Woman Named Red

by Stasia Black

  I scrub at my forearms with soap in the back kitchen after I’m finally finished with the bathrooms. It’s my third round of washing with water so hot there’s steam rising from the sink. But Christ, when I get home, I’m burning everything I’m wearing and will turn the shower to scalding to get rid of the filth I feel coating my whole body.

  I turn off the sink faucet with my forearm. But fuck if I feel like any of the towels around here are actually clean. Well, up to my exacting standards of clean. This whole place is a cesspool. I saw a cockroach climbing over the coffeepot earlier.

  Stella better be satisfied with the shots the pap got of me scrubbing crap off the bathroom walls because I’m done with this in-person humanitarian bullshit. I throw money at problems. That’s my M.O. She should know that by now.

  I give up searching for a towel and just shake my hands to get the water off while I head for the back door. I reach into my pocket and pull out my Bluetooth headset. It barely finishes ringing before I start talking, right as I slam open the doors to the outside. “Stella, I swear to Christ they better have some great pictures out of this because—”

  “What’d I say, bitch?” a man’s voice demands. “Gimme your fuckin’ money.”

  I jerk my head to the side and see four men at the far side of the church parking lot that leads into an alley. Surrounding a small figure with white-blonde hair. The fairytale woman from earlier.

  No. My stomach hollows out and I take off at a dead sprint toward them.

  She cowers with her hands up covering her face and screams something I can’t make out.

  “Hey!” I shout.

  The biggest of the men raises his fist.

  “Hey!” I start sprinting toward them. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

  The woman screams again but fuck, I’m still too far away. Fuck, fuck, no.

  The fist lands and she crumples.

  He’s fucking dead. I’m going to kill him. My legs pump harder than they have since I was a teenager running from the cops.

  “You fucking bastards!” I roar.

  All the guys look my way. One of the smaller ones leans over and rifles through the girl’s pockets, coming up with what must be money. Then he hightails it down the alleyway, looking over his shoulder at me. The others are quick on his heels.

  Motherfuckers. I’ll slice every single one of their coward-bastard fucking throats. I throw every ounce of energy into covering the last bit of distance, but when I finally get to the girl, as much as I want to keep chasing after those bastards, I stop in my tracks.

  “Shit, are you okay?” I bend over, falling to my knees and cradling her head as gently as I can. Her lip is split and her cheek is cut up, too. That fucker must have been wearing a ring. “Are you all right?” What a stupid goddamned question. Of course she’s not okay.

  “Can you hear my voice?” I just need to know if she’s conscious at this point.

  She blinks but then winces at the action, her tiny hand coming to her bloody cheek and lip. “Oww, I—”

  “Shh, shh, don’t try to talk, I’ve got you.”

  Her loose blonde braids have come unpinned and hang in disarray over her shoulders. She looks like a gorgeous, tragically battered angel. It’s just fucking wrong. For something so beautiful, for someone to—

  She blinks again, looking completely disoriented, and tries to sit up. Immediately she cries out and grabs her rib. She lies back, her startled blue eyes wide with pain. Fuck. Those bastards must have hit her even before I came out of the building.

  “All right, I’m going to lift you up now.” I slip my arms underneath her knees and her back, cringing at the same time she winces in pain.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper over and over as I lift her up off the ground. Every jostle brings another strain of pain to her features. Why am I such a clumsy fuck? I deal with asshole chefs, rich douchey club and restaurant goers, and cutthroat businessmen—not delicate things.

  I hurry as quickly as I can back across the parking lot to where I parked the car, trying to smooth my usually jerky stride as much as possible. The woman in my arms—Christ, she’s so slight I barely feel her weight—is completely tense. She hugs her arms to her chest. Her jaw’s clenched and she has her eyes squeezed shut. Being so tightly strung can’t be doing anything for her pain. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that the more you loosen up, the better it is.

