by Fields, MJ
Slade is the best man I’ve ever known, but something is wrong. All of this between us is just temporary, and sure, I like him more than I should, but the truth is, I’m scared of him. Should I be? He pulled a gun on me, but I was the one who surprised him. I should have known better. I should know that shaking a sleeping man like him would be dangerous … like poking a bear, right? I start to laugh. Something in the back of my mind tells me I’m losing it, but I just shake my head. I had the best night of my life last night, and sure, this morning has been … frightening, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, right? Because he’s fine and I’m fine and all is well. But, no, it’s not well. A gun was pulled on me! Shit. My life doesn’t make sense anymore.
My thoughts are on speed, denial battling with reality, when he casually walks into the kitchen, huge and imposing with spiky wet hair, low-slung black jersey pants, and a white T-shirt showcasing his tats and muscles. The red in his eyes has somewhat cleared, but he looks … hungover. He looks hungover, and we didn’t drink last night. This means … this means nothing; that’s what it means!
Or … it means everything, my psyche reminds me.
Leaning against a wooden cabinet, he pulls out a glass and fills it with ice from the freezer and water from the sink. The coffee I made sits hot in a small carafe. He stares at me, drinking, but no words are spoken.
Pouring the hot coffee into a mug set on the counter, I risk a long glance at the man before me. My first thought is how handsome he is, even with misery written all over his unshaved face.
“Morning,” he croaks.
His first word is mine.
A cigarette moves into his lips. He lights up.
I bring my own coffee to my mouth, needing something to do. He stares, not giving any indication whether or not we’re going to discuss what just happened.
“I’ll take you to your room at the Mile and then drop you off at the Center for work. You’re working today, yeah?” His eyes are now guarded, silently adding, Don’t say a word about it.
I want to ask him, What are you hiding? My inclination though is to smooth it all over with a smile and brush problems under the rug. Not let him feel bad or awkward or push him where he doesn’t want to go. But how can I do that? Something dark is happening with this man, and the fear I feel is real. Am I allowed to discuss it with him, or will I lose him if I do? His good parts are so good. But … this is way beyond the realm of okay.
I hum my assent as he lets out the breath he was holding. We have to talk about this, but I want to think it all over before I speak. I care for Slade more than I have any right to. Still, I don’t want to lose this time we have. I’ve got to just get out of this house as quickly as possible.
“I’m going to grab my stuff?” It’s a comment, but I’m so nervous that it comes out like a question.
He nods, and I scurry into the bedroom, gathering my things like a bandit.
The drive back to the Mile is quiet. He sits and waits in his truck as I run upstairs to the room to wash up and change. I use a shower cap—no time to wash my hair. Dry shampoo will have to be enough. Quick makeup. Black shift dress. A nice pair of black heels. When I come back downstairs and into the parking lot, he’s smoking against his truck. I wait, watching his movements. He looks as though he’s deep in thought, staring at the mountains. When he’s done with the cigarette, he takes out another. How many has he had? I could swear that, each day, his smoking increases. I pull out my phone. Should I tell him I’m getting a ride with Eve? With tentative steps, I walk toward him. It’s just a ride. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.
“Hey.” I wave, making sure he sees and hears me from a decent distance.
He nods, opening my door and throwing the cigarette stub onto the floor, stepping on it. I climb in. Again, the ride is quiet. His strong hand holds the gear, gripping it so firmly that I can see the flexion in his muscular and veiny forearms.
“I’ll come get you from the Center at six to bring you back to the Mile.” His voice is firm and non-negotiable. He’s the warrior right now, in complete control. He pulls up in front of the newly built stucco Center. “The opening of Hook is tonight. I’ll have to work during it, but I’ll pick you up from your room at nine and walk you down.”
I turn to him to reply. I want to tell him that we should take a night off from seeing each other. I want to scream, You pulled a gun on me! What the fuck?
Before I can get a word out, he grabs me and kisses me.
