I want to sprint across the room, pushing past the crowd, shoving them to the side, in order to force them to make way for me to follow her out that door. I take one look at the two guys that I dropped who are starting to slowly get back off the ground like a couple of drunk and wobbly giants, then I scan the bar and see a couple of bouncers’ ready to take my ass to the back alley and “teach me a lesson” for disrupting everyone’s night. I fight my instincts to go after Vanessa and quickly scoot around the chairs in the seating area. I toss the empty seats behind me as I go, trying to form some kind of roadblock or at least a speed bump to slow down the four guys who all share the same goal, to pound the piss outta me.

I don’t have time to grab my clothes, I beeline for the front door in my form-fitting underwear and run out onto the sidewalk, into a crowd of flashing light bulbs.

Having men snapping pictures of me is disorienting, and I turn around on the street and seem to get lost in the pops of light and the jumbled words they’re yelling at me. My muscles tense and my stomach lurches as my mind instantly takes me back to the desert. Flashes, garbled yelling, the intense feeling of panic that is telling me to get the fuck out of here before I get hurt. It’s all too much.

My eyes blur and sweat drips down my brow as I can feel the uncomfortable seat of the Humvee bouncing against my back again. There’s a huge flash, a bright supernova of light as my ears ring the high-pitched squeal of death and the fire begins to consume the vehicle. We got hit, or we hit an IED, either way it doesn’t matter. The screaming grows louder and I can smell burning flesh as I look over at Corporal Heinkel, he’s slumped over and his arm is severed at the shoulder. I can see the blood pouring down over my eye like I have stuck my head under a red spray of water from a shower head. Fuck! It’s my blood. I need to get out. I need to escape right now but I can barely see the exit through the acrid, black smoke swallowing me whole. If I don’t get out right now, I will burn alive.

“Fuck!” I scream and the Humvee disappears. The group of photographers reappear around me and they look a little frightened as they step backward.

Use your five senses, I remind myself, it’s only a flashback. I stomp my feet on the ground and remind myself that I’m in LA, not Afghanistan. There’s no gritty crunch as my shoes hit the pavement. I breathe in the night air and smell booze, weed and fast food traveling on the breeze. Finally, I force myself to focus my eyes, looking at the crowd of strange men holding cameras in my face like a bunch of tourists on a wildlife safari who just spotted a cheetah. Lucky for me, they have formed a barrier between me and the angry men from the club who are still very eager and willing to kick my ass.

I might not be in danger of losing my life or limbs like I was over in Afghanistan, but I’m not safe right now either. I need to get my ass out of here before it’s either beaten, or arrested.

I turn on my heel and scan the street like a hawk, searching for a quick way out of this whole scene. I spot a cabbie, munching on a burger, with his light off a few cars away. I rush down the sidewalk, ignoring the people who are staring, and grab the back-passenger door handle, flinging it open.

“I’m off duty find someone else!” The cab driver yells angrily from inside. I start to argue with him when I see her. A black car with tinted windows slowly drives past and the bac- window rolls down. It’s Vanessa. She’s watching me. Her fingertips curl slightly as she waves goodbye and she peers out her window as the car keeps moving down the street until they disappear in the heavy traffic.

I give my head a shake and ignore the cabbie’s protests, hopping inside. “Whatever your rate is, keep the meter off and double it. I have got cash at my place, I just need to get out of here, fast!” I nod toward the thugs who are approaching the car.

The cab driver’s eyes grow wide as he checks out the men who look like they’re about to flip his car over in a kind of mob rage.

“Triple it,” his lips form a flatline and my anger boils back up inside me. The fucker knows he’s got me right where he wants me. I hate being taken advantage of like this, but I don’t exactly have a ton of options right now.

“Fine, but I want your fries,” I reluctantly agree.

“Take them,” he practically tosses the red box of French fries with the yellow arches decorating them back at me, and throws the car in drive, pulling away from the curb just as the angry men reach my door.

“Where are you going?” my driver asks, looking back at me in the rearview mirror. If he’s freaked out by some man wearing nothing but underwear running from a group of goons, he’s hiding it extremely well. But, this is Los Angeles, so he’s probably seen a hell of a lot worse.

“To Olive street, it’s in Cudahy,” I manage to direct him as I jam almost all his fries into my mouth. The truth is, I’m not even that hungry, I just hate to lose and making him give them to me felt like a minor win.

“That’s a thirty minute drive from here. It’s triple the rate, right?” His voice is sharp, like if I fuck around he won’t think twice about pulling a tire iron out and doing the job the guys back at the club couldn’t finish.

“You will get your money,” I snap. “Just drive.”

He peers at me one more time in the rearview mirror, like he’s not sure if he wants to keep driving me, but then he shrugs and turns on the radio instead. As an overplayed Top 40 song invades my ears, my mind drifts back to Vanessa and the crazy night we just had. Obviously, she gave me a lot to think about with her plump curves in all the right places, and her coy smile. But I know that it’s her giggle, the way she blushed and the way she looked at me, beyond my cock or my scars and truly at me, that I won’t be able to shake from my head for a long, long time.