  “I never did get your name. I’m Kennedy. It’s a pretentious fucking name, but my mom said anyone could grow up to be president.” Talking helps people relax, right? “Which tells you way more about my mom than me. When I was really little, she was a total idealist.” Sometimes I question if that version of my mom ever existed, but no, I know there were good times before it all went to hell. “Fuck, I probably shouldn’t be cussing so much. You don’t even know me and that’s not a very good first impression.”

  I see the Bentley and head toward it. “Mom was in love with JFK. She said it was because he was the first Catholic president but I think it was because she thought he was handsome and secretly had a crush on him.”

  Her small laugh startles me and I look down to see her wide blue eyes looking just as surprised. I pause right as I come upon the car. And even though I notice peripherally that my $180,000 car has been vandalized with bright red and yellow spray paint up and down the sides—something which at any other moment would have me flipping the hell out—I can’t look away from her eyes.

  I’m not a man who gets captivated by women. Hell, I don’t get captivated by anything anymore. Not even the money, which I chased very hard for a very long time. Not even the thrill of opening a new business and shutting down any possible threats to my latest enterprise. But this moment, right here, with this bleeding beauty in my arms, I feel—

  Christ, maybe that’s it in itself.

  I feel.

  I feel awake. Alive. Like I’m just opening my eyes for the first time in months and seeing in color, everything finally coming into focus after a long blur. I feel the wind on my skin. I feel the softness of the woman in my arms.

  “I’m Scarlet,” she whispers. Then she winces and wipes at her mouth, smearing the blood there.

  And I come out of whatever the fuck trance I’ve been in.

  “Shit. We need to get you to a hospital.” I start to gently lower her to her feet so I can help her into the car when she tenses back up again.

  “No.” Her eyes open wide. “No hospitals.” She starts shaking her head adamantly and as soon as I have her on her feet, she steps away from me like she’s intending to run.

  “Stop. Your head.” I reach forward but then stop at the last moment before touching her. “That guy—” I shake my head, biting back my fury. “We need to see if you have a concussion. And your ribs.” I look down at the tiny waist I felt hidden beneath those ridiculous overalls she’s wearing. “We need to see if any of them are cracked. You need to get checked out.”

  Her eyes flash at this. “We don’t need to do anything.” Her easy demeanor from the soup kitchen is gone, replaced by steel. “No hospitals. Ever.”

  Then she wobbles on her feet and leans back against the Bentley.

  Which of course sets off an earsplitting alarm. Her hands fly to her ears.

  “Christ. Fuck.” I fumble in my pockets until I find the square keyfob and press the button to turn off the alarm. It’s probably why the fuckers spray-painted it instead of breaking the windows to try to steal it. A car this expensive has a top of the line alarm system and even people in this neighborhood know it. Maybe especially people from this neighborhood.

  Scarlet’s eyes flick between me and the edge of the building that leads around to the sidewalk. Shit. Is she thinking about just going off on her own? Without any money? Does she even have any place to go? She was just eating at a food kitchen. And why no hospitals?

  “What about family? Is there someone I can call who can help?” As I look her over, for the first time it strikes me just how young
she is. With her hair falling out of its pins and her eyes so wide and vulnerable, she looks like little more than a teenager. “Shit. How old are you?”

  Her eyes that a second ago seemed to expose so much flash furiously. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-one. And there’s no one to call. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  Is she fucking serious? Why is she being so stubborn?

  Maybe she’s on the run from something. Or someone? The last thought makes fire rage through my blood all over again.

  “Why no hospitals?” I try again.

  She glances up at me and then away, back toward the sidewalk. “You wouldn’t understand,” she mutters.

  “I can protect you.” I take a step closer. “I swear, you’ll be safe. You need to get checked out.”

  Her eyes flick back up to me and, for a second, she can’t disguise her quick look of disgust.

  And I get it, I really do.

  I must seem like some rich asshole who doesn’t have the first clue about what her life is like. Which tells me two things—she has no idea who I am and has certainly never seen Kennedy Benson: A True American Rags to Riches Story. Even if she had, she still wouldn’t know the things I managed to keep hidden from the film crew, the documentary researchers, and Access Hollywood. That documentary got the tame story of my life. No one knows the real fucking hole I crawled out of—or the deals I had to make with devils along the way to get where I am.