“Baby, I’m sorry.” Kiss. “I won’t ever do it again.” Kiss. “I lost control, but I’ve got this. Just wasn’t used to having a woman by my side.” He tightly holds me as though, with sheer will, he can erase the memory of what I witnessed this morning.
All my words and nerves are swallowed in his mouth, which begs me not to let us end. I find myself pressing inside his chest, simultaneously wanting to run and yet never wanting to let go.
“It’s okay, right? We’re cool?” He’s so soft right now. Warm.
I want to believe him so badly.
I don’t answer because I can’t. I turn mindless from his lips; he erases my dark thoughts with the rhythm of his tongue. The trusting side of me gives in. I want this. I want him. And he’s sorry. That’s enough, right? My chest softens as his kiss deepens and slows. We’re okay, cool, just like he said. I raise my hands, dropping them to the back of his neck. He lets out an audible groan of relief.
I’m here, I tell him with my body language.
He pulls me closer, up into his lap. I open my eyes to see his are shut tightly.
His mouth is at my neck when I see the time flashing on his dashboard.
“I’m late,” I grumble, wishing he’d dragged me into the backseat of his car.
He pulls away with a flushed face. “Later?”
“Yes.” One more closed-mouthed kiss and I open the door to leave.
When I’m at the front of the Center, I turn back, finding him staring at me through the passenger window. My breath stops. From this angle, Slade looks almost white. It’s as though I’m staring at him, but I can see through him as though he were a ghost. A twisted shiver moves through me before I turn myself away, entering the clean building.
At first, I’m still in the post-make-out haze. But, within an hour, the mind fog clears. Hours begin to move in a warped speed, the fear over Slade this morning plaguing me.
When he first opened his bloodshot eyes, my gut told me it was drugs. Drugs! The word zings through my head, but I push it out. I won’t think it or say it because Slade is too smart and too good to get wrapped up in something like that. Right? But, holy shit, he pulled an actual gun on me. Was it loaded? I feel ill.
My throat tightens. Me, a girl who has never even seen a gun before the shooting in Vegas. And I slept next to one all night. This is so fucking bad.
The file of Jane Simble sits on my desk. I need to review it before calling her for a check-in, and I don’t want my personal shit interfering with this job. I read through her history, getting my mind in order. I dial her number, pushing my own emotions back. Eve insisted follow-ups were necessary, and I agree.
Jane answers on the fourth ring, and I put on my happy face.
“Hello, this is Lauren Amini, assistant to Eve Petrov. We’re just checking in to see how you’ve been doing. How are the children?”
She replies, and I listen intently, jotting down notes.
I continue burying my feelings within the work. The load is unimaginable but also incredibly fulfilling. These women need help, and it’s amazing to be able to play a part in their safety and freedom.
After eating a large salad with turkey that Eve picked up, I open the window in my box-filled office. The air is so fresh, almost briny. There’s no ocean here, but somehow, the air feels salty. Even the sky is fresh—clear blue with puffy white clouds. Perfect really.
Eve comes into my room in a pair of straight-leg khaki slacks and a soft white blouse, showing me dress options for the opening of Hook. I v
ote for the tight red one because her boobs will look best in that scooped neckline.
She smiles. “My sister said the same thing when I showed her via FaceTime. You think Vincent will like it?”
“Like it?” I scoff. “The man won’t be able to function!”
She laughs, and I do my best to smile.
All is well! Lauren is always happy! That’s what my face says. It’s what I always say even if my insecurities and fears are currently ravaging my insides.
“I was thinking”—she lifts her pen, clicking the back—“have you considered going back to school for social work?”
“Social work?” I repeat, squinting my eyes.
“Yes. You can help service some of the kids who come in here when their parents aren’t in the right place to care for them. Even if you don’t come back here, I can see you continuing this work back in LA. It suits you.”
I nod. For the first time in countless years, an idea about my career feels right to me. “It’s a great idea actually. You know my dad is still pushing law school—”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she huffs. “Why would you do that? You’ve never wanted to be a lawyer. If you did, you would have done it by now.”
