Love on the Run

by Zuri Day

  A bit of silence, and then, “Y’all have been messing around off and on since high school. I’d say that’s a fair question.”

  “Really? Did I miss your and Lori’s wedding announcement?”

  “Come on, bro. That’s a totally different story.”

  “Why, because it stars you instead of me?”

  “Because Lori isn’t interested in marriage and motherhood; she’s all about being Miss Hollywood, which suits me just fine.”

  “Yeah, whatever, man.” Michael looked at his screen as a beep signaled an incoming call. “Gregory, I’ve got to go. This is the call I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s another client.”

  “Okay, I won’t. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

  Michael clicked over to take the call from China, and the superstar basketball player who’d soon be playing for the Nevada Nighthawks. “N ho, Huang Chen,” he answered in his best broken Mandarin Chinese. “Znmeyàng?” All thoughts of partying left as Michael listened to this potentially lucrative client tell him exactly what was up.

  Browsing the store’s interestingly stuffed aisles, Shayna pulled out her phone. She could just imagine her roommates with their heads together, trying to guess what had happened during her meeting with Michael. A smile reached her lips as she turned on the phone and looked at the screen. Missed calls from both Talisha and Britt. And messages, too! Without scrolling any farther, she accessed her voice mail, clicked her hands-free device, and listened as she browsed.

  The automated recording announced that she had fifteen new messages. Shayna stifled a huff, remembering the calls she’d ignored on the way to the appointment with Michael.

  “New message.”

  “Baby, it’s—” Shayna quickly pushed the Delete button.

  “New message.”

  “Shayna, why aren’t you—” Delete.

  “New message.”

  “You’re pissing me off—” Delete.

  More calls from him, Tee, Britt, Coach, until she got to the fourteenth message.

  “Shayna—Michael Morgan.” Why at the mere sound of his voice did her hot spot just do a happy dance? “Just called to let you know how much I enjoyed our meeting, sharing dinner, and getting to know you a little better. By this time next year, everyone will know you by one name—Shayna. Although I still like Shayna the Sprintress. Ha! Have a great weekend. We’ll talk next week.”

  Still smiling, Shayna reached the back wall of the store. It was filled with masks. She picked one up, walked the short distance to the mirror, and lifted the mask to her face as she listened to the next message.

  “Shay, it’s Britt.”

  “And Tee,” Talisha chimed in. “Yes, we’re calling again—”

  “—and together this time. We know you have a story,” Brittney continued, “since you’ve had your phone turned off for the last two hours.”

  “Three,” Talisha corrected. “And since you’ve been with that fine-ass Michael Morgan. Girl, you know you’d better call us back and—”

  Laughing, Shayna hit the Call-back key. Talisha answered on the first ring. “Ha! Dang, girl. Were you just sitting there staring at the phone, waiting for me to call?”

  “Please,” Talisha responded. “It’s not even that deep. I just got off the phone with Cameron. He’s on his way to pick me up.”

  “Cool that.”

  A beat and then, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Shay, quit playing.” Shayna laughed. Talisha was quiet, and Shayna thought it was probably because she hadn’t sounded this carefree in quite some time.

  “You must have got some.”

  “Some what?” Shayna asked coyly.

  “Whoa! Did you bang the baton, girl? You didn’t!” Silence. “Did you?”

  Shayna swallowed her laughter. She loved teasing her roommates, especially nosy, gossipy Talisha, almost as much as she loved running track. “The meeting went very well.”

  Talisha squealed. Her voice dropped low. “Is he big, girl?”

  Shayna pictured Michael’s broad shoulders, big hands and feet. “Very.”

  “Are you still at his house?”

  She was sorely tempted to keep up the ruse, but figured enough for now. “We’re getting together next week.” And then, because she couldn’t resist, “His lips are amazing.” She didn’t lie. Every time his eloquently delivered words had spilled out of that mouth, she’d imagined what other feats those thick, cushy lips could perform.

  “I’m so mad at you. Okay, I’m jealous. But you did say that there was no way you’d ever get involved with someone you worked with again. I don’t blame you, though. . . .”

