“There’s barely a phone here, never mind anything to tell me the location.”
“Call the operator, ask her where you are, then ask her to put you through to me again.”
I hung up, found out where I was and placed another collect call to Dylan.
“Well?” he asked.
“Washington Street. About halfway down.”
“Don’t leave the booth.” The annoyed anger in his voice fizzed through the line. “And, stay on the line.”
“Okay,” I whispered. My teeth chattered like a windup toy, my body shook, and I wrapped my arms around myself. I cradled the receiver between my ear and shoulder and listened as Dylan started up his car. “Where are you?” I asked.
“A meeting. I’m about ten minutes away.”
“Great. Thanks. Please hurry.”
The rain eased to a drizzle and muffled voices drifted toward me, prickling the hairs on the back of my neck. The deep voices grew closer. Two men—it was hard to tell their ages because they had hoods covering their heads—sauntered toward me. They stopped walking. And this is where I die in a phone booth on a clichéd dark and stormy night.
“Dylan, how much longer?”
“Less than five. You okay?”
“I’ve got company. Please hurry.”
One of the men rapped knuckles tattooed with the word love against the door. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a slummy place like this?”
“Need help?” the other asked in a rusty-voiced slur.
One was a good three or four inches taller than the other. A few days’ worth of growth covered their faces and their cruel smiles showed rotting teeth.
“Just waiting for my brother to pick me up.” I averted my eyes and anchored my foot against the door. Not that it would help. They could shatter the door and break my one hundred thirty-pound body in a second.
“Want us to wait with you, Blondie?” the taller one asked, pushing back his grubby hood to reveal a shaven head covered in oozing scabs. Even though his words were friendly, the gleam in his watery, blue eyes was not.
“Dylan, I’m freaking the hell out. Please hurry.”
“Going as fast as I can.”
One of the men squished his face against the scratched Plexiglas. “Yes, hurry, Dylan, don’t want to get here to find your sister gone.”
They both snickered. “Looks like tonight’s been rough for you already, sweetheart.”
The smaller one rammed his hands against the door.
“Is that how you like it, Blondie, rough and dirty? You look like a little slut who takes it up the ass.” He pounded on the Plexiglas and my thudding heart was ready to flee my body any way possible.
“Dylan, I’m going to hang up and call the police.”
“Shit. I’m almost there.” His voice was as panicked as mine.
Instinct urged me to flee the booth and run, but the second I left, the animals outside would pounce and kill. I hung up and dialed 9-1-1. No dial tone. The lights in the booth flickered off, shrouding me in darkness. I slapped the receiver against my hand and dialed 9-1-1 again. Nothing.
Both men shoved at the door. “Looks like we’re going to have us some old fashioned fun.”
Dropping the receiver, I reached down and grabbed my shoes. I’d been assaulted once tonight without being able to defend myself, and I’d be damned if that was going to happen again.
They forced the door open.
“Motherfucking bastards!” I went after them, stabbing the heels of my shoes into their ugly faces. They deflected my blows with their forearms. One of them grabbed my arms from behind, and I used my bare feet to kick the guy in front.
“Get your fucking hands off me. Let me go.”
The one behind me clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me toward an alleyway.
Chapter Two
Survival fueled my blood, and I continued to use my heels as weapons.
“Make it easier on all of us and stop struggling,” the small one in front said. “Give us what we want and we won’t hurt you…much.”
“Fuck you, you piece of trash.”
He got close. Seeing my chance, I smashed my forehead against his nose, leaving it a pulpy mess. Blood pulsated over the lower half of his face.
“Bitch, now I’m not gonna play nice.” He growled and grabbed my hair, yanking my head back and ripping my hair from its follicles. As soon as I got the chance, I was going for his groin or Adam’s apple.
High beams from a car lit up the alleyway, blinding me as rain began to lash down again.
“Get your fucking hands off her.” Dylan’s six-five frame rushed toward us, a baseball bat in his hands, fury warping his face.