“I know. But it’s what he’s always wanted for me.”
“So?”
“What do you mean, so? You can’t understand. There’s a cultural expectation. I need the advanced degree. And my father has wanted me to follow in his footsteps for so long.” The words sound ridiculous, coming out of my mouth, and I can see the expression on her face is one of incredulity. But it’s the truth nonetheless. “Even Sanam has a master’s in real estate. I’ve got to make something serious of myself, above being a legal secretary. I know it’s good work, but—”
“First of all, you’d be getting a master’s,” she interrupts. “And, if you’re going to spend your time and hard-earned money, do something you actually care about. Otherwise, you’ll be miserable. I see the difference in you here as opposed to back in California. Your work is better, too. And the reason is simple; you like it. I don’t want you to be underneath me here. I want a partner, Lauren. That could be you. Work during the day at Crier and get your degree at night. Or just move here and work with me while you do your degree online. You’re competent and smart. Let’s do this.”
I bite my lip. “Look, I just came here for a break. Let me go home and figure it out.”
She sighs. “And how are you since the shooting? You look good.”
“I am good. Great really. And I’m going to seriously consider the social work thing. I can’t promise I’d move here because I’m just not sure where my life is headed. But school is a good direction.”
“Do that.”
And then she does the unexpected and full-on hugs me. She smells clean and sweet, and I grip her back, loving this new Eve. Back in LA, she was brilliant at her job, but so cold and focused. With her living here and married to the love of her life, it’s as though she’s revived.
Checking my clock, I realize it’s two p.m. Letting go of her, I gather the paperwork for Alicia, a new woman I’m meeting today. I’m going to get down her entire story and organize it, so Eve can then file the necessary paperwork. It’s amazing how we’ve gotten back into our old flow so quickly.
We leave my office together, and I head into the small den where Alicia is already waiting, sitting in one of the cozy floral chairs. Her back is curved and head drooped as though in thought. She hears me enter the room, and her head pops up, on alert. With hair worn in dark, heavy dreadlocks and eyes a sharp black, she silently assesses me. Acne scars and dark spots mar delicate pale skin. She’s not perfect but still beautiful.
“Hi, Alicia. I’m Lauren. Do you want any water or coffee or tea before we start?”
She nervously looks me up and down, and I remember Eve’s warning to look soft, calm, and gentle. Setting my hair back in a clip, I smile.
“Yeah, sure. Coffee’s good.” Dark circles mar her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept in weeks.
I place the notepads on the table and step out of the office, letting out a breath. This woman needs help, and it’s written all over her face. Pouring the coffee in a pink mug and grabbing a few servings of creamer, I step back into the room.
I place the coffee in front of her, explaining what it is I’ll need today.
“Well, I’m here because … I’m afraid for myself and my kid.”
“You’re in the right place.” I sit forward and pick up the large yellow pad, wanting her to know from my body language that I’m listening and taking her seriously. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re afraid?”
“It didn’t start too bad. He’s always had a temper, but I figured, high-stress life and all that. But the rage has gotten worse over time. Sometimes, we’d be talking and all was well, and then boom!” she yells.
I grip the arms of my chair.
“It’s like the man I knew became someone else. After six months or so, the lows with us got lower, and the highs got lower, too.”
“I see.” With a shaking hand, I start scribbling some notes. “Did you keep a log or journal of when these incidents occurred? Any photographs perhaps of physical assault?”
“Yes.” Opening her oversize black purse, she pulls out wrinkled papers, handing them to me in a heap. “Sorry it’s not organized. I hid them under some stuff in my underwear drawer. But a lot is there.”
“No, this is great.” Opening the first sheet, I see a date for three years ago. Photos, too.
“You see, I love him. He’s a good man. A great man. Fought for this country. But”—she pauses—“he’s dangerous.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly drier than dry. “And you have children with him?”
