Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  “I’LL KILL YOU. I’LL BLUIDY MURDER YOU!”

  “I think that one is meant for you,” I say calmly.

  The cabbie looks behind to see Gavin running full speed toward us. He’s clothed in only a pair of black boxer briefs, but he outweighs the driver by about a hundred pounds of muscle. His obvious strength is a threat in itself.

  The cabbie lets go of my arm and hightails it to his door. As soon as he presses the unlock button on the keyless remote, three times more than required, I jump into the passenger seat before he can leave without me.

  Swearing in earnest, the cabbie zooms out of the lot, narrowly missing Gavin as he makes it to the gas station. We swerve by him so closely that I’m able to catch his expression, and it’s not pretty. If Gavin was livid last night when I spilled alcohol in his lap, he’s enraged now.

  I hope I never see the man again.

  “Where have you been? What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call me? Are you OK?”

  Meagan’s voice is carrying through the phone. The cabbie eyes me nervously, repeatedly glancing in the rearview mirror for a tail that doesn’t exist. It’s not like Gavin can catch us on foot. Of course, if he owns a vehicle, there’s no guarantee we’ll escape.

  “Meagan, I’m fine. Everything is fine.” If fine means everything is going to Hell.

  “Good. But you suck, you know that? You totally suck.”

  “That’s fair. Look, will you meet me at Java on Stumberg?”

  As soon as I ask, I realize that won’t work. It’s only 8:45. She probably hasn’t left the blood drive yet, and then there’s still the duchess.

  “After your volunteer thing and hair appointment I mean,” I amend quickly.

  “Volunteer thing and haircut? Natalie, I left the blood drive early, and I canceled that appointment.”

  “But that’s going to look bad . . . and the duchess. No one cancels on the duchess. That’s your best client!”

  “But you’re my best friend. Did you think that I’d choose some résumé fluffing and a good tip over you?”

  The shame rises higher. What I‘ve done is irresponsible, and it hurt my best friend.

  “No,” I admit. “I’m so sorry, Meg.”

  “You should be,” she says quietly, though surprisingly, without judgment or even anger. She takes a deep, huffing breath, then, “I’ll meet you at Java in about twenty minutes. You’re buying.”

  “I’m about a half hour away, but I’ll be there.”

  We hang up just as a car honks in the right lane, causing the cabbie to swerve out of the middle lane and into the left lane. Luckily, the left lane is unoccupied.

  “Get a grip, man!” I yell.

  I have a headache. My fingers press into my forehead in hopes of relieving the pressure. It’s not working. Maybe Meg will brew some of that nursey herbal tea stuff she swears by constantly.

  “Who was that guy? He threatened to kill me! What are you caught up in? Is he your pimp?” he shoots out rapid fire.

  His eyes are everywhere, trying to see everything. He lights a cigarette, but after one draw tosses it out the window, eyeing me, then the windshield, on some sort of timetable of which only he’s aware.

  You know what? At this point, why try to defend myself? This guy has already formed his opinion of me.

  “Yeah, what of it? You scared of Romeo? You should be! He’ll track you down fa sure, cuz nobody ain’t gonna hit his woman but him. It ain’t my problem though. You shoulda learnt from your mam not to hit a woman.”

  “But you can tell him, can’t you? I didn’t hit you. I don’t hit women!”

  Ha! He’s squirming now. Serves him right for threatening a lady.

  “Romeo ain’t gonna listen to me. I’m nuttin’ to him. You messed up big time. BIG time.”

  The fact that I’ve transitioned from the normal vernacular I used when I first talked to the cabbie at the gas station and later when I talked to Meagan on the phone, to a Yonkers’ accent full of slang seems to evade the cabbie’s notice. He’s a little on the slow side in everything but his driving it seems.

  “This isn’t worth the fare. I’m adding double! Just for the trouble, I’m adding double.”

  Ahh, a rapping cabbie. How novel.

