Masterson

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  I whip my head back towards my right and watch as Larry and Marco continue to move toward the scene, trying to draw as little attention to themselves as they can, but also trying to get to the girls as quickly as possible. Larry's eyes seem to now be fixated on one particular point. The beautiful blond's lap. I watch as she reaches into her silver clutch, which is lying across her lap, and she pulls out what looks like to be a clunky set of car keys.

  Thanks to the wine, I am still swaying and bobbing in my seat to the pulse of the music as the whole scene plays out. The music basically serves as a soundtrack for the drama unfolding in front of me. I am just waiting for the first punch. I know it's brewing. I can see it in itsy, bitsy's eyes. Like I said, my money was on her.

  Larry and Marco are sprinting across the club at this point. Gently elbowing their way through the writhing bodies on the dance floor, making their polite "excuse me's" as they do. I'm not really sure why they are so frantic about reaching the two women. No blows have been thrown yet, and as far as I can tell, it all seems to be a lot of loud name-calling and neck rolling. Total girl shit.

  And that's when it happens.

  Pure pandemonium.

  3

  Elizabeth

  I AM CHOKING AND GASPING for breath. The air around me is thick and heavy. Tears start to pool in the corners of my eyes, because the burning sensation of the chemicals is so overpowering. I reactively blink and squeeze my eyelids tightly to stop the stinging, but all that does is start to give me a dull headache at my temples.

  I'm not sure what to do with my hands first, as I indecisively alternate between rubbing the corners of my eyes and grasping at my throat, almost breaking the delicate gold chain hanging around my neck. I desperately need fresh air, but my lungs are being denied what they crave most and like the idiot I am, I haven't paid any attention to where the exit doors are located. This is exactly what I deserve for not listening to my inner voice. My instincts. My gut. The voice that told me to just keep my ass at Sloan's, eat ramen, and watch Netflix.

  Panic starts to swell inside of my chest. Was it those girls that did this? Although I know that a little pepper spray never killed anyone, I am also well aware of the pandemonium that spraying it in a confined location can cause. I wonder if people feel this type of dread right before they meet death, like in the final five seconds before a fatal car collision or a plane crash.

  While I can't see very much, especially at a distance, I can definitely hear the quickening click-clack sounds of women's stilettos and the growing chant of deep male voices straining the words, "Push! Push!" in unison.

  After a few high pitched screams, I realize that the hysteria around me is starting to mushroom, and I am certain that the shrieks are coming from young women being pushed and crushed not only at the front doors but through the other exit side doors as well. Without consideration of others, people are running, pushing, and stepping on top of other people's bodies to get out of the club as fast as they can.

  Not. Good. At. All.

  The level of danger in the room is starting to rise at an accelerated pace, and I realize that I need an exit plan and fast, because getting out of the club through the main doors unscathed doesn't seem to be in my immediate future. I don't see her at first, but am relieved when Sloan grabs me from behind by the shoulders.

  "It's me, Bitsy."

  "Thank God," I exhale.

  Sloan coughs a bit while spitting out her idea of an exit plan. "We'll get trampled if we stay by the bar or if we try to leave now. Let's hide behind the speaker over there. When it thins out we'll leave."

  "I can't breathe,” I say and frankly I don't really like her exit strategy.

  Hide in the middle of a chemical apocalypse? So at this point I am freaking out, but I also don't have any other better ideas, especially with the three drinks I've consumed clouding any coherent judgment I have left.

  Since I don't want to compound the issue by totally losing it, I take a few deep yoga breaths (not easy since the air is filled with pepper spray), while I continue to consider her suggestion. I can feel Sloan carefully studying my face. She knows I'm on the verge of a melt down.

  "I can't see the exit, Bitsy," she explains slowly to me like I'm an idiot. "But I definitely hear people getting mashed. Trust me, the best thing to do is to wait this out. We'll be fine. Take shallow breaths and hold onto me." She pats my shoulder in an attempt to calm me. I'm pretty sure she can see the fear all over my face and oozing out of my pores. I hate who I've become since that night. I reluctantly offer a soft, "ok" in agreement and follow her lead. Both of us moving low to the ground.

