by Tiffany Snow
“I'm fine,” I said, my voice a little too weak for my liking. The cop nodded and stepped past us toward the prone and now groaning mugger lying on the ground.
“Hey! That's Blane Kirk!” The words came from one of the photographers and seemed to ignite a frenzy of flashbulbs.
Turning me gently towards his chest, Blane hid my face from the cameras as we moved forward through the photographers and small crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Flashes continued to go off and I didn't know how Blane wasn't blinded by them. When we reached the street, he let out a piercing whistle and a passing taxi pulled to a stop.
He opened the door, eased me inside, and carefully shut it. Leaning into the open driver's window, he spoke to the cabbie.
“Take her home and help her inside.” I saw him give the driver several bills before he turned to speak to me.
“I'll handle the cops and press,” he said. “I'll come by when I'm through.”
I nodded silently, grateful to be going home. The adrenaline was wearing off and my body was forcefully reminding me of the abuse I'd just endured.
With one last searching gaze, Blane backed away. The driver pulled into the street and I turned in my seat to look out the back window. Blane stood watching until I was out of sight. Flashbulbs brightly illuminated his torn white shirt and body every few seconds, the silence of the scene from the confines of the cab making it appear eerie as they bathed Blane with their cold glare.
Chapter Two
The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only the pain of my injuries in its place. I sniffed, scrubbing a hand across the tears on my cheek.
“Are you ok-k-kay?”
I looked up, focusing on the driver who was taking quick glances in his rear view mirror at me while watching the road.
Clearing my throat, I said hoarsely, “Yeah, I'm fine.”
“I c-c-c-can t-take you to a-a hos-hospital,” he insisted, a very pronounced stutter making it difficult to understand him.
“No, really, I'll be fine,” I replied. “I just want to go home.” My dress was stained and torn, my entire body ached, I had a massive headache throbbing in my temple from where I'd hit the sidewalk, and on top of all that, my feet hurt.
He still seemed uncertain, his expression anxious as he watched me, but didn't press the issue.
I was touched that he was concerned; it seemed genuinely nice people grew harder and harder to find with each passing day. “What's your name?” I asked.
“F-Frankie,” he answered.
I forced a smile though my face ached with the effort. “Nice to meet you, Frankie. I'm Kathleen.”
“Nice t-t-to m-meet you, t-t-too,” he stuttered back.
With a tired sigh, I laid my head back on the seat and the few miles to my apartment passed in silence.
When he parked, Frankie jumped out of the car and opened my door. I eased out of the taxi gingerly, wincing at the pain in my abdomen as I unfolded myself from its confines. I clutched Blane's jacket to me, shivering as the icy wind blew my hair into my face. The pretty up-do I'd done earlier was nowhere to be seen, the thick strands having fallen free from their pins. I sighed, feeling a little like Cinderella after the ball, except Cinderella never got beat up.
I headed for the stairs and had taken two steps up them before I realized Frankie was following me. I stopped and turned. “You don't have to come with me,” I said.
He shook his head adamantly. “The man s-s-said t-to help.”
I was too tired to argue, much less in the freezing cold. Grimacing, I clutched the stair railing and climbed the flight of stairs to the top floor. I fumbled in my purse for my keys, opened the door, and collapsed gracelessly on the couch. I didn't think I'd ever been so grateful to be home.
Tigger, my marmalade colored cat who thought himself more human than feline, jumped on my lap. Absentmindedly, I stroked his soft fur, his purring making his body vibrate under my fingers.
Frankie fumbled for a minute before locating the light switch and flipping it on. I squinted in the sudden brightness. It was my first good look at Frankie and I was surprised at how young he appeared to be. Tall but lanky, his hair and eyes were both a nondescript brown, his features plain but not unattractive. Frankie shifted uneasily at my scrutiny.
“You n-need s-s-some ice,” he said, gesturing jerkily to my face.