  “Don’t make me call the cab service and report you,” I say in my normal speaking voice.

  Again, the driver doesn’t seem to catch the difference.

  He mutters under his breath for the rest of the drive, while checking for a tail. When we get to It’s all Java, I take pity on him and tip him, despite his crappy service. He was fast, I can give him that much. The drive should have taken twenty-five minutes; we got here in eighteen. That’s pretty impressive when I think about it.

  I choose a little round table toward the side window. The sun is out and shining brightly this morning, and I want to enjoy the warmth. I love sitting in these little cafés. It’s All Java still offers a dine in service along with their quick, drive-through option. Light, acoustic music floats through the inviting, little shop. Baristas blend, steam, and pour, and the hiss of the machines is pleasant background noise.

  The tables are all different colors and patterns, adding to the small town, eclectic feel. The table at which I sit has a blue and gray chevron pattern painted on it.

  For once, I’m earlier than Meagan; that never happens. I wish I had stopped by the apartment to change first, because I still look a mess. I wish it even more when Meagan walks through the door. She’s wearing a blood drive tee shirt and a pair of mint green scrub pants. The tee shirt features a smiling, little blood drop saying, “You’re just my type!” The blood drop is wearing a backward baseball cap with the different blood types printed on it to drive the joke home. Her hair is perfectly straightened, and her navy eyeliner brings out her bright blue eyes.

  In comparison, I know I look like the victim of a horror movie filmed in the woods. She rushes to my side and pulls me out of my chair for a hug. Then she pulls back and slaps my arm.

  “I was worried sick about you! And is that the outfit from yesterday? You’re wearing the walk of shame outfit! And you still have on his shirt!”

  “I know, I know; it’s shameful. But in my defense, I couldn’t find my dress.”

  I liked that dress too. For some odd reason, the thought of losing the little boutique find has tears creeping up; my nose twitching in warning.

  “I have your dress, Natalie.”

  “Oh.” I breathe out the word, lost as to what to do now. I’ve never done this kind of thing before, and I still can’t believe I’ve done it now. I’m twenty-three years old, far too old to start sleeping my way through bars.

  “Are you OK?” she asks.

  “I’m fine,” I answer.

  Meagan doesn’t seem to believe me. She calls a barista over and orders a Chai Tea, while I go for a Caramel Macchiato, with a double shot of espresso.

  “Better add a chocolate chip, banana muffin,” Meagan tells the waitress, eyeing me worriedly.

  “I’m fine,” I say it again.

  I don’t believe it any more the second time than I did the first.

  “Of course you are, but a muffin won’t hurt.”

  No, it might even help. Although, I doubt a muffin can remedy what I’ve done.

  Once we’re both sipping from a steaming mug and the muffin is sitting on a little plate between us, I settle down for the interrogation I know is coming. She makes me wait for it, and I end up tearing off little pieces of muffin from my half as my anxiety grows.

  “Here.”

  The waitress is back, eyeing my fingers with distaste and extending a fork. She hands another fork to Meagan and then is off once again. I resort to carving the imprint of the fork’s tines into the muffin top.

  “Just take a bite, and then tell me what happened.”

  I obey, and the muffin does make it easier. It’s warm and moist, and the chocolate chips melt in my mouth with a wonderful burst of flavor. I take three bites, ravenous, and th
en square my shoulders for the interrogation to come.

  “Well?” Meagan asks expectantly.

  “After you left, we danced some more, and I think we drank some more . . . I’m not sure. I know I had every intention of hitching a ride with Josh, but it just felt natural to get in the cab with Gavin.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t drive while intoxicated.”

  “I know better than that.”

  Of course, it’s not a good thing to mention right now, because I also know better than to sleep with strangers. Thankfully, she’s a good enough friend not to point that out.

  A few more bites of muffin and I’m starting to venture into Meagan’s half. We’re now to the hard part, the personal part—the part I think I regret.

