Courage is grace
under pressure.
Ernest Hemingway
It takes me a few debilitating moments to settle my rage.
Because, seriously, who does that?
He couldn’t give me thirty more seconds?
I was so close!
I’m still angry when I realize how freshly fucked I look. My hair is sticking up in every direction, I’m fully flushed from head to toe, and I smell like the sex I almost but didn’t have. I need to go to the restroom and deal with this before I find Aimee and hightail it out of this wretched place.
One thing’s for sure: I’m never going to Rogue again.
I can meet Blue Eyes in Hell a hundred years from now, and it’ll still be too soon. I know for certain that’s where he’s going, too. There’s no doubt in my mind that there’s a special place down there for men who leave women on the cusp of coming like that.
I knock on the door three times. I’m quick to snarl when the door swings open, and I’m met with the guard’s amused smirk.
Fuck him.
Fuck Blue Eyes.
And fuck this stupid place.
I stomp my way to the bathroom, forcing myself to calm down.
Deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I repeat the mantra until I no longer feel like I’m on the verge of turning into a certain green monster with a genius level IQ.
When I reach the hallway that leads to the women’s restroom, I pass a man with the blonde woman from earlier, the one that went up to the VIP level with Blue Eyes. They’re too busy arguing to notice me.
In fact, they don’t seem to see me at all, so I keep my head down and angle my face and body away from them, trying to mind my own business. That’s Foster Care 101: keep your mouth shut, your head down, and your opinions to yourself. Passing by them, I realize that, even though two years have passed since I aged out, Foster Care 101 is still second nature to me.
Nevertheless, I’m able to catch a good look at the man before I turn away. Built like a heavyweight champion and dressed head to toe in black, he’s super scary. Intimidating. The snake tattoos that dip below his shirt and wind up to his closely shaved head give me unwelcome goosebumps. They only add to his hard countenance.
A dreadful shiver runs through me, and I quickly duck into the women’s restroom, eager to get away from the duo.
I’m calm by the time I’m done straightening myself out and twisting my hair into a messy ponytail. After I go to the restroom, I return to the sink, only to realize the arguing outside has gotten louder. I want to leave quietly, but the two have congregated even closer to the restroom door now. There’s no way I can leave without drawing attention to myself, and my gut is telling me I should definitely not be drawing attention to myself.
There’s a thud followed by a sharp cry. My breath hitches. I open the door just a crack and peak an eye outside. The scary guy has a gun in one hand and the girl’s neck in the other. His body is flush against hers, pressing the rest of her onto the wall. Had he not been holding a gun in his hand, I would’ve classified their behavior as sexual.
But no, he’s trying to intimidate her, and it’s working… on me.
My jaw drops. Sure, they’re in an empty hallway, but it’s still a public place. There are so many eyes in the club, and the hallway has no doors. Anyone can pass by and see what’s happening. With all the security positioned on the floor, I’m actually amazed they haven’t been caught already. Is this guy not worried that someone can see him manhandling this girl? With a gun!
I push the door open a little bit more, being careful to remain silent and unseen. From this angle, I am able to see into the crowd at the club.
What the heck?
I’m shocked beyond disbelief. The two are in clear view of the crowd, but people are practically going out of their way to ignore them. And the people that do look glance away after less than a second as if they haven’t seen anything.
My fists clench. This guy is scary, sure, but they’re all cowards for not doing anything. But then again, so am I. I’m the one who’s hiding in the restroom. I have to help her, but what can I do? He has a gun, for goodness’ sake. A gun.
After my time spent traveling through third world countries, I’ve gotten used to weapons and danger. But this is America. The richest nation in the entire world. It’s supposed to be safe here. I’m not supposed to be in a situation involving a gun on my first day back.
I close the bathroom door, doing my best to keep quiet. My heart is pounding as I debate my options. Obviously, I have to help the girl. But if I go out and fight him, it would just be putting us both at risk. My self-defense training consists of kicking a handsy teenage boy in the balls back in high school and literally nothing else. I can’t beat a gun! I wouldn’t even know where to start.
The security guards are also out of the question. Alerting them will require passing this guy. Again, he has a gun. I’m not a fool, and I don’t have a death wish. I won’t be playing hero today.