  Shayna’s headset beeped. She continued listening to Talisha while pulling out her phone, trying to still her heart even as she hoped it was Michael. Why? He didn’t need to be calling her. She wasn’t interested in him like that! Yeah, right. And if anybody believed that, then they also believed that Biggie, Tupac, and Michael were alive. Shayna’s hopes fell as she looked at the screen. Him. Again. She opened the message, intending to delete without reading. But the succinctly worded sentence caught her attention. And momentarily stopped her breath.

  I’m not going to keep being ignored. One way or another . . . we’re going to talk.

  An image of the black beamer she thought she’d seen earlier popped into her mind. Shayna’s head whipped around to the front of the store, eyes scanning the aisles. That couldn’t have been him, could it? Shayna stop tripping; that was hours ago. Besides, he’s not like that. Still, she placed the mask back on the shelf and walked to the next aisle. There were wigs and colorful hats with dreadlocks hanging from the rims, and a couple customers. . . but no one familiar. She knew her ex-boyfriend almost as well as she knew herself, and he wasn’t normally prone to violence or other uncool acts, like stalking. But ever since the Olympics and the subsequent media coverage she’d received, he’d started acting like a full-fledged fool. But there was no way he’d try and force her to meet with him if she didn’t want to. Would he? Then just what did his ‘one way or another’ message mean?

  “. . . crying if he breaks your heart because, baby, I’m not going to be the one who helps you. . . .Shayna, are you listening?”

  “Tee, I’ve got to go.”

  Shayna could tell that Talisha had instantly picked up the mood change. “What’s wrong?” All humor was gone from her voice.

  “Nothing, I just . . .” She quickly searched every aisle in the store. He wasn’t there. Of course not.

  “What is it, Shay?”

  Shayna had no intention of answering that question. Her friends had already dealt with too much of this particular drama. Those last few days before they’d moved to the new place, when her ex showed up on their doorstep at all times of day and night, the roommates’ lives had been madness. Had it not been for Talisha’s boyfriend, Cameron, one incident in particular may have gotten way out of hand. And when Shayna had finally gathered the courage to break up with him, to tell him that she was leaving him for good, that it was over and she meant it, she vowed they’d never again go through something like that because of her. Summoning up her bravest voice, she responded, “It’s nothing, Talisha. Is that the doorbell I hear? Go on out with Cameron and have a good time—but wait. Is Britt at home? I’m too excited about my meeting to go to bed early,” she continued in a rush, before Talisha could once again think that something was amiss. “Maybe she’ll want to find something to get into.” Shayna refused to acknowledge any form of fear where her ex was concerned, but she did admit his message had left her rattled. Hanging out with Brittney would help put his nonstop calling and crazy texting out of her mind.

  Shayna heard Talisha greet Cameron before she replied, “No, she went over to her mother’s house to see her sister’s new baby.”

  Right, Brittney’s an aunt for the second time. Shayna quickly told herself that she was wearing her big girl panties and had no problem being ho
me alone. He doesn’t know where you live, Shay, she silently reminded herself, even as she finally acknowledged a tinge of fear she had for the man with whom she’d grown up. He’d never been violent. Had never given her reason to be afraid of him. But that was before she’d scored at the Olympics, before her status had increased worldwide, before, she imagined, he saw visions of money bags dancing in his head. In his mind, she’d left him because with her gold medals she suddenly felt as though she was too good for him, as if his possessive domineering behavior, and the woman’s panties she’d found on her first night back home after deciding to change the sheets, hadn’t played a role at all. That’s when the phone calls had ratcheted up to harassment levels, and when she’d cut off all contact as a result.

  “Shay, you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. Go on, have fun. Tell Cameron I said hi.”