  “I slept with him!” I blurt out. My mouth is still full as I shape the words, causing a muffin crumb to fall to the table in front of me.

  “I figured as much.”

  Calm acceptance. That’s just what I need right now, because I’m feeling anything but calm.

  “I woke up so hung-over I didn’t even remember what I’d done. The clothes were everywhere. I couldn’t remember his name and it was horrifying! Then it all started to come back in flashes and pieces and I was sick to my stomach, but I wanted to get out before Gavin woke up and I had to face him.”

  “Please tell me you used protection.”

  “I did. We did. But that doesn’t mean I’m safe; I know that. I don’t know why I did it.”

  “I don’t either! I’ve been calling your phone over and over and over. I called Josh, I called the bar, and I ran out of people to call! I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was thinking I was going to have to check local hospitals next.”

  Each word makes me feel that much guiltier about what I did and how I went about it.

  “But I guess I won’t yell at you; you’ve been punished enough. Although we’re going to have to get you tested, just to be safe,” Meagan finishes, sliding her mostly uneaten half of the muffin toward me.

  “I owe you one.”

  “You’re right; you do. So next month’s blood drive you’ll be standing next to me handing out orange juice and sugar cookies.”

  “Promise.”

  Chapter Five

  ~ Two Months Later ~

  I’ve paid my debt and more.

  “Does this count as community service?” a tattooed woman asks.

  “Mam, I’m not sure. You’ll have to talk to one of the organizers,” I explain.

  This is my fourth blood drive in just two months. I’m about done with the whole institution.

  This institution saves Papa.

  The thought soothes my ragged nerves a little.

  “Well, I don’t want them taking my blood for nothing. Don’t they pay for this stuff?”

  “This is a free, volunteer event.”

  And really, why didn’t she ask before she let them draw her blood. It’s a little late to demand payment after they’ve already received your donation. What an idiot.

  She might be the one to help Papa.

  I’m about to lose it, and I don’t know how much longer the thought of my papa will prevent the loss of control.

  “Well, that’s just ridiculous, and these cookies are nasty.”

  Despite her words, the woman takes another bite of her cookie.

  A teenager with the right side of her hair dyed purple, and the left side dyed black, taps my shoulder.

  “Is this orange juice organic?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply.

  She taps her foot impatiently, but I turn away. I’m not in mood to deal with all of this. I’ve been feeling nauseous for days now, a headache is fast approaching, and I’m ready for the pizza Meagan promised me.

  “Well, can you check? I can’t drink from tortured oranges.”

  Oh, my God.

  “Look, you tree hugging crazy! The oranges were gently plucked from their home, lovingly bathed in preservatives, and then carefully massaged until they burst their juice into a one hundred percent recycled plant container. Yet, here their remains still sit, about to be devoured and digested. How’s that for torture?”

  The girl gasps in outrage and stares at the juice in her plastic cup. Why she’s worried about the oranges when she’s drinking out of a plastic cup, I have no idea. Clenching my fists, I contemplate fabricating statistics about plastic killing dolphins and suffocating oranges to horrify the girl, but I’m interrupted in my thoughts.

  “Do you have orange juice without pulp? Pulp makes me gag,” this from a thin little man wearing an argyle sweater and purple chinos.

  Before I can answer that one, Meagan interrupts me with, “No, all of our orange juice contains a small amount of pulp; however, we have lemonade as an alternative. Thank you for your contribution, and come again!”

  She grabs my arm and pulls me to the side. Another volunteer steps up to take my place serving. I’d say the shift change is just in time, because an overweight man is now leaning against the edge of the refreshment table with his shirttail folded up in a pocket to sweep cookies into.

  “What’s your issue?” Meagan asks as soon as we’re out of earshot.

  “Meagan, surely you can see that I’ve been more than patient with these people.”

  “No, not really. You know better than most how these blood drives save lives. These people, as annoying as they may be, could be the difference between life and death for someone.”

