by Marata Eros
OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod.
His body is torn from mine, and I fall to my knees without the support, sobbing and gasping while I crawl away on the grass.
Turning, I look behind me and Perry and Storm are circling each other.
Oh no!
I stand, trip in my somewhat drunken stupor, and kick off my heels.
Then Storm charges Perry.
Silent. Deadly. Like the eye of his namesake.
Storm
I round the corner of the house where the walk-out basement dumps its occupants, but I don’t see much.
Most of the guests are topside. But that’s not where Perry took Kendra.
Oh no. He wants her all to himself.
My hands become fists of punishment at my sides. Then I see her, bent over with Perry’s mouth stamped on hers, feet barely touching the ground.
My stomach drops.
She fucking wants that douche? Some cop who’s never been through a fucking thing?
Then he whirls her around as she stumbles, and I know right away Kendra’s not sober, and he’s all over her.
Not cool.
He presses himself up against her back, and Kendra’s demeanor changes.
She seems to panic, then Perry palms her tits.
I about go berserk, like my brains are sliding out my ears. When she screams, I move.
Doesn’t sound like Kendra signed up for the feel-up session Perry has planned.
Takes me about three seconds to get to him, and grabbing him by the shoulders, I hurl him about six feet.
He’s my size easily. Big.
Doesn’t matter, though.
Nobody touches Kendra but me.
In my periphery, I see her fall to her knees on the grass, crying and catching her breath.
My head lowers like a charging bull. She did not want his attention.
Perry will pay.
I rush him at the same time he meets me.
Kendra
I run toward them then stop a short distance from where they’re fighting. I’ve never actually seen two men beat the shit out of each other.
Sure, I’ve seen it in the movies. But not in live action before me.
It’s not pretty. It’s violent and scary. They’re vicious and fast.
How can I get in there and stop them?
Clenching my eyes then opening them, I run between the two men and get spun around so fast, I land on my ass with a yelp.
Storm’s fist is just suddenly above me, and I flinch, arm raised high.
Covering my face with my hands, I whisper-shout, “Please don’t hurt me.”
My words are like fists as I watch Storm’s expression piece together from the mask of rage to something resembling human.
I’d never seen that look directed at me before.
Bleeding, Perry limps over and puts out his hand for me to take.
Storm grates, “Don’t you fucking touch her.”
Perry doesn’t move.
“He wasn’t hurting me, Storm.”
“What were you screaming about then, Kendra?” Storm asks, his fist dropping.
I cover my face. In the next moment, I feel hands on my body, then a pair of arms like muscled steel lift and hold me.
“Can’t say I want you touching Kendra, either, you fucking psycho.”
Perry.
But that’s not who’s holding me. “Oh yeah, bright one—you and what fucking army are going to take her from me?”
I open my eyes. Storm’s face is granite, jaw locked. I could cut the tension with a knife.
Just then, Puck and Noose race down the embankment and come around the other side to where we stand.
“Could’ve told me Storm was going to get into it with Perry,” Puck says loudly to Noose.
To my horror, Noose grins. “Nah. Let the men figure it out the old-fashioned way.”
God.
“Nobody told me you two were seeing each other,” Perry says reasonably.
“We’re not,” I speak for the first time, slurring my words a little.
Perry makes a sound of disbelief. “Then why did you MMA my ass? Ya dick.” Perry spits a mix of phlegm-filled blood on the ground.
Storm’s answer says so much. “Because she was scared and you were too fucking hard up to notice.”
Perry’s face goes to flat planes of anger. “I do not fucking rape women.”
Storm snorts. “Her screaming is a sign of no, pal.”
“Heard you don’t mind going past that point, pal,” Perry retorts.
“Maybe with the bitches,” Storm agrees, and I die a little at his words.
“And what’s she to you?” Perry asks with a huff of disbelief.
Noose and Puck wait with baited breath.
“She’s Kendra, you fucktard,” he growls.
With that, he stomps up the hill with me in his arms. Confused, drunk, and miffed.
Epilogue
Kendra
One week later
Flower petals rain down all around. Puck and Temp duck, unable to avoid the soft pink pummeling from the biker dudes.
They’re throwing what amounts to bushels at the newlyweds.
I’m crying, so happy for Temp that I could split.
I’m also shivering, because autumn finally fell with a vengeance. All at once, the leaves turned and the Indian summer of the past weekend and the whacked out night at Viper’s, left like a hushed sigh on the warm wind.
I’ve tried really hard not to notice the men, but it’s impossible not to. Perry and I stood across from each other during the ceremony because we were the best man and bridesmaid. And that wasn’t awkward at all. Yeah right.
Storm and Perry have exchanged glares with each other half the day. And it would be funny if I weren’t so involved.
Their faces both look as bad as Temp’s did after Ritchie hurt her.
Of course, I have very little memory of getting home that night. The last real memory I have is Storm carrying me from the scene.
I had a hell of a hangover the next day. But I woke up in my bed with all my clothes on. No shoes, though. Probably still down on Viper’s back lawn with an empty wine glass. Classy.
My VW bug was parked outside my apartment the next day, as well, though I’m certain I didn’t drive home. Not in that condition.