I remember my phone in my clutch. I can call the police and hope they get here in time. That’s what I’m going to do. It’s the best option, I reassure myself. I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1, waiting with baited breath at the sound of the dial tone. I pull further back into the restroom to keep quiet.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” The operator’s voice is deep and masculine, calm and strong.
It soothes me immensely.
I close my eyes, allowing his voice to give me strength for a brief moment. “Uh…” I hesitate, unsure of what to say. I’ve never called 9-1-1 before. “I’m in the bathroom at a club, and there’s a guy out the door with a gun. He’s choking a girl. What do I do?”
“First of all, ma’am, remain calm. Is the club crowded?”
“Yes,” I say, struggling to keep the incredulity out of my voice.
Is he serious? This is a Friday night in a college area in the most populated city in the United States. Of course, it’s crowded.
“What club are you at?”
“Rogue.”
There’s a staggered gasp on the line before the operator recovers. He says, albeit weakly, “And there’s a male with a gun?”
“Yes.”
I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this. Well, I already had a bad feeling, but that was mostly worry for the girl. Now, it’s worry for me, too.
Am I stuck in the Twilight Zone?
If so, where’s Bruce Willis?
And how the Hell do I get out?
The operator finally speaks again, “Are you sure you wish to report this?”
My jaw drops.
What? Really?
Are cops even allowed to ask that when someone reports that a scary guy has a gun in his hand and is strangling a woman? This is beyond odd. Is this a thing? Are guns considered foreplay in New York? 50 Shades of Grey hasn’t prepared me for this.
Oh, gosh.
What if I just interrupted kinky sex?
That’d make me no worse than Blue Eyes. And he’s an asshole. I don’t want to be an asshole. They’re gross and ugly and smel—I force myself to stop my nervous mental rambling. It’s one of my many bad habits.
I peak my head out again in time to see Scary Guy running his hands down the side of the girl’s body. It’s slow and sensual, but the gun is still there. Light reflects off of the trigger, winking at me in spite of its deadliness. It can go off at any second.
The uncertainty running through me passes from my system. I pull back into the restroom, assured that I’m doing the right thing. Plus, I was scared for the woman before, but now I’m increasingly uncomfortable with my role in this. I want to leave as soon as possible without being the primary witness to a murder, and the cops are still my best bet.
“Yes,” I say firmly, leaving no room for doubt.
“Are you sure he’s not a security guard?”
I remember the matching suits that all the guards around the club are wearing. In fitted dress slacks and a tailored, navy blue button down, this guy is dressed similarly to Zeke, only Zeke looks like a little boy compared to him. This guy is certainly built like the guards, but he isn’t dressed like one.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Okay,” the dispatcher acquiesces. “I have a patrol unit nearby. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Please, wait on the line and stay put.” He hesitates. “Whatever you do, don’t draw any attention to yourself.”
No shit.
I release a breath and along with it goes my anger. I’m being unnecessarily mean to this guy, even if my jabs are just in my head. Sarcasm may be my defense mechanism of choice, but it’s not a very nice one.
A few minutes.
I can do that.
I can wait that long.
“Okay,” I tell the operator.
I walk even further away from the door with the phone still pressed against my ear. But I walk back to the door almost immediately after, my curiosity getting the better of me.
I’m saving this girl, so I can spy on her, I reason.
With my eye positioned at the door’s keyhole, I watch as the man starts patting her down with his free hand. His body is still flushed against hers, keeping her pressed into the wall. The girl has an indignant look on her face, and she appears to be more angry than scared. That’s yet another thing to add to the long list of things about this situation that are strange.
Something is off here. I start to reconsider my decision. Maybe I’ve been too hasty in calling the police. I’ve been in a lot of dangerous regions over the past two years, so violence seemed like the most obvious conclusion to me. But now, judging by how the guy steps back with a mischievous grin quickly replacing his angry features, I know I’ve made a mistake.
I glance down at the phone in my hand. The operator is still on the line. Fuck. He sent a patrol unit, and they’re already on their way. Is it too late to call the whole thing off? I debate my options for two more seconds before making another hasty decision.