  Guilt wars with my nausea, but as good a point as Meagan makes, the nausea is winning. I clutch my stomach and struggle to push back the urge. It’s hard to do when the overweight man tromps right by us to exit the building. He’s chewing multiple cookies openmouthed, and the sight is one with which my stomach is not comfortable.

  My groan does not go unnoticed.

  “Are you sick? Sit down.”

  That quickly, Meagan has transformed from mom mode to nurse mode.

  “I’m fine, Meg,” I try to say; instead I vomit the words all over the pristine white floor, while the two-toned hair girl screams.

  “Ewwww. Is she contagious?” Mr. Argyle asks.

  “I’m feeling faint now. I need to see a doctor! I think my needle was compromised,” the tattooed lady chimes in.

  On that note, I heave up the rest of my breakfast.

  “Come on, easy does it.”

  Meagan’s small hands are cool against my skin as she pulls me upright. The volunteer that took my place attempts to regain order, but Meagan pulls me out of the little clinic room and into the lobby of the hospital before I can see how well that attempt goes over. I have a feeling it won’t work, but that’s just based on the day so far.

  “How long have you felt poorly? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It comes and goes.”

  Some sort of realization seems to click for her because her expression settles into a grim frown, but she doesn’t say anything else as she takes me to the hospital’s medical plaza.

  “What?” I ask.

  What am I missing? It feels like I should be able to piece this together, but for some reason, logic is elusive right now. I sense that whatever it is, I may not want to know.

  Once we reach the lab, that thought is reinforced when Meagan sits beside me and puts her arm around my shoulders. We’re not the touchy feely type. We don’t hold hands and giggle when we go to the mall, we don’t apply each other’s mascara, go to the bathroom together, or any of those other weird stereotypical girlfriend things that I’ve seen in movies.

  After about a minute, my stomach settles enough that I don’t feel the need to cup my hands over it to hold it in place anymore. A shaky breath eases out, then two, before Meagan leaves me to approach the front desk and whisper to the nurse. The nurse eyes me, and then nods.

  The next couple of hours are uncomfortable at best, and miserable at worst. I give a sample of my blood and urine, and allow my temperature and vitals to be taken by the nurse practitioner. Meagan has a bit of clout because she
works with these people during clinicals, and she’s always been quick to accumulate friends, much more so than I am.

  I know it’s bad when the NP walks back into the exam room and has a huge grin on his face. His lips part and the beginning of a hard C sound emerges. I put a quick stop to that by lifting a hand, palm out. The nausea is back.

  “I’ve got this,” Meagan says from beside me.

  Her arm is back around my shoulder.

  The NP glances from me to Meagan, then back again. He seems to realize the logistics of the situation.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and explain your results? Are you voluntarily—”

  “She’s not a regular patient, Micah. No one is going to sue you for leaving. I think we all know what’s going on here.”

  Meagan sounds angry. For me, or at me?

  He looks like he’s about to argue, but he stops when a sob escapes from me. I hunch lower on the table. As long as he doesn’t say it, it won’t be real.

  This can’t be real. Please, don’t let it be real.

  The door makes a soft metallic noise as he shuts it behind him. I kick my feet against the stool beneath the exam table. From outside the little exam room I can hear the doctors and nurses laughing and joking. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, disrupting our quiet in measured pulses.

  Meagan seems determined that she won’t be the one to break the silence, so I take a leap and speak first.

  “How accurate are blood tests?” I ask.

  “After this much time has passed? Over ninety-nine percent.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s no one else that I don’t know about . . . ”

  “No! Just him.”

  Her fingers pat my shoulder, then her hand drops. She hops up on the exam table beside me.

  “That isn’t very sanitary,” I say, not thinking through my words.

  I just would rather say anything other than the still unspoken truth.

  I don’t even know how to spell his last name.

  “Natalie. You’re p—”

  “Don’t say it!”