  Sloan's plan to get us out of the club in one piece includes having us, much to my horror, crawl on all fours to hide behind a huge sound speaker that I pray is unplugged or blown out, so that I'll still have my hearing by the end of the night. In my favorite and only pair of two-hundred dollar jeans, a halter top, and platform heels we start our trek towards the speaker by crawling our way across the gritty, sticky, concrete floor of one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. Or so I've been told.

  Sloan turns her head. "Don't stare at my ass. I'm going on a Paleo diet on Monday."

  I grin at the fact that Sloan is either trying desperately to make me laugh or that she's extremely delusional. There is nothing fat about her ass. I wish I had that ass.

  As we hesitantly creep across the floor of the club, we discover all sorts of disgusting surprises with the palms of our hands. Flattened pieces of chewing gum, small puddles of beer, droplets of wine, bits of paper, grit and dirt. Really gross stuff and somewhat surprising considering where we were, plus it wasn't even that late yet. How can all this crap be on the floor already? I just pray to myself that no one has spit on the floor.

  That would be IT for me.

  "I can't believe this nonsense." Sloan stops crawling for a moment still slightly coughing. "I can't believe I paid a hundred bucks a piece for this."

  Sloan mentioned in the cab ride over that there was a pretty steep cover charge to get inside the semi-exclusive club, but that there were always plenty of attractive men inside to buy us drinks to offset the cost. Her words not mine. She didn't tell me how much the cover charge was, because she was treating me to a night out to cheer me up, plus she makes a lot of money selling some sort of generic version of Viagra to doctors.

  Two hundred bucks for a night out is normal for her, but regardless of that she's right. This is nonsensical. Who pays through the nose for a night out only to end up having to scramble around on the floor like we're in the middle of some drunken frat party?

  I nod my head in agreement and agree with her. "Yep, this is real dumb."

  We finally make it to our destination and crouch behind the gargantuan black sound speaker. Luckily the sound seems to have been cut by the deejay, so I'm relieved that we will at least still have our hearing when this is all over. I decide that it won't hurt to say a little silent prayer to myself, and that God will forgive the fact that it is something that I haven't done in a long while.

  Between the pepper spray burning my eyes, the drinks fogging my brain, and the sounds of pure terror all around me, I'm getting pretty close to losing it. Someone is definitely going to get hurt tonight. I just hope like hell it isn't me. I can't afford another hospital visit.

  As if on cue, in the middle of my "amen," I hear a very clear and distinct set of heavy footsteps advancing towards us. Whoever it is, isn't panicked like the rest of us. He or she (no it was definitely a he) is moving calmly and very deliberately towards our direction.

  I experience a brief moment of alien-like movement in my stomach warning me of something. I'm not sure what. Maybe to be on guard or perhaps to run. Suddenly I feel five very warm, strong, and calloused fingers grasp my upper left arm and pull me up on my feet.

  "Stand up," the deep voice orders with a rumble. His lips just inches away from my ear. His breath smells of peppermint, chocolate and cognac. A yummy mixture. It's familiar. Reminds m
e of Christmas.

  His distinctive voice reverberates throughout my body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, and then settles in as if making a home in between my legs. I'm shocked at my body's reaction and frankly embarrassed. Typically I would never blindly follow the commands of a stranger, but this isn't a usual circumstance I find myself in. So for once I decide not to over think things (like he may be a serial killer) and instead just follow his lead.

  With his hand still firmly clasping my upper arm, he notices that my feet are unsteady and quickly adjusts himself to place his other hand loosely around my middle to balance me as I stand. His massive hand almost spans the entire length of my torso and although my clothing serves as a barrier, to me it feels like I have nothing on. His thumb nearly grazes my breast, which sends my nipples into a hard alert, while his pinky finger comes dangerously close to the waistband of my panties.