I sort of made a fool of myself.
Stuff happened with the man who attacked me, and I haven’t taken time to deal with it. I had too much wine, and the right kind of man was giving me attention. I made bad choices, and Storm and the entire Road Kill MC got involved.
But no one seems to be holding it against me. Seems like I get a pass for being kidnapped then attacked.
Instead of looking at Perry and Storm again, I clap as Temp picks up the train of her long empire-waist wedding dress to walk faster. Puck, impatient guy that he is, finally just scoops her up and gently tucks Temp into a big black Dodge pickup.
Turning, he flips everyone off. “See ya, suckers!” he sings, and all of us erupt in laughter.
Perfect.
Turning around to gather my lightweight wool peacoat, it’s impossible to miss Storm standing right behind where I was.
Hands stuffed in the pockets of a pair of soft black slacks, he has combed the riot of his dark brunette hair back into a neat, short ponytail at his nape.
With his face naked of hair and in the glare of an overcast day, he looks younger, almost vulnerable, despite his huge size. But those sharp hazel eyes are hard.
“Hey,” he says, flicking those intense eyes over me once then returning to my face.
“Hi.” I hate how breathless my voice sounds, but it’s a consequence of his closeness. Not something I can help, really.
An awkward stillness settles over us as people bustle by, folding chairs and chasing the children.
A few of the biker guys give us curious stares.
“You got a ride out of here?” Storm asks.
I shake my head. “No, figured
I’d get one with somebody.” I twist my body to look around, thinking about who to get a ride with, when a light touch on my arm has me turning back. I look up into those eyes, noticing the green within the brown like floating flecks of emerald.
“I was saying I could, you know, give you a ride.”
His eyes move away from me for a second, and I blink.
Is this the guy who mowed into Perry last week and about hit me?
I take a bold step closer, and Storm stands his ground, nostrils flaring like he’s a wild horse about to bolt.
Standing right beneath his chin, I tilt my head back, gazing into the sternly tender face. “I’d like that, thank you.”
A shuddering exhale escapes him. “You’re welcome, Kendra.”
Maybe I’m not a bitch after all.
THE END
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PROLOGUE
You're dying,” Dr. Matthews says. Two words. Final. Complete. Desolate.
I feel my fingers clench the armrests of the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.
If his words aren't enough to convince me, I see my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.
Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to the softly glowing X-ray reader.
I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit surface.
The light glows around the tumor, immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of disregard.
Just the facts, ma’am.
I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak of his desk. It's very large, an anchor in the middle of his prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.
I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged by what might be sympathy. After all, it's not every day he tells a twenty-two-year-old woman she's got moments to live.
Actually, I do have time—months.
It's just not enough.
I look at the mess that's my brain, at the damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom. For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own greets me.
Mitchell, Faren.
I back up and Matthews reaches to steady me.
But it's too late.
I spin and run out of his office as his voice calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a time.
I see my car parked across the street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't deny.
I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.
I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.
The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.
Powerless.
The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I've already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.
My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.
I sigh. Safe.
I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.
There's a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and smiles. “It's going to be okay.”
That's when I know I'm not in heaven.
That's what people say when nothing is okay.
1
One month prior
I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.
Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.
I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.
Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?
Delete, delete, delete.
I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.
I put my handgrip on the corner of the end table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.
I leave my laptop open and walk back to the stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of my hands as I've been taught.
As I teach others to do.
I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh, forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.
The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I sigh. I want to chop off my hand.
I want to cradle it against my chest because it still works. Just not perfectly.
Like my life.
“Another headache?” Sue asks.
I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan who's up first.
Bryce Collins. Pain. In. My. Ass.
I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They make
it all worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.
A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents. We can compare later.
Right now, it's all about the work.
“Hi, Bryce.”
He mumbles a reply as I hand him the first merciless task. The huge rubber band fits around the pole in the center of the room. Mirrors line the wall and toss back our struggles.
And our triumphs.
I watch as he half-heartedly goes through the motions of his straight leg kicks. When he reaches twenty I scoop my hand down and latch onto his hamstring and he groans at my touch. “Bend your knee a little,” he does while giving me a look that could kill. I stare neutrally back until his gaze drops and he finally digs in.
An hour later, shaking and sweating, Bryce's huge and muscled body lumbers outside my door. He pauses as he opens it, looking at me with pissed off brown eyes.
“I hate you, Miss Mitchell,” he says and means it.
I smile back. I totally get it. Bryce needs to hate me to get better. It beats hating himself. I nod. “I know.”
He walks out, and I run my finger down the patient appointments for the day. Kiki makes her loud entrance, and my lips twist. She balances chai tea in both hands, staggering in too-tall heels that sink into the nearly bald carpet.
“Gawd!” she huffs as she winds her way through the ellipticals, weight machines, and treadmills. She leans against the walking bars that run like railroad tracks for those with dual injuries. Like both legs not working.
I swallow and force my smile back in place.
“Take your tea, you ungrateful bitch,” she squeals, handing me my tea.
I blow on it. A touch of honey and ginger rise through the vapor, and I grin over the rim of the cup as I sip through the little slot.