  Scarlet only looks tired and beat down the next second. Her eyes are gentle when she looks back at me, but sad. “Look, it’s not the first time I’ve taken a hit.” She looks up at the sky and takes a deep breath in. “I can tell nothing’s broken. I’m okay.” She closes her eyes and repeats it, “I’m okay.” I get the feeling it’s something she has to reassure herself of on a regular basis. Or maybe only on the good days. And how many good days does she have in her life?

  Because if I deal in devils, I get the feeling this woman has a bit of angel in her. Fifteen minutes in her company and I’ve never been more certain of anything. There’s this purity about her, in spite of this shithole neighborhood where we’re standing.

  She breathes out long and deep, head falling back against the car and eyes going to the sky. It’s the second time she’s done that, lifted her face up like that. I glance up but it’s just a regular San Francisco day. Blue skies after the morning fog burned off. It’s warm in the sunlight even though it’s late October. Scarlet shakes her head and the slightest of smiles comes back over her face. When she looks back at me, the contentment I remember from inside the soup kitchen is back.

  “Everything’s going to be okay.” She stands up straighter and again I notice how tall she is. She’s wearing a ratty pair of black Converse and she comes up to my nose—so probably about 5’9 or 5’10. Christ, with her looks and height, she could be a model.

  “You can’t live in the past.” She shakes her head. “You don’t know how often I’ve heard that advice.” She smiles at me wryly. “Seems like a good day to listen to it. Here’s to moving forward.” She raises an invisible glass and mimes toasting me. Then she laughs self-deprecatingly.

  “All right, well…” She takes a step back like she’s about to leave.

  No. No no no, she can’t go—

  “Wait!” I lift an arm and then freeze, my arm just there in mid-air.

  “Yeah?” Her eyebrows lift and then lower as she looks at my arm. I drop it to my side, then run it through my hair.

  “Um.” Damn it. Get it to-fucking-gether. “So, do you have a place to stay?”

  Because she’s not an idiot, she hears the question I’m really asking: Are you homeless? And yeah, that’s just as awkward as you can imagine.

  Her cheeks go pink and her eyes drop. “Oh, you know. I stay here and there.”

  That’s not fucking acceptable. I don’t care how rude I’m being.

  She looks away from me and wraps her arms around herself. In spite of the thick flannel she’s wearing, I can tell how thin she is. I had her in my arms.

  “Look, none of this is your problem. Thanks for helping me out and all, but I should just get go—”

  “Come home with me.”

  Her eyes widen and I hear how that sounded. “No, not that.” I wave a hand. “I mean, you know, not like—”

  I chuckle and run a hand through my hair. Christ, again I feel like I’m a skinny pre-teen boy who doesn’t know how to talk to girls. “I don’t mean anything sketchy,” I try to assure her. “Just a safe place to clean up your injuries and make sure you’re okay.” I take half a step back and try to make myself look as unassuming as possible. “Please? It would satisfy my Knight in Shining Armor Boy Scout merit badge and I’d be forever grateful. You’d be doing me the favor.”

  Scarlet eyes me up and down, indecision clearly written on her face. Then she winces yet again and opens her jaw like she’s testing it out. Which makes her cringe. She shakes her head and glances up at the sky again with a sigh.

  “What the hell?” She throws up her hands, then looks back at me with eyes narrowed. “Only because I don’t actually have a place to crash tonight.” Then her features go hard and I can see that she’s got a bit of wrathful smiting angel in her in addition to the cherubic kind. “But if you try anything, I’ll cut your balls off, got it?” By the look on her face, I can tell she means it.

  I swallow down my stuttered reply to her words. I’m quite fond of the bits she just threatened. I only nod and hurry around to open the passenger side door. She limps toward me and gets inside.

  I close the door behind her and jog around to hop in the driver seat. A second later, the Bentley is purring to life. I don’t hesitate putting my foot to the gas and getting the hell out of there.