  I am so overwhelmed by all the sensations of him touching me, that my body probably feels heavy to him, as I inadvertently sway slightly forward and allow him to bear more of my weight. My heaviness doesn't seem to be an issue though, as he effortlessly guides me upwards onto my feet with one sweeping movement.

  "Easy,” he murmurs softly by my ear.

  Even with all hell breaking loose in the club, that one word, the stranger's raspy voice, and his unforgettable hands are all I can concentrate on. His touch feels personal, careful, and intimate, as if we already know each other or as if we are definitely about to. As he continues to direct me, his commands all of a sudden turn somewhat clipped, almost like he is annoyed with me for some unknown reason.

  "She with you?"

  "Yes."

  "Grab her hand too."

  "Wait I-" I start to protest. His terse tone throwing me off.

  "Grab her,” he orders again.

  As he continues to hold onto me, to help me keep my balance, I reach down to grab Sloan's arms and lift her up with me. "Come on, Sloan."

  "Walk,” is all the stranger says next.

  And we do.

  I trust that he knows where he is going, because I still can't see much. Between the pepper spray up my nose and all the wine that I had earlier, standing up so quickly makes me feel a little light headed. I've been rubbing my eyelids and contact lenses for about ten minutes, but now they are starting to feel like little dry circles of sandpaper scraping against my pupils, so I decide to just pluck them out and toss them as we walk.

  Things will be fuzzy until I get home, but that’s better than the permanent scars I was sure to have on my corneas if I left the little suckers in any longer. It’s actually a really gross thing to do since there isn't enough Purell in the entire state of Pennsylvania to get my hands clean from crawling across the floor of a nightclub, but I just don't really seem to care at this point.

  Without saying another word, we walk for about seventy-seven more steps (yes I count the steps, because I do weird counting things like that when I'm terribly nervous) further into the club and then down a short corridor, until I feel a sharp gust of cool evening air blow on my face. The breeze feels absolutely life affirming. That's when I know that we must be close to an exit. We're actually going to make it out of here. I just hope that we have reached an exit door that we won't get trampled walking through.

  The stranger positions Sloan and I in front of him as we continue to push our way through the door. When two guys dressed in button down shirts and dark slacks walk swiftly towards us and start pushing us roughly from the side, it takes the stranger only several seconds to wrap one of his massive palms around one of the guys throats.

  "Step the fuck back," he growls, and then both of them jump back as high and fast as two high school cheerleaders.

  "Sorry, man,” one of them mumbles.

  We finish elbowing our way out the set of steel double doors in front of us, with the stranger's help of course, and I'm actually wondering why there aren't more people at this exit. I really want to round back and tell some of the people inside about the exit doors over here, but I know that Sloan would try and fight me first, before she would let me go back inside Armageddon. And I'm starting to think this guy wouldn't let me do it either.

  "Don't stop. We're crossing the street,” the deep voice orders while expertly guiding me across the street with his hand ever present on the exposed small curve of my back. The halter top Sloan loaned me gives him easy access, and so with every step I take, my entire body can't help but be laser focused on the spot where his warm hand rests. I don't want to obsess about it, but I can't help it.

  Once the three of us make it to the other side of the street, I bend myself over at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, silently grateful for the crisp midnight air that's seeping up my nostrils and down my throat. Utterly relieved that I made it safe and sound out of another life threatening situation ... again. I must have a guardian angel watching over me or a mischievous one who enjoys tormenting me.

  "Take a few deep breaths but slowly,” the stranger directs both of us while still only touching me. Is he ever going to stop touching my back? It's driving me bat shit crazy.

  Finally I begin to feel some real relief from the burning sensations of the pepper spray, and my skin and eyes start to feel better as well. As I stand to a full stretch with my palms clasped together, inside out and above my head, my lungs delightfully begin to fill again with oxygen and then...

  I freeze.