I lifted my hand to my cheek, realizing it was slightly swollen and bleeding from scraping the asphalt. Before I could say anything, Frankie had hurried into the kitchen. It took him a while and I wondered if I’d have to help, but finally he was back and handed me a small bundle of ice wrapped in paper towels.
“Thanks,” I said, pressing it to the side of my face. It eased the pain.
Frankie shifted from foot to foot as he watched me, shoving his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. He wore a t-shirt and thin jacket, his shoes well-worn sneakers. He reminded me of a lost puppy and I wondered about his family.
“How old are you, Frankie?” I asked.
“Twenty,” he answered obediently.
“Do you live with your family?”
He shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said flatly.
His answer didn't invite more questions so I was at a loss as to what to say when he suddenly blurted, “You l-look l-l-like my little s-sis-sister.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I do?”
“C-chrissy,” he said. “I t-t-take c-care of her.”
“By yourself?” I couldn't imagine him taking care of anyone – he barely seemed capable of taking care of himself. I tried not to think unkindly, but Frankie didn't seem to be very bright. Eager and kind, but not too smart.
He nodded. “She's f-f-fifteen.”
Good lord, he was a child taking care of another child and apparently made a dubious living as a taxi driver in Indy. My chest tightened in sympathy as I imagined them trying to get by on that salary. Painfully rising from my couch, I went into my kitchen and dug inside my cookie jar. When I returned, I handed Frankie a small wad of money.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” I said.
Frankie took the money, glancing uncertainly back up at me. “B-but that man p-p-paid,” he protested.
“Well, I'm paying, too,” I said firmly. “Take care of your sister, okay, Frankie?”
He nodded, but made no move to leave. He opened his mouth to try and speak, but his stuttering had grown worse and he couldn't seem to get out a sentence. It seemed to really distress him and I chewed my lip in sympathy, waiting. Finally, he was able to be coherent enough for me to understand.
“Th-th-that man,” he stuttered anxiously, “d-d-did he d-do that t-t-to you?” He pointed to my face.
That man? It took me a second to figure out that he meant Blane. “No,” I denied, shaking my head for emphasis. “I was being mugged. That man rescued me. He'd never hurt me.” Again, I was touched at his concern. It seemed, like Blane, Frankie's protective instincts ran strong.
Frankie nodded in acknowledgement, breathing hard from the exertion of getting that last sentence out, and didn't bother trying to speak again. Impulsively, I gave him a hug.
“Thanks again,” I said warmly. He awkwardly patted my back before leaving. I shut and locked the door behind him and wearily headed to the bathroom for a shower, dropping my ruined dress carelessly on the bathroom floor. Usually I was a pretty tidy, but I was too tired to care.
I slipped on an old t-shirt and curled up on my couch with a blanket and Tigger, grabbing the remote and flipping on the news. Both the couch and television reminded of Blane, since he had purchased them. When my apartment and belongings had been trashed several weeks ago, Blane had taken it upon himself to be my benefactor. He'd completely refurnished my apartment, right down to the underwear in my bureau drawers.
I watched the news with half my attention, the other half listening for a knock on the door that would signify Blane's arrival. I hoped he hadn't had a bad time with the cops, or the press. I had never seen p
hotographers descend on Blane like that before, though I knew he was often in the paper. It had been rather disconcerting, though Blane had handled it like he was used to it, which I supposed he was.
My attention was suddenly caught by the news anchor and I realized he'd said Blane's name.
“...Blane Kirk, a local lawyer now turned local hero, saved a young woman from being mugged this evening in downtown Indianapolis,” he intoned seriously. “Authorities have not revealed the identity of the woman, only that she was not seriously injured, thanks to the timely rescue by Mr. Kirk.”
I watched avidly as footage played of Blane and me walking out of the alley. My face couldn't be seen clearly, since he'd had the foresight to turn me towards him. I watched as the cameras filmed him putting me in the taxi, before abruptly cutting away.
“What made you decide to attempt something as dangerous as stopping a mugging?” a reporter asked, shoving a microphone into Blane's face.
“People should be safe on the streets of our city,” Blane replied.
“Did you know the woman you rescued?” someone else asked.