  It’s silent in the car as we drive. I should be saying something. Trying to make her feel comfortable. Reassuring her that I’m a good guy.

  Then I roll my eyes. Because I’m not a fucking good guy. I’m an asshole most days and a downright bastard on others. Ask anyone who’s done business with me. I get shit done and I make a success of everything I touch, true. But I don’t go around caring about people’s tender feelings while I do it. I’ve never been in a relationship with a woman longer than six months. And I’ve broken the hearts of the three women who ever told me they loved me.

  Including my mother’s. I have no business trying to be anyone’s fucking knight in shining armor, even for an afternoon.

  My mind sifts through possibilities as I slow to a stop at a red light right before getting on the freeway. Should I head north or south on the 101? Where can I drop this woman? Maybe I could get Stella to contact a women’s shelter that would have the resources to—

  “Thank you.” Scarlet’s china-delicate hand reaches out and touches mine that’s gripped on the steering wheel. “I talk a good game, but things have just been… I could just really use a break.” I glance over at her and she’s smiling, but it’s wavery and belied by the tear coursing down her cheek. “You’re kind of my miracle today.”

  Fuck.

  Me.

  My guts are doing something funny. Churning and twisting in on themselves. And I—

  Honking from behind me jerks my attention forward. Green light. Right.

  I drive straight onto the highway instead of turning left to go south. I’m heading to my penthouse condo.

  Screw logic and what normal heartless-asshole Kennedy Benson would usually do. This woman just called me a miracle.

  Sure, she’s in for a rude fucking awakening when she finds out the truth. But at least for tonight, I can give her a safe, warm place to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Two days later, I knock on the door of the guest bedroom. My condo is at the top of a high-rise in the Business District that overlooks the Golden Gate Bridge. The place is huge, way too big for just me. The guest bedroom has never been slept in before the past couple nights.

  “Scarlet,” I call, knocking again as I push the door open, a tray with a toasted bage
l and orange juice in my other hand. Is the food an excuse to check up on her? Absolutely. She’s been sleeping for two days straight. When we got back the first afternoon, she still swore that she wouldn’t go to the hospital or even let me call a doctor to come over to check on her.

  I was stuck with looking at one of those videos on how to check for signs of concussion and cracked ribs. When I flashed my phone flashlight in her eyes, her pupils responded appropriately at least. I woke her up every two hours for the first day in spite of her grumbling that I was being ridiculous.

  Then she just kept sleeping. She hasn’t eaten the food I’ve brought. She just chugs down the bottles of water. Whenever I come in to check on her, she’s dead to the world. Or pretending to be sleeping. That’s entirely possible.

  But I’m done with that shit. I’m not retrieving any more uneaten trays full of perfectly acceptable food. She’s got to eat.

  “Scarlet?” I call again as I nudge the door open with my back, then turn around to step further inside.

  And freeze in my tracks.

  She’s apparently been up. She’s sleeping again, on her stomach with her ethereal face turned sideways on the pillow. The bruising around her eyes is purplish and the swelling on her split lip has just started to go down. But fuck, while that’s usually where my attention goes first when I check on her, my eyes immediately shoot elsewhere.

  Because yeah, she’s naked.

  In the morning sunlight, her bare back glistens, what seems like acres of porcelain skin. The gentle slope of her shoulder blades leads down to a tiny waist. And then the curve arches up into the shapeliest little ass—I mean she pulled the sheet haphazardly over herself before falling back asleep, but there’s the barest hint of—

  Christ, Kennedy.

  I jerk around so quickly I almost spill the orange juice on the tray. Fuck. Fuck me.

  And then, because I’m me, I peek over my shoulder. My gaze doesn’t go straight back to her ass, though. Her hair. It’s damp and lies stretched out all around her head to the tips of the bed on all sides, like she flung it up and outward. Then like a Disney princess, she was enchanted into a deep sleep or some shit. That hair’s gotta be waist length.