  4

  Elizabeth

  I THINK I HEAR SLOAN asking me with worry in her voice if I've bumped my head, but she could be speaking Greek to me right now, because at this moment I am face to face with the most intimidating set of beautiful midnight black eyes I have ever seen.

  They are bottomless and they move and dance like dark pools of liquid ink. Once those deep-set eyes lock intently on mine, they render me what could be embarrassingly described as "stuck on stupid," because a million thoughts are racing through my mind (mostly dirty ones), which fortunately for me, I am unable to communicate.

  I can't talk.

  I can't smile.

  I can barely breathe.

  He's wearing a suit jacket, and not just any jacket, but what looks to be a custom tailored, midnight blue, very expensive looking one with a white Henley shirt underneath, dark jeans that fit him like a glove, and a pair of black Doc Martens. I notice part of an intricate, black tattoo that I imagine swirls and trails from God knows where, all the way up to the side of his neck. What's visible to the eye is the very curved tip of the tattoo, teasing me, as it peeps out from the top of the round collar.

  He looks hard and strong, but not steroid beefy, and stands well over six feet tall (my guess is 6'2"), with a broad back and shoulders, a narrow waist and sleek, diamond cut biceps flexing through his suit jacket. He wears his jet black hair in a very short buzz cut and looks like a badass who reluctantly decided to dress up for a night out at the club.

  Still mute; I quietly drink more of him in.

  I am even more drawn to this man's imperfections, because they make him unmistakably beautiful, as well as a lot more interesting than any other man I've ever seen in my life. Most noticeably, the rather wide and deep crescent shaped scar under his left eye, which I decide to create a story about in my head (which I do often) on how I think he managed to acquire it.

  Definitely from a fight. A fight that he won of course, because he looks like he hasn't lost a fight since he was about twelve years old. If even then. Adding to his appeal is his strong angular jaw and a nose that looks like it may have been broken once or twice, sort of like a boxer's or a hockey player's, as well as the one deep dimple in his left cheek.

  One amazing frackin' dimple.

  His magnetic, black sable colored eyes are so deep and intense as they trace the lines of my face, I feel as if I could fall into them and end up somewhere in the land of Oz. He looks weathered, and frightening, and delicious all at the same time. The air seems to have been completely sucked out of the atmosphere, and
I feel like I'm going to throw up, but in a good way–if that's even remotely possible.

  "You all right?" the stranger asks while softly running two of his knuckles along the side of my face.

  I nod my head up and down, speechless from his touch.

  "You okay?" he turns to ask Sloan.

  Sloan looks a little green around the gills but unlike me is able to find her voice.

  "Yes–I just need a minute thank you. You ok, Bitsy?" She asks me with one eyebrow raised. I can tell that she's trying to communicate with her eyes for me to, "get my shit together" in front of this man. This god. This man-god.

  But that's Sloan. Confident and cool under pressure. Even under duress she still manages to look absolutely flawless. With her modern, auburn-dyed pixie cut which pops against her creamy caramel colored skin, God-given size D breasts, and a killer smile; for a moment I'm worried that the stranger is going to realize that he has his hand on the back of the wrong girl. Any given night of the week if we're hanging out, I'm Sloan's "wingman", never the main chick.

  Don't get me wrong, I'm not a slouch by any stretch, but I'm also a realist. I'm attractive, but like most women there are things that I wouldn't mind changing about myself. Like maybe the size of my very wide bell-shaped hips and probably my big hair. Sloan on the other hand doesn't need to change a thing. Heads turn when she enters a room. Men fall all over themselves to buy her a drink. She's Top Model beautiful and typically gets major attention when we hang out.

  So I'm kind of confused as to why the stranger doesn't seem to be as interested in her as most men are. But I guess the bigger question is, why do I even care about this? This is part of what's wrong with me. I worry about all the wrong things sometimes. I should just be happy that I've made it out of Club Lotus alive and with 20/20 vision. Not concern myself with who the man-god is interested in. Hell, my boyfriend just dumped me two seconds ago. I need to stay clear of all men. Especially ones like him.