Kiss in the Dark

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “I know…I know,” she sniffled. He was right, she knew he was. She shouldn’t have paused in calling for help—but she’d been so rattled!

  “You didn’t recognize the guy at all?” Vance asked, still holding her, his breath warm in her hair at the top of her head.

  “No,” Boston answered. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  Boston yelped as a mad pounding sounded on the door then.

  “It’s him!” she gasped. Vance released her so he could peer through the peephole. Instantly, the stranger began shouting.

  “I know you’re in there!” the man shouted, adding a thread of profanity like Boston had certainly never heard pass from Vance’s lips. “Open the door!”

  Vance reached into the pocket of his dirty jeans, pulled out his cell, dialed 911, and handed it to Boston.

  “Tell them what’s going on,” he said.

  “Hey, man! Settle down!” he shouted then.

  There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, but only for a moment. Boston startled as the stranger on the other side of the door started beating at the door, kicking it. “Who are you, man?” the stranger shouted. “Open the door! That chick’s in my parking spot!”

  “911, what’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice asked. Boston’s hands were trembling so wildly she feared she might drop Vance’s phone as well.

  “Someone is at my front door…trying to get into my apartment!” Boston stammered. “He’s trying to beat the door down! He’s furious, and I don’t know him!”

  “What’s your name, miss, and are you calling from a cell phone?” the woman asked.

  “Cool off, man!” Vance shouted.

  “Open the door!” the stranger roared. He let go a rope of threats and profanity that would’ve knocked Steph Crittendon on her backside.

  “Boston Rhodes and, yes, ma’am, I’m on a cell,” Boston said.

  “Please verify your physical address, Boston, and I’ll have officers dispatched.”

  Boston rattled off the apartment’s address as the man continued to throw his body against the door.

  “He’s gonna kick the door in, Boston,” Vance told her. “Go in the bedroom and lock yourself in.”

  Boston nodded and hurried to the bedroom.

  “Is there someone with you?” the emergency operator asked.

  “Yes, my friend Vance,” Boston said. “He told me to lock myself in the bedroom.”

  “Officers are on the way, Boston,” the operator said. “I want you to stay on the line with me until they arrive, all right?”

  Boston nodded and brushed tears from her cheeks.

  “Are you there, Boston?” the operator asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boston said.

  “Good. Just stay on the line with me. The police are only two blocks away.”

  Boston could hear the stranger beating on the door; she could hear Vance shouting back at him. All at once the pounding on the door stopped, however, as did the shouting.

  Terror gripped Boston, crushing her soul in its cold fist. Had the stranger managed to break down the door? Had he hurt Vance?

  “Everything went quiet!” Boston told the emergency operator. “What if he got in? What if he’s hurt Vance?”

  “Stay where you are, Boston,” the operator said. “Officers are on their way. They’re just around the corner.”

  “What if he’s hurt Vance?” Boston breathed. Her concern for Vance beat down her fear for a moment, and she unlocked the bedroom door. Peering out into the living room, she couldn’t see anything, but she could hear a scuffling noise, the sound of a struggle.

  “I think he’s in the apartment!” she told the operator.

  “Stay where you are, Boston,” the operator said. “Assistance is almost to you.”

  But a new fear was fast overtaking the old one. What if Vance was in danger or hurt? Quietly, Boston stepped from the bedroom and crept to the living room.

  She gasped as she saw Vance struggling to restrain the man.

  “He’s broken in!” she exclaimed into the phone.

  “The police officers dispatched are pulling into the parking lot of your complex now, Boston,” the operator said. “Stay back as far as you can.”

  But Boston was stunned, paralyzed with fear—fear for Vance’s safety. The stranger was insane—kicking and punching! Vance managed to avoid most of the blows the stranger threw at him, landing several consecutive punches to the stranger’s jaw. The stranger reeled back, stumbled, lost his balance, and crumpled to the ground just as two police officers arrived.

  “It’s him,” Vance said, raising his hands and nodding toward the stranger. “My sister lives here,” he said to the officer who held his hand over the gun at his gun belt, ready to draw if need be.

  The vision of policemen, Vance’s hands at his side, and a stranger in her apartment was horrifying! Boston rushed forward, throwing herself against Vance and sobbing with relief.

  “Are you Boston, ma’am?” the officer asked.

  “Y-yes, sir. Boston Rhodes,” Boston stammered. The officer nodded, and Boston felt the strength and protection of Vance’s arms around her once more.

  “And, Miss Rhodes, you do know this individual?” the officer asked, nodding to indicate Vance.

  “Yes, sir,” she managed. “But not him,” she said, pointing to the stranger. The second officer held a gun on the stranger as he stood.

  “Are you all right, Boston?” the operator’s voice asked. Boston had all but forgotten she still held Vance’s cell to her ear.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boston said.

  “Please hand the phone to one of the officers, Boston. You’ll be fine now,” the operator said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boston breathed. “Thank you.”