I hang up on the police.
I end the call and wipe down the phone, removing all of my fingerprints from it. It’s an international prepaid phone that I bought a couple years ago in Mozambique. It’s unlikely that they’ll be able to trace it back to me.
I’ve never even made a call on it before. I had no one to call, and I only bought it for emergencies anyways. I’ve been meaning to get a new phone with a national provider, but my lazy ass hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I’m glad for that now.
After flipping the phone over, I remove the battery and SIM card out of it. The battery goes into the trash, while the SIM card goes in one of the toilets. I take the phone—which I’m still holding up with a paper towel in order to keep my prints off it—and place it in the sink under a stream of water. I make sure that it’s low enough that they can’t hear the sound of the water from outside, though the odds of that happening are slim. The club is loud, after all.
I grab the wet phone and throw it in the trash. Then, I use the wet paper towel to wipe down anywhere I might have touched. I know I’m being paranoid. No way will the cops take the time to fingerprint a bathroom that has to have a lot of fingerprints everywhere just to identify me.
Whatever.
Better safe than sorry.
When I am done indulging my paranoia, I return to the keyhole in time to see a guy approaching. He’s a dark shadow of leisurely movement until he comes closer and the light shines on his magnificent, stony face. I recognize it immediately.
It’s him.
Blue Eyes.
Asshole.
Hell-bound.
Whatever his name is.
I still haven’t decided what I want to call him.
How do you give a name to someone who has the power to tilt the earth on its axis? Because, surely, that’s the only way I can possibly be feeling like this right now. Like the world is tumbling inward, and this man, who brought me to the brink of orgasm then left, is suddenly in the center of it.
Maybe I’m just crazy?
I don’t know, but I do know that I’m also still angry. My first instinct is to push out the door and slap him silly, but I restrain myself.
Barely.
“You pat her down?” he asks immediately.
No hellos. No pretenses.
He only said four words, but I revel in the sound of his voice again. It’s rough and masculine and sexy. I want to drown in it, and then I want him to resuscitate me with those full lips.
Look at me.
I’m in a sketchy situation and am still horny. What’s even more embarrassing is, even after he left me hanging, he’s the one that’s making me horny. I need to take a page out of Aimee’s book and get laid. All the way this time. I add that to my mental to do list after I get out of this situation.
The scary guy nods and says, “Yeah, boss.”
Boss.
Scary Guy works for Blue Eyes?
I wonder what they do. From his stylish suit to his fancy watch, Blue Eyes looks like he’s dripping in wealth. Whatever he does must be lucrative.
The girl rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. There’s no indication that she was just being manhandled not even a minute ago. She doesn’t even seem to care. Instead, there’s a haughty air about her as she says, “Yes, Asher. Now, if you’re done treating me like I’m the enemy, can we begin?”
Asher.
That’s Blue Eyes’ name.
I remember what Zeke said about an Asher Black owning the club. Is this him? If so, it makes sense. He has access to the VIP area and looks like he has a lot of money to spare. And no one in the club seems to care that his “employee” was manhandling this girl.
Damn it.
What have I done? I called the cops on what now appears to be a consensual business deal. Sure, a gun was involved, but everything looks fine and dandy now. Aimee is going to hate me. They’re totally going to blacklist me from Rogue for this.
This is bound to be the end of my clubbing days. Now, I have to meet men on Tinder. I don’t even have a phone that swipes.
Stupid, waterlogged flip phone.
And as if it can’t get any worse, one of Asher’s guards comes over and whispers something into his ear. Whatever he said makes Asher’s body go rigid.
He turns to the other two, eyes full of exquisitely restrained wrath, and growls, “Who the fuck called the cops?”
No one answers him.
Asher straightens himself, and his mask is back in place in an instant. Calm but also icy. The frustration on his face is quickly pushed aside, and he begins to bark out orders.
“Bastian,” he addresses Scary Guy, “take her out through the back. Don’t draw any attention to yourselves. No one can see the two of you together.”
He leaves abruptly after that, and his guards, the girl, and Scary Guy, who I now know is named Bastian, follow after him. I breathe a sigh of relief, happy to be alone.