“A fellow attendee this evening,” Blane answered, which was true, though I noticed he wasn’t really answering the question.
“Blane Kirk is the defense attorney defending Kyle Waters, Navy SEAL currently embroiled in a wrongful death suit here in Indianapolis. Of course, Mr. Kirk is a fellow ex-Navy SEAL himself, tonight putting his life on the line to rescue a woman he didn't even know. Now that's a hometown hero for you. And now for the weather.”
I flipped the TV off, the last image of Blane standing, calm and collected despite his torn shirt and bloodied lip, as he answered the reporters' question, burned into my retina. Now that the reporter gave more information about the Waters' trial, I realized I had peripherally heard about this on the news the past few weeks. I hadn't paid much attention. Terms like “Rules of Engagement” and “Enemy Combatants” sounded as foreign as the cities they spoke of in Iraq, but now I realized this was a big deal. Huge. And Blane hadn't breathed a word. Had he expected me to know? No doubt everyone else at the firm probably knew about this case. Did he think I was an idiot blonde by not realizing the significance?
I watched the clock, my heart sinking a little more with each passing hour. What was taking him so long? A tiny part of me wondered if he was with Kandi. She'd certainly seemed eager to resume their relationship.
Finally, a little after one, I gave up on Blane and climbed off the couch. My side ached where the mugger had kicked me so I grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer, tossing the melted mess Frankie had sweetly made for me into the trash. I wondered if I should use a heating pad instead – I could never remember when I was supposed to use heat and when to use cold.
I curled up in bed, pulling the covers to my chin, and wondered how a day that had started so promising had turned to crap so quickly. My mind was filled with things I didn't know about Blane, things he hadn't told me - the important case he was working on, his plans to run for Governor, his relation to Senator Keaston and his history with Kandi.
I fell asleep with all these things spinning through my mind.
I woke suddenly, not knowing why. It was the dead of night and I lay still in my bed, listening. I went to sit up then fell back down, moaning as the aches and bruises in my stomach and back made themselves forcefully known.
“Don't get up. I didn't mean to wake you.”
I jerked upright, ignoring the sharp stab of pain, before realizing it was Blane sitting down next to me on the bed. The familiar feel of him, smell of him, surrounded me. I breathed easier, just now realizing how on edge I'd been, even asleep, without him here. I made myself be still and not throw myself into his arms, though, not knowing how he was feeling.
“What time is it?” I whispered, unwilling to disturb the quiet in the warm silence of the night.
“A little after three,” he said, his voice low as well. “I'm sorry it took so long. I didn't mean to wake you.”
“It's been a hell of a night,” I said dryly. “You could've gone home. I wouldn't have minded.” He'd beat the snot out of a mugger and had taken a few hits himself. He had to be tired.
He didn't answer immediately. The light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the window, casting his face into light and shadow as he studied me. Fingers lightly traced my scraped cheek. I shivered, unable to look away from his gaze which seemed to see through me.
“I had to see you. Touch you. Know you were all right,” he finally rasped.
I swallowed. “I am. Thanks to you.”
His brow creased slightly, almost as if what I'd said pained him, then he kissed me. It was the lightest of touches, tender and sweet. His hand threaded through my hair to cradle the back of my head. I tentatively brought my hands to his shoulders and leaned into him.
When he broke off the kiss, I expected him to pull away. Instead, he drew me close and wrapped his arms around me. I rested my head against his chest with a sigh.
“Saw you on the news,” I mumbled.
“Did you?” he asked, but he didn't sound surprised.
“Yeah.” I didn't stop to think before I blurted, “You didn’t tell them I was your girlfriend.”
“Of course I didn't,” he said dryly. “I don't want reporters camped outside your door.”
“Oh.” I hadn't thought of that. “How'd they find you anyway?” I asked. “And the cops?”
“Someone heard you scream,” he explained. “They called the cops. The photographers were just ones that heard about it on the scanner. Reporters are notoriously nosey, you know.”
I nodded like I knew all about reporters.