The men shoved me toward Dylan. He dropped the bat and caught me as they tore out of the alley and disappeared into the night.
“Fucking cowards.” The rage whooshing from Dylan smothered me, and I attempted to edge away, but he held me tight, as if I’d break apart if he let go.
“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”
Unable to form any words, I shook my head.
“But you’re bleeding…”
“From when I was mugged.”
“Let’s get you to the hospital.” He draped his black jacket around my shaking shoulders, lifted me as if I weighed ten pounds and sat me in the passenger seat of his Mercedes.
Now my adrenaline rush had worn off, white-hot pain seared my nerve endings and tiny ice picks speared the inside of my skull. When he stepped into the car, he dialed a number.
“Logan, Elle’s hurt. I’m on my way. Should be at the E.R. in less than fifteen.”
Logan, one of Dylan’s stepbrothers from his mother’s first marriage, was an E.R. doctor.
Enormous relief bubbled inside of me, and breathing the same air as Dylan soothed my jangled nerves. In the years since I last saw him, time had transformed him from a scrawny college kid to a grown man. At twenty-five, his lanky frame had filled out, and he would tower over most men. Stubble covered his jaw and his short, brown hair dripped with rain, but it was too dark to see if his eyes were the emerald green I remembered. Needing the world to disappear, I curled into a ball and closed my tired eyes.
When the car stopped, I forced my eyes open. We were at the hospital and parked illegally out front.
“I’m not dying, Dyl. They’ll tow your car.”
“Like I care.” Dylan hurried to the passenger side and opened the door. I tried to stand, but the world wobbled and I flopped into my seat.
“I’ve got you.” He scooped me up and carried me inside.
The smell of Clorox, disinfectant, and illness greeted me. I closed my eyes again and burrowed into his familiar warmth.
“This way, Mr. Cole,” said a kindly voice. “Dr. Fitzsimons has organized your paperwork already. Come right through.”
Dylan carried me through a set of swinging doors and laid me on a gurney.
No more than a minute later, Logan, still as pale and haunted as ever, strode in and swished the curtains closed. In my entire life, I’d met Logan maybe six or seven times. He was ten years older than Dylan, who was five years older than me and was already in college when my mom married Dylan’s dad. He removed a penlight from his pocket and gently lifted my eyelids.
“Your pupils are dilated and a tad sluggish. What happened?” His voice was the comforting kind that made me want to confess my sins.
“I was on a date,” I sighed. “It was a disaster, and he wouldn’t take me home, so I left. I was mugged then attacked. They didn’t hurt me. Not much anyway. Some cuts and bruises.”
“If I ever get my hands on them…” Dylan paced and prowled around the tiny cubicle, wearing a path into the already worn linoleum.
With careful hands, Logan examined the cuts on my head, hands, and knees. “How’d you end up with these lacerations?”
“Before the mugging, I was rammed to the ground. I must have got the cuts on my hands when I fought the two men.”
His l
ips thinned to a tight, angry line. “You don’t need stitches. A few butterfly bandages should work.” He picked up a clipboard at the end of the gurney and made notes. “I’ll have a nurse clean you up and I’ll prescribe something for the pain. The police will want to talk to you, too.” With a stoic expression, he turned toward Dylan. “Keep an eye on her when she falls asleep. She’s lucky she wasn’t seriously hurt. Call me tomorrow and let me know how she’s doing.”
Dylan stopped pacing. “Thanks, bro, I owe you.”
“Anytime.” Logan shook Dylan’s hand and smiled warmly—one of the rare times I’d seen him look anything but serious. “See you at the game Saturday.”
“Sure thing.”
Logan left the room and Dylan perched on the edge of the bed. “What were you thinking, Ell-e-phant? Do you have any idea what could have happened?”
Unwanted emotion churned inside my stomach. “Don’t call me that, I’m not five years old.” I’d worked too hard to remove him from my life, and I didn’t want to give him access to my heart again. “A guy who comes into the coffee shop where I work asked me out. He seemed nice. But he thought I was like my mom.”