  Shayna hung up the phone and, as casually as one could be while looking for someone suddenly acting like Charles Manson’s stepchild, she moseyed to the front of the store and pretended to look at the postcards, magnets, and shot glasses displayed near the front. Her intent gaze, however, was on the sidewalk just beyond the window. Darkness covered the shadows, but a bright light in front of the building, plus the neon signs across the street, gave her a fairly good view of the area around her. She didn’t see him. And why would I? That man is just trying to get under my skin . . . jealous of my happiness and wanting to bring me down to his ignoramus level. Shayna refused to let that happen. So after taking another turn around the store, she retrieved the mask she’d earlier admired, purchased it, and waved a cheery good-bye to the cashier as she stepped out the door. Looking to her right, left, and across the street, and determining that the coast was clear, she quickly walked the short distance to her car. She used the remote to unlock the door, and was just two steps away when a strong, determined hand wrapped around her upper arm.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Make a scene and I’ll cut you,” the voice hissed into her ear. “Now, come on.”

  “Let me go!” Pure instinct took over as she tried to loosen the vise-like grip the man had on her arm. Jarrell? No, couldn’t be. The man’s voice was deep, raspy, nothing like that of her ex.

  What is he trying to do? Rob me? Or worse? Panic flowed over Shayna like water. Her heart slammed against her chest; her body slammed against the assailant’s chest. She realized he was walking them toward a narrow opening in the side of the building. In that moment, a line from an old Oprah episode flashed into her head: Never let your assailant take you to a second location. No matter what type of weapon this man might have, she had no intention of finding out what was on the other side of the concrete wall. Arrgh! Using all her strength, she jerked away from his death grip. Or rather she tried. For an nth of a second, it seemed that freedom was possible. If only her arm wasn’t attached to the rest of her body, and if only the attacker hadn’t chosen the very moment that she stepped left to go right. The pain that shot through her side and up her shoulder was excruciating, surpassed only by the feeling of air leaving her lungs as the man wrapped his other arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground and trying to carry her—much like a running back would a football—through the narrow opening. The second location.

  “Help! Somebody, help!” She was vaguely aware of people around her, but no one directly came to her aid. With legs flailing and time running out as they both neared the doorway, Shayna summoned superhuman strength and bit down on the arm that held her captive.

  “Damn!”

  The man’s hold loosened for a second, just long enough for Shayna to wriggle out of his grasp. Her left side felt as if it were on fire. No time to think of that now. She headed to her car, but after hearing heavy footsteps hot on her heels, and seeing someone trying to tape the event with a camera phone, she knew that she had to leave the scene as quickly as possible, like yesterday even. So she did the next best thing, that which she did best: run.

  But not before she looked back, and locked eyes with her ex-slash-PT-slash-former-childhood-best-friend-slash-man-gone-crazy—Jarrell “Jay” Powell.

  7

  Michael whistled a tune as he splashed on cologne. His hand stopped midway between his jaw and the bottle, as he thought of Project Shayna—upping the profile of his latest client by first establishing and then expanding her brand. Everybody and their kin was endorsing perfume these days. What could I call it? Shayna’s Secret? The Sprintress? Run Tell This? “Ha, man, you’re crazy.” Continuing to look himself in the mirror as he thought about a perfume for the up-and-coming track star, he asked, “Why not?” He made a mental note to add this to the list of possibilities he’d formulated since she’d left his home, along with the cereal commercials, talk show appearances, and maybe even some TV or movie options. Hmm, maybe we’ll even do some type of collaboration between her and Huang Chen, him running and her shooting hoops. Michael smiled at the thought, his mind racing as he straightened his tie, gave himself one last glance in the mirror, and headed out of the room. He paused in his bedroom just long enough to put on his jewelry—diamond stud, platinum cross, and an understated Rolex—and grab his suit jacket. He was headed to the garage when the gate bell rang. When expecting guests his gate remained open, but when he headed out of town or out for the evening, he always locked the security gate and activated the alarm.

  Looking at his watch, he decided not to answer. Man, Gregory is going to curse you out as it is. He slid into the buttery smooth seat of his Jaguar XK, pushed the garage door opener, and eased down the drive. It was a beautiful evening in September, so he decided to drive with the top down. He stopped at the edge of the drive and as the top was making its soundless transition into the compartment at the rear of the car, he checked himself in the mirror before looking to his right, and then his left to back out into the—

  WTH? “Shayna!”