“We have a son.” She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I was pregnant again last May. But he came home in a dark mood. I asked him a question, something stupid”—she chuckles—“like, ‘How’s your headache?’ because I knew that he had taken a few Tylenol that morning. And he flew off the rails.”
I swallow hard, moving the pen to keep myself focused, although my hands are shaking uncontrollably. My handwriting has turned illegible.
“And he—he threw me. Against the table, stomach first.”
Bile rises.
“It wasn’t always like this,” she says in a rush, eyes wide as though she’s ready to defend him. “He’s an incredible man. So loving. No one takes care of me like he does. I don’t want to run like this, but my life is … it’s gotten out of control. He’s so possessive. It used to be flattering really. He’d pick me up and drop me off. He’d always come to check on me. But then it became … crazy, like he’d just show up at my work to watch me and send his friends to check on me, and I can’t live like this.” The tears drip down her face. “I want a life. A new life. I know it might be impossible to leave, but I have to try. And Devon”—she visibly shakes—“I can’t have him near his father. I can’t. Even if he’s never laid a hand on Devon, I don’t want his influence, and I don’t want Devon paying for his father’s sins. In our world, there’s always payment.”
I shake my head, trying not to emotionally crumble from her charged words. “I hear you. And we’re going to take every step we can to keep you safe.”
I take her hand, and she looks up, eyes filled with water.
“But, if he knows I’m staying here,” she continues, “he’s going to look for me. For his son. He won’t let us go without a fight. He told me to come over and bring Devon to him. I texted him to get out of it. Said I was going to visit my sister on the outskirts of Vegas. But my sister doesn’t live in Vegas anymore. She used to dance, but then she married Jacob, and he made her quit and move to Utah. But Marcus doesn’t know. Not yet at least.” She raises a skinny arm, staring at a thin black watch on her wrist. “And he’s already threatened me. He knows I want to go …”
“Listen, I know it feels like you’re the only one, but you’re not. Eve Petrov runs this pla
ce. And she has helped so many women just like you escape abuse. You have to trust in her. The rooms are clean and fresh. You and Devon will be safe here. There’s security, too.” I quickly jot down a note that we’ll need increased security for Alicia and her son.
“What about school for Devon? He’s in first grade.”
“Once we file the paperwork, his current school will be notified that he is not allowed to be picked up by anyone other than you.”
“How quickly can that be done?”
“Very quickly. Eve has connections at the courthouse. She’ll handle it today.”
“But Marcus, he’s not your average bad guy. There’s something else you need to know.” Her face darkens.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice a strangled whisper.
“He’s a biker. His road name’s Lion, and he’s president of the Death Crusade, MC. Most of the brothers in the club are veterans. They’re good at tracking. They’ll find me.”
We both pause, but before my silence can be construed as fear, I tell her, “You’ll be safe here. Trust me.”
“He’ll kill me and take my son. He wasn’t always like this—”
“We’re going to set you up and make sure we do what we need to ensure your safety and your son’s. Give me a few minutes to sort all of this, and I’ll be back. Do you want another coffee?”
She shakes her head, crying into her knuckles, and I step out.
Locking myself in my office, I lean against the door. The parallels. I feel them. Is this Slade? Is this what I’m doing, too? Slade has a temper and a dark side. Slade is erratic. Dangerous even.
“No,” I say out loud.
I’m totally fine, and Slade is nothing like this biker, Lion. Absolutely not the same man.
Oh God.
Reentering the room, I bring my focus back to the task at hand, separating myself from this woman, who is not me, nothing like me, and Lion is nothing like Slade, and I handle her situation like the strong woman I am.
When Slade comes to pick me up from work, I find him hanging out on a park bench, smoking a cigarette. When he spots me, I give him a small wave, and he runs over, fiercely hugging me. I’m so emotional. Relieved to see him, angry that he is back here to pick me up. I remind myself that I’m not Alicia, but then again, what if I am? What if I’m just like her, and Slade is just like Lion?