“What?” He began pacing the floor again.
“He thought I was into the same stuff she was. You know, threesomes and whatever else he dug up about her interests.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Sorry this has affected everything about your life.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re not the one who ditched me. You’re not the one who mugged or almost raped me.” You’re not the one who killed my mom.
He raked his fingers through his already messy hair, and for the first time, I noticed the bow tie hanging around his neck.
“Sorry to pull you away from wherever you were. Looks as if it was important.”
“Not as important as you.”
A young policewoman stepped inside the curtains. “Ms…” She flicked through some paperwork.
“Mitchell. Elle Mitchell.”
She smiled sympathetically, if somewhat tiredly. “Can you answer some questions for me?”
I nodded and retold the evening’s events.
Chapter Three
“Can you drop me at my apartment?” I watched the other cars speed by and hugged Dylan’s jacket around my shoulders, the scent of his cologne cocooning me, just as it had all those years ago.
“Like hell I will.” There was a noticeable quaver in his voice. “Until your head and knees heal, you’re staying with me.”
“Dyl, come on, I can take care of myself. Plus, Logan gave me enough pills to knock me out for a week. I’d rather be at home. I have work and school. There are things I need.”
“What you need is to be where I can keep an eye on you.”
Too tired and sore to argue, I sank into the heated passenger seat. Dylan’s apartment building—a gift for his eighteenth birthday from his dad—was on Park Avenue. There wasn’t a more expensive apartment building in the city. My ground-floor apartment was in a low-rent area with rats and meth addicts for neighbors. At night, I covered the burners with bowls to stop mice sneaking in. And some mornings, I’d open my curtains to someone jerking off outside my window.
“Fine. I’ll stay for a few days. But I need to pick up some stuff.”
“Make a list. I’ll send my assistant over in the morning. You should quit your job.”
“Like that’s going to happen.” I twisted to face him, and the effort shot pain through my body. “I love my job. I have friends there. You’ve been back in my life for five minutes, so don’t try to tell me what to do.”
“I’m not. You have dangerous creeps for customers. Case in point, your date.”
“One creep—the rest of the customers are fine. I’m not leaving my job over one stupid mistake. How was Philip to know I’d get attacked and mugged? He’s an idiot, maybe a pervert, but he’s not a bad guy.”
Dylan smacked the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “Not a bad guy? He brought you to a seedy club, ditched you and told you to make your own way home. If you think he’s a good guy, who the hell do you consider a bad guy?”
“I’m done with this conversation.” I shut my eyes and waited for sleep to wash over me. It didn’t. Instead, fractured scenes of the night’s events flashed through my mind. If Dylan hadn’t shown up when he did, I would have been dead, and if not dead, severely hurt.
Tears swam in my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall. I wouldn’t show how much tonight shook me.
“We’re here.”
I opened my eyes and glanced at him. “Thanks for helping me. I don’t know what would’ve happened if…”
“No matter what did or didn’t happen in our past, I’m always here for you.” A nerve danced in his jaw as he stepped out of the car onto the rain-slicked roads. “But don’t ever do anything that stupid again.” He slammed the door closed shaking the car.
Why was he so angry? I was alive. I wasn’t badly hurt. He opened the passenger door and guided me out. My knees screamed at having to bend. Dylan curved his arm around my waist and helped me inside the lobby of his soaring apartment building. Being in his arms felt safe and secure and was somewhere I might want to stay. After being on my own for so long, it felt nice to have someone look after me, someone to care.
He nodded and threw his car keys to the doorman and without hitting the call button, an elevator door whooshed open.
“When we get to my apartment, I’ll run you a bath. You can stay in your old room.”
“You kept my room?”
“You’ll always have a room here,” he said matter-of-factly.
Silently, the numbers rose until the elevator shuddered to a stop. Dylan helped me into his penthouse. The last time I was here was five years ago, when I was a spoiled brat without a clue about the horrors of real life. It was the weekend before Dylan’s father killed my mother in, as the media called it, a crime of passion, or as I called it, in a fit of jealous rage. Now, Dylan’s dad was in prison. My mom was in the cemetery. And I was stuck in limbo. After her death, I distanced myself from Dylan’s family. I didn’t need them or their money. I paid for school using Mom’s life insurance and busted my ass working in the coffee shop.