  The car was barely thrown into park before Michael was out the door and kneeling by his crumpled, heavily breathing new client. He scooped her up. “Aw!”

  For the first time, he noticed how she clutched her side. “What happened?” he asked as long strides ate up the distance between the sidewalk and the still opened garage door.

  Shayna shook her head, tears of relief now streaming down her cheek as she clutched Michael’s shirt, holding on for dear life. Michael gave no thought to the still-running Jaguar as he walked through the kitchen, across the combined living/dining area, and down the hall to his bedroom. It didn’t even register that he brought her here and not the guest suite. He gingerly laid her down, but when he tried to pull away, she held on to his shirt.

  Her eyes were wild and searching, her voice barely audible. “No.”

  “Shh, baby, it’s okay. My car is still running, and in the street. I’m just going to pull it into the garage. I’ll be right back.” He raced down the hall to the front door, pulling out his phone as he did so.

  “Gregory.”

  “Man, where are you?”

  “I’m still at home, and need you to get here. Quick.” In his urgency, Michael’s voice took on a demanding, forceful tone.

  “What’s up, Michael?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just hurry. The front door will be unlocked. And bring your medical bag.”

  “Michael, are you okay?”

  There was no answer because Michael had already hung up the phone. He hurried back into his room and found Shayna huddled in a fetal position. His heart clenched at how helpless she looked, how different from the somewhat shy yet laughing woman who’d left his house less than an hour ago. What in the hell happened?

  Easing down on the bed, he placed a hand on her arm. It must have scared her because she jerked away, and then moaned at the pain the sudden move caused.

  “Shayna,” Michael tried again, his voice soothing, coaxing. “What happened? Were you in an accident?”

  “Attacked,” she whispered, so softly that Michael was sure he hadn’t heard correctly. Surely he hadn’t. He
watched her wince as she moved again, and decided to hold off the questions until his brother arrived and examined her. “My brother’s a doctor; he’s on his way.” Feeling as helpless as she looked, he again reached out to stroke her arm. He wanted to ease her pain the way he’d once tried to do with the family dog, a German shepherd named Lucky. Poor canine’s luck almost ran out when he chased a ball across the street and was hit by a car. A then seven-year-old Michael was first on the scene. His initial reaction was to run up and put his hands on the dog. Almost got it bitten off. His brother’s gift, on the other hand, was already apparent as Gregory joined him seconds later and softly rubbed the dog’s nose, and Lucky calmed down almost instantly. Gregory then commanded his brother to run and get a sheet so he could tie off the wound, something he’d seen done on the eighties TV show St. Elsewhere. Gregory’s ministrations had helped save the dog’s life. Lucky lived another five years. Remembering the story about Lucky calmed Michael, and his urgent hand strokes became soft and reassuring. Gregory was on his way. Shayna would be all right.

  “Orlando!” Michael called for his chef and then remembered he’d released him for the night. “I’ll be right back; I’m just going to get you a glass of water.” Upon returning, he turned on the lamp next to the bed. That’s when he saw them: scratches, bruises, skin discoloration around her neck. He bristled, the hair on his arms almost standing on end as a thought entered his mind, one that he could barely contemplate, let alone believe. “Shayna,” his voice was now low, restrained. “What happened?” So much for waiting for his brother’s examination. “Who did this to you?” Fresh tears rolled down Shayna’s face. “Baby, I need to know.”

  Shayna shook her head, as if the mere thought of the person responsible for her injuries caused more pain.

  He started to push and then, again, decided to wait for his brother. Gregory’s demeanor was less forceful than Michael’s; over the years he’d honed and perfected the bedside manner necessary to deal with people in peril. His brother would be able to find out what had gone down. He was sure of it. Once again, he began to ease off the bed and once again, her hand reached out for him. “Please don’t . . . leave me,” she whispered. “Please.”