripping down your nose. I had to do something. You’re welcome,” he said, keeping his back straight and his eyes keenly focused on me. The smile still lingered on his face, which was now beginning to annoy me a little. We were in the middle of a war, and he was congratulating himself for pulling me out of it. The nerve!
“You’re clearly not an experienced protestor, then,” I said proudly, thrusting my chin up at him.
His smile grew. “Don’t judge me for doing a good deed,” he said, and I was suddenly aware of the polished timbre in his voice. He had certainly grown up in a household where they all spoke in hushed tones and sat together in neatly-pressed dress clothes at the dinner table. He was right; I was judging him.
“I don’t have time to have a chat. Find someone else to pat your back,” I said, trying to stand back up again. He pushed me back down, his hands on my shoulders – another electric shock down my spine. Why did this man have this effect on me? I was like putty in his hands.
“Let me have a look at you,” he said softly, and before I could stop it, he wound himself around me to have a closer look at the back of my head. Our bodies were crouched on the ground and barely an inch apart. I could feel his breath on my hair, and some of my curls blew around my face as a result. For a few moments, everything came to a standstill around me as he tenderly examined the back of my skull.
“It’s only a superficial wound. Just needs some antiseptic and you’ll be fine,” he said, bringing his face back level with mine. I could breathe.
“Yes, I know,” I snapped at him, trying my hardest to hide the discomfort I felt by our proximity.
“Now, your nose. Let me see,” he said, and he wasn’t asking. With his forefinger, he tipped my head up. His eyes that were both gray and blue at once were trained up my nose as he held me like that for several moments. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have stopped him because my limbs had all lost their locomotive capabilities. I was jelly in his hands again.
“We need to stem the flow,” he said, in a serious voice. He let my face go.
“Stem the flow? No, we don’t. I’ll do it later,” I said briskly, but I didn’t dare stand up again, because I didn’t want to feel the jerking reaction of having his hands on me.
“You’re wobbly on your feet,” he said with that same smile. It was almost like he was enjoying watching me incapacitated like this.
“Stop calling me that. My name is Lily Fitz. You may call me Lily,” I said, jumbling up my words a little out of nervousness. But I wanted to continue to create the impression that I wasn’t really enjoying his company or appreciating being held back from my task.
“All right, Lily. My name is Casper,” he said with a laugh in his voice. Why did he find everything funny? What was so funny about my name? “Now what do we have to stem the flow?” he added, and I watched as he rummaged around in his pockets.
I lifted an eyebrow, mocking him as he searched for something to put in my nose. He clearly hadn’t come prepared, which in some small way seemed to be a point of victory for me, even though I was the one sitting on the ground bleeding through my nose.
“What do you have in your bag?” he asked. Without asking for permission, he reached for the cross-body cloth bag hanging on the side of my hip.
“What are you doing?” I squealed when he popped open the button holding it together.
“Looking for something that might help stop the bleeding,” he said in a thoughtful voice. I couldn’t do anything but slap his hands, but it was too late. He extracted two tampons out of my bag and waved them in the air in front of my face.
“These should get the job done, don’t you think, Lily?” He said my name like he wasn’t sure how to pronounce it, and yet he had that sparkling look in his eyes. My cheeks burned, and I gulped.
“You want me to walk around with two tampons sticking out from my nose?” I asked, after staring at him for a few moments.
Casper said nothing, only nodded, and then shrugged his shoulders. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he had a point.
“Fine, whatever. If you’ll let me go now,” I said, and grabbed the tampons out of his hands.
Casper watched me with his lips turned to an almost-smile. His unbelievably perfect bronze skin glistened in the sun, his golden hair catching the light as well while I sat in front of him, ripping open the packaging of the two tampons in my hands.
He didn’t know, but usually I was a fully functioning, straight-thinking adult. But for some reason, I inserted the two tampons up my nose without another question. The strings dangled from my nostrils as I stared at him, my face frozen. I wanted to kill him.
“I wish I knew some of your friends so I could tell them about this,” he said, suddenly grabbing his belly with both his hands as he burst out laughing. I watched as he threw his head back and laughed loudly, how his shoulders shook, how his neck stretched, the shape of his large, sturdy fingers.
“Something tells me that you and my friends would never get along,” I said when he was catching his breath from all that laughter. The tampons were still stuck up my nostrils. I knew I looked stupid. I knew I was nowhere close to being as presentable as I should have been in the company of a man who looked like him, but I was already down the rabbit hole, and there was no point trying to deny it.
“You’re judging me again, Lily,” he said, clearing his throat.
I raised an eyebrow and looked at him just as keenly as he was looking at me. “Why shouldn’t I? You appeared out of nowhere and dragged me away from my group, and now you’ve made me stick tampons up my nose,” I said, noticing the way the strings of the tampons shook with every movement of my head.
My cheeks flamed, because I was reminded again of how ridiculous I probably looked, and how Casper was looking at me.
“You would have been trampled on if it wasn’t for me,” he said, a little more seriously this time.
“You keep saying that. But what really needs saving right now are the Green Gleneagles, and you’re keeping me from them,” I said, my voice rising with my fury. I was gladly returning to my old self again. The throbbing ache at the back of my head had all but disappeared, and the bleeding had stopped, too. The tampons were working.
“Now, why would I do such a thing?” he asked, and I noticed how his gaze fell to the neck of my peasant blouse. He was openly staring at my cleavage!
“Because you clearly have an agenda,” I said, too brashly, and this time I pushed to my feet. I had regained most of my strength by now, and I had done it too quickly for him to be able to stop me in time. He followed me up, straightening himself. But even when we were standing, he towered over me. He had to bend his neck low to be able to look at me directly. I felt that electrical surge down my spine again, as I had a quick image of how sexy it would be to have him lift me up in his arms.
“You’re clearly concussed. You’re beginning to imagine things even though I just saved your life,” he said with a smirk on his face, and now I was even doubly sure of myself. I wasn’t concussed. In fact, I had never thought this clearly before. This man was definitely not the good-natured Samaritan I had thought.
I crossed my arms over my breasts, just like the policemen had earlier. His gaze dropped. He was looking at my cleavage again with a knowing smile on his face. Were my nipples still erect? Could he see them through the fabric of my blouse? I pushed those thoughts out of my head.