  She handed the cell phone to the officer and listened as the policeman identified himself and assured the 911 operator that the situation was under control.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” the other officer asked the stranger.

  “That dude just beat me up, man!” the stranger shouted, pointing to Vance. Boston felt the muscles in Vance’s arms and torso tighten with restrained aggression. Instinctively, she snuggled against him—embraced him more firmly in an attempt to settle him.

  “That guy’s wasted,” Vance growled. “Did you drive here, man?” Vance addressed the stranger.

  One of the police officers held a hand up to Vance, an indication he shouldn’t speak to the stranger.

  “That dude hit me, man!” the stranger shouted again. “I want to press charges!”

  “Well, apparently you were trying to break into his girlfriend’s apartment,” the officer said. “And, sir, it looks to me like you hit him. Were you trying to break into Miss Rhodes’s apartment?”

  “Yeah…but so what?” the stranger growled. “That don’t give him the right to mess me up!”

  “I’ll ask you again, sir. What are you doing here? Why were you trying to gain access into Miss Rhodes’s apartment?” the officer asked again.

  “She parked in my spot,” the man said, wiping the blood from his nose on his shirt. “She parked in my spot!” The drunken man let go a slur of violent profanity.

  “Watch your language with me, sir,” the officer threatened.

  “She’s parked in 1-G, and that’s my spot,” the man continued.

  “I’m parked in 1-E,” Boston told the officer questioning the man.

  “This guy is totally wasted,” Vance mumbled. “Lock him up before he kills somebody!”

  “Please, sir,” the officer said to Vance. “Please let us handle this.”

  “He’ll kill somebody!” Vance shouted, however. Boston felt every muscle in Vance’s body tighten, felt him trembling with sudden rage.

  “I’ll have to ask you to step back, sir…and control your temper,” the officer said.

  “Vance,” Boston said, placing a hand on his cheek. He looked down at her, and she was astonished to see moisture in his eyes.
The expression on his face was that of pure rage, but in his eyes she saw fear—and pain.

  “Have you been drinking, sir?” the officer asked the stranger.

  “Maybe I had a few,” the stranger confessed. “But I ain’t over the limit for driving…and that chick’s in my spot!”

  The first officer handed the cell phone back to Vance.

  “Thanks,” Vance growled, dropping the phone into his pocket.

  “Do you want to explain to me what happened here, sir?” the second officer asked Vance.

  Boston was still trembling, residual fear causing her to literally quake. Yet Vance’s state of mind worried her. She wasn’t surprised by his anger, but there was something else. The situation had hit a nerve, and she wondered why.

  “Of course. For starters, that dude is blitzed,” Vance repeated, pointing at the man. He released Boston, quickly unbuttoned his shirt, and removed it, handing it to her. “Put that on,” he said. “You’re cold.”

  Boston nodded. She wasn’t cold, but Vance must’ve interpreted her quaking as such. Either way, she put on the shirt, knowing that, if nothing else, it would comfort her simply because it would further calm her nerves to have his shirt on. It wasn’t the same as having the protection of his arms around her, but it was emotionally somehow similar. The warmth of Vance’s body still clung to his shirt, and Boston’s entire body rippled with goose bumps for a moment at the realization. His shirt smelled of Speed Stick and smoke—she figured the construction crew had barbequed their dinner again. She realized she did feel oddly comforted, even for her lingering fear and the seriousness of the present situation.

  “I arrived here, and Boston told me this guy had been trying to beat down her door,” Vance explained. He was enraged—the quaking in his voice revealed that, and the fact his hands were clinched in tight fists. Yet Vance continued to explain. “She was still telling me about it when this drunk shows up and starts pounding on the door again. I had her call 911 and sent her to the bedroom because I was afraid he’d beat the door down and get in, which he did.”

  “And you were here why?” the officer asked.

  “Man! He’s the drunk! He’s the criminal! What are you coming after me for?” Vance raged suddenly. “The guy could have killed somebody driving home! Who knows what would’ve happened if he’d busted in here and I wasn’t here!”

  “Calm down, sir,” the officer said. “I realize you’re upset. I’m just trying to gather all the details.”

  “The details are that this guy is driving drunk, threatening women when he’s drunk, beating down doors when he’s drunk, breaking and entering when he’s drunk! That’s what’s happening here!” Vance shouted.

  “Sir, if you don’t calm down, you’ll find yourself in trouble too.”

  “What?” Vance raged with fiery indignation. “Why should I be catching any heat? I’m not the one trying to kill people!”

  “Vance!” Boston said, taking hold of his arm. “It’s okay. They know he’s drunk. They’re just trying to get the information they need.”

  Vance looked at her, still raging, tears still gathering in his eyes. He inhaled and exhaled several deep breaths as he looked at her. Then he nodded and turned to the officer.

  “I’m sorry, officer,” he said. “I’ve just had too much experience with this kind of thing to keep a level head about it, I guess.”

  “I understand, sir,” the officer said. “Let’s continue.”