“No more questions?” he asked more gently.
“Well, it just took you a long time to get here,” I finally said, wincing at the pout in my voice. “I thought maybe you were...catching up...with friends...or something.” Again, the words bypassed my brain on the way out my mouth.
Blane went still for a moment, thinking, before he saw through me. “You mean Kandi,” he said flatly.
I was glad he couldn't see my face since I could feel my skin heat in embarrassment. A part of me could not believe I was acting out the cliché role of jealous girlfriend, especially after the events of tonight, but I couldn't make the little voice inside my head shut up, so I went into denial mode.
“No, of course not,” I stammered in protest, pulling away from him. “I meant...you know...the Senator...and his wife,” I finished. His eyes glittered in the shadows as he watched me squirm.
“Is that why you left?” he asked. “Because I was dancing with her?” His voice had taken on that flat edge which made me nervous. When I didn't answer, his fingers lightly grasped my chin and lifted it so our eyes met. I cringed at the anger I saw there.
“It was unavoidable,” he explained tightly, “and meant nothing. I would have told you that if you'd asked, rather than leaving and nearly getting yourself killed.”
“Sometimes I can be a little...spontaneous,” I weakly defended myself, relieved to hear that the dance hadn't been something more. I told the little voice in my head to shut the hell up. I held my breath as I waited to see what he'd do, then relaxed when his lips finally twitched in an almost smile.
“Impetuous, you mean,” he said dryly.
“Perhaps,” I agreed without malice. “Am I forgiven?” I cuddled back into the warmth of his arms which came up automatically to wrap around my waist and pull me onto his lap. Pressing my nose into the crook of his neck, I inhaled, the remnants of his cologne still lingered on his skin. His hand rose to cup my breast, his thumb brushing against the nipple through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. My body tightened in response, already conditioned to his touch.
“You owe me,” he said, his voice rougher now. “And don't think I won't collect once you're feeling better.”
I shivered at the promise and threat in his voice. “You know, for a knight in shining armor, you're not very gallant,” I teased.
>
“Knights are overrated,” he replied, picking me off his lap and putting me back down on the pillows. He straightened and I sat up again as well, reaching for his hand. His warm, callused fingers engulfed mine.
“Stay tonight?” I asked. We didn't make a habit of staying over at each other's places. I guess I was still a bit old-fashioned in some ways, but I felt he should have his home and I should have mine. However, tonight I wanted him here.
“Of course,” he said, placing a kiss on the top of my head before gently pushing me back down on the mattress. I watched as he stood and stripped off his stained shirt and slacks before sliding into bed with me. He pulled me back toward him spoon-fashion, draping an arm over my waist. I threaded my fingers through his and sighed contentedly.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked, his warm breath brushing my ear. “He didn't hurt you badly, did he?”
I shook my head. “I'm fine. A little sore, that's all.”
His grip tightened on my hand, but he didn't say anything else. My mind drifted and I sleepily wondered if this was what it would be like to be married. I immediately scolded myself for even thinking such a thing - we'd only been dating for a short while. Fact was though that I really liked having someone to be with, someone to talk to about my day, someone to hold me at night. I don't think I'd realized how lonely I'd been before Blane.
It had really meant something to me to have people to spend Thanksgiving with this year. Usually, I just heated up a TV dinner and watched the Macy's parade. This year, Blane's housekeeper, Mona, who had also been Blane's nanny growing up, had made a fancy turkey with all the trimmings. Although it had just been Mona, her husband Gerard, Blane and myself, it had been homey and nice. Remembering it put a smile on my face.
When I woke, Blane was no longer in bed with me. I stretched, hearing the sounds of the shower running. I winced at a few aches and pains, but overall I felt better than I had last night. Rolling out of bed, I shivered in the cold air and quickly pulled on a pair of sweats, shoving my feet into hot pink fuzzy slippers. Stopping to glance in the mirror, I grimaced at the livid purple and blue bruise on my cheek. The scrape on my cheekbone had scabbed over as well. Lovely.