Dylan set me on a feather soft sofa.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll get your bath ready.”
I settled down and scanned the living room. Familiarity washed over me like rain on a blistering summer day. The ten-foot high windows I’d spent hours staring out of showed the lights of Manhattan’s skyline and gave a perfect view of the Empire State building. The thirteen-foot ceilings still carried every sound. But the furniture and color scheme were different. All understated beiges and browns with a light cream covering the walls. The room screamed of Dylan’s attention to detail, of his need for perfection and order.
A few minutes later, he came into the sitting room. “It’s ready.”
“Thanks.” Bracing my hands on the sofa, I forced myself up and winced.
Dylan rushed forward. “Let me help.”
I held my hand up. “I’m okay. I’m good.”
“Stop putting on a brave front, Elle. It’s okay to need me.”
“I…” I had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about tonight, and I allowed my body to relax into his.
Holding tight, he guided me into the marbled bathroom. The five-person tub sat beneath a large window that gave a view of the sun rising over the Hudson.
“I’d forgotten how awe-inspiring this is.” We stood in silence and watched the golden sun illuminate the still sleeping city. “From up here, it looks beautiful. Almost harmless.”
“Need anymore help?” he asked.
“Nope, I’m good.”
He smiled, glittery laughter sparkling in his vivid green eyes, and a pang of want punched my solar plexus. “I’ve seen it all before, you know.”
My eyes widened; he’d never seen me naked. Not once. “What? No you haven’t.”
“When you were five, you used t
o run around naked and shake your booty for the world to see.”
“Five and twenty are very different,” I said with a sigh.
“No kidding.” His eyes narrowed and darkened. ” I’ll get your room ready.”
He cleared his throat and left the bathroom. I peeled off my dress, threw it into the garbage, and stepped into the tub. The water soothed my body and soul, and my thoughts drifted back to when we were a happy family.
When our parents met, Dylan was fourteen, and I was a precocious four-year-old. The fact that my mom was Bernard Cole’s fourth wife meant nothing to her.
God, I missed her. Every morning for almost sixteen years, her unconditional smile greeted me. “Good morning, munchkin,” she would say, even when I towered over her five-nothing height. Dylan’s dad made her happy, well, for about ten years, but then the affairs started. My mom hooked up with her tennis coach and her gym coach—both of them at once. Dylan’s dad found out and killed all three of them. Shot them in bed at point-blank range. Tried to cover it up, made it look like a suicide pact, but it didn’t work.
I was sixteen when he was sentenced to life with no parole. After the truth came out, I walked away from Dylan.
We’d been close; I idolized him. When he had no other plans, I spent weekends with him. After his dad’s incarceration, Dylan asked me to live with him so he could take care of me, help me, but I told him to get the fuck out of my life. I accused him of some terrible things. What if he was like his dad? What if he couldn’t control his temper? What if he tried to kill me? The melodramatic thoughts of a lost sixteen-year-old. Over the years, I’d wanted to reach out to him, but it never seemed to be the right time.
The kiss happened just after his dad’s guilty verdict. Dylan held me in his arms and I sobbed, my heart breaking. Somehow, we ended up kissing; if he hadn’t stopped, it would have been so much more. I’d just turned sixteen, and he was almost twenty-one. Perhaps him rejecting me was part of the reason I rejected him. The thought crossed my mind often. Too often. No guy had ever kissed me the way he had. No guy ever would again.
I closed my eyes and sank into the water. He wasn’t like his dad—he wasn’t—but part of me worried he was. Because of his family, I had none. Because of my mom, men like Phillip thought I was a sexual deviant. I snorted. I’d had sex all of one time and wasn’t in a hurry to repeat the experience.
Nine Steamy Step Stories Page 11