  Boston listened as Vance explained what had happened. He repeated to the officer that he’d arrived to find Boston upset because of the stranger’s threatening behavior. When the guy showed up again, Vance had been certain the stranger would break the door down and had instructed Boston to call 911, sending her to the bedroom. The stranger had continued to beat against the door, and when the locks burst through the door frame, allowing the stranger entrance, a struggle had ensued between Vance and the stranger. Several times Vance reiterated that the stranger was intoxicated, and the officer nodded his agreement.

  Boston then relayed her version of the story to the officers as another set of policemen arrived. They talked with the officer who had now handcuffed the stranger. The strange man swore and shouted at them as they told the story, and the officers continued to reprimand him.

  Boston explained she’d been home alone, that the man had come to the door, pounding on it and threatening her, shouting about how she was “in his spot.”

  “You are in my spot!” the man shouted.

  “Don’t speak to the lady,” one of the officers said. “Don’t even look at her.”

  “Why not?” the jerk asked. He smiled at Boston—studied her lewdly from head to toe. “If I’d known she was this hot…I would have gotten in here sooner.”

  Boston gasped and stepped out of the way as two of the officers restrained an enraged Vance Nathaniel.

  “Quit looking at her, you drunk piece of—” Vance shouted, moving to lay the stranger out again.

  “Settle down, sir,” one officer said, taking hold of Vance’s arm. “Ruiz,” the officer said to one of the other policemen, “get that guy out of here. Question him in the car.”

  “You’re still in my spot, baby,” the stranger slurred to Boston.

  “How much have you had to drink this evening, sir?” the officer named Ruiz asked as he and his partner led the man away.

  “I told you…I’m under the limit,” the man lied.

  

  Thirty minutes later, when the police had gone and the apartment manager had promised to have the door fixed first thing in the morning, Boston stood tired and still trembling.

  What would she have done if Vance hadn’t dropped by? she wondered. What would she have done? She felt insecure and fearful, as if she’d never sleep well or find beauty and joy in the world again.

  “I guess…I guess Danielle must really be having a good time with Dempsey,” Boston said as she stood watching Vance rubbing his temples.

  “I guess so,” he mumbled. “It’s after eleven.”

  “Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.

  “What? Now?” Vance inquired.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I think I’d like to get out of the apartment for a few minutes. Here.” She removed his shirt and held it out to him. “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”

  Vance nodded and took the shirt. He quickly put it on.

  “I guess we won’t bother locking the door, huh?” he said, forcing a grin.

  “I guess not,” she said.

  Leaving the apartment, they meandered down the sidewalk toward the park on the other side of the apartment complex.

  They didn’t speak at first. Boston glanced at Vance. It was obvious he was more upset than she was about the incident. She thought it odd—she thought it telling. Excess moisture still rose to his eyes now and then, and he walked with his hands shoved in his pockets and his broad shoulders drooping.

  Boston’s heart began to beat madly inside her chest—the mad beating she always felt when she was being compelled to do something, when she knew that if she didn’t do what she was being driven to do, the consequences would be bad. Vance was in pain—in deep emotional pain—and Boston knew it had been triggered by the intoxicated man that had succeeded in breaking into the apartment. She offered a silent prayer of thanks for Vance’s timely arrival. She glanced to him again, the pounding of her heart only increasing—it was almost painful! She somehow sensed—knew—that this was a defining moment in her life, maybe in Vance’s as well. She didn’t know why—she just knew it.

  Inhaling a deep breath of courage, she looked up to him and asked, “What are you always running from, Vance?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, though she suspected he knew very well what she meant. “You mean because I run in the evenings?”

  “I do think that is a physical response to something emotional you’re feeling,” she said. It was a brave thing to say—brave or stupid. “I just feel…sometimes I feel like you run to r
un from something…not just for the exercise.”

  Vance held his breath. He felt sick—wanted to vomit as the memories began to wash over him. What if he did tell her now? Would she be the one running from something then—running from him?

  He glanced down to Boston. He wanted her—in every way a person could want another person. He’d even come to the apartment, convinced he might be able to win her. He’d always known he’d have to tell her sometime—either that or she’d find out on her own. He and Danielle had made a pact long ago—a secret promise to never talk about what had happened—not ever, not to anyone—not until they were each certain the time was right. Danielle had obviously kept her promise. Boston knew nothing of what had happened.

  Still, as Boston looked up at him, her eyes conveying a promise of understanding, Vance wondered if the time had come to tell her. He wondered if she cared for him enough to work past it. He wondered if she could love him in spite of it.

  They were coming to a bench sitting under a streetlight on one side of the park path.

  “Do you wanna sit down for a minute?” he asked.

  Boston could see the pain and fear in his eyes. He doubted her. Whatever it was—whatever secret he’d been hiding, whatever haunted him and caused him to run—he was afraid of it, and it caused him great pain.

  “Sure,” she said, smiling.

  They sat down on the bench. Boston rather brazenly, but also instinctively, snuggled up against him. Vance smiled and put an arm around her shoulders.