by Amanda Rose
“Whoa.” Dov touched her arm, pressing lightly to keep her in place.
“I have things to do,” she said, stupidly. “I need to go.”
“Help her.” Ravi sounded out of breath. His words tumbled over each other, and his eyes were wild. He glanced from one face to another, and when no one did what he asked, he slid his arm around her shoulders. “I got you,” he whispered. “Call the ambulance, Dov.”
“Ravi…”
“Call them!”
The guys’ faces blurred, and Shira’s eyes closed. It was nice to be held. Far off in the distance, she heard sirens, but she wasn’t cold anymore. Her head lay pillowed on Ravi’s arm. I’ll just rest a bit. She didn’t know how, but she knew she was safe.
“Miss?” Body rocking, Shira opened her eyes. A paramedic shone a light at her, and she winced. The movement happened again, rolling her from side to side. They’d placed her on a gurney, and lifted her into an ambulance.
“Stop.” Shira didn’t have time for the hospital, or tests, or x-rays, or whatever it was she’d need to do when she got there. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Miss, you hit your head. You need to go to the hospital.”
“Worst case…” she began, forcing her legs over the side of the gurney, “it’s a concussion. I’ll rest at home.”
“Miss?” A deep voice spoke from outside the ambulance. When she glanced over, Dov watched her. Dark hair curled around his head, whipping around in the winter breeze. Dov. She liked the way his name sounded. Upright, she could truly make him out now. His skin was tan, like he spent a lot of time in the sun.
“Shira,” she told him. Her voice shook and she tried again. “My name is Shira.”
He wore a black peacoat, collar lifted around his neck to block the wind. The tall buildings acted like funnels, the wind whipped down the city street, slicing through people hurrying around the sidewalks. It was bitterly cold. “Shira,” he said her name softly before squaring his shoulders. “I’m Dov Hasmone. Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes.” She nodded along with her answer and a bubble of nausea threatened her. Moving her head was a bad idea.
“I’m a doctor. Please listen to the paramedic. You need a hospital.” His voice was accented, but not with a New York accent. He didn’t round his vowels, drawing out o’s and ou’s. English wasn’t his native language. She’d heard the accent before, though right now she couldn’t place it. Still, her mind sifted through possibilities. German? No. Spanish? Also, no.
“I’ll be fine. I have too much work to do. There’s paperwork I need to sign, yes?”
Dov’s gaze stayed on her. Shira could feel it, but she turned her attention to the paramedic. Something about the doctor’s green-eyed gaze made her want to obey him.
“Yes.” The man spoke into the radio affixed to his shoulder. “Patient is declining transport.” He reached over her shoulder for a clipboard and pen. “Sign here. Here. And here. You understand you’re refusing medical treatment against counsel?”
“Yes,” she answered, scribbling her name quickly. Her hand trembled, and her signature, when finished, wavered across the page.
She handed the clipboard back to the paramedic. It was difficult to climb out of the ambulance with her stomach threatening to heave and her head throbbing, but she did it, even if she had to clutch the side of the vehicle to do it.
“Thank you,” she told the paramedic, who merely nodded, shut the doors, and jumped in the front of the vehicle.
In a moment it was gone, leaving her on the chilly street in front of the Denny’s where she’d collapsed.
“You do need a hospital. I’m sure you have a concussion.” For a second, Shira had forgotten he was there. Or maybe she’d forced herself to pretend he wasn’t, but there Dov stood.
Disapproving.
A shadow of movement made her startle. It was almost as if she could feel the gun in her back again, and she jumped toward Dov, grasping for his coat. Smoothly, he wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her a little closer.
“It’s my brother, Ravi,” he whispered. His breath warmed her skin and she shivered. Embarrassed, she moved away, but he squeezed her waist a little tighter as if he didn’t want her to go.
She was relentless, however. Dov was a stranger, and as good, and as safe, as she felt in his arms, she shouldn’t be there. “I’m sorry,” she said. His arm skimmed her hip as it fell away, but he didn’t move. He still stood by her, a silent sentinel. “Hello.” Shira held out her hand, and then, glancing down, pulled it back. Her hands were filthy, gray from the dirty sidewalks. Surreptitiously, she wiped it on her coat. “I’m a mess,” she apologized. “But it’s nice to meet you. I’m Shira Rose.”
Ravi had the same build and tan skin as his brother, but his face was different, sadder, somehow. His eyes were heavily lashed and a scruff of stubble darkened his chin.
“Shira,” he repeated. He reached for her hand and brought it to his chest, covering it with both palms. “I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged and immediately regretted it. There was the movement that made her want to barf. Breathing deeply through her nose, she willed the sick back to her stomach before risking speaking again. “It happens. This is New York. Could have been worse.”
“Shouldn’t have happened,” Ravi said, staring at her intently, his accent caressing his words. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”
“She refused.” Rocks skittered across the sidewalk as Dov kicked at it. Why was he upset? She was nothing to them. Her choices didn’t affect them at all.
“I need to get home,” she said. The warm light of the diner tempted her. It felt as if her clothes were soaked through, and each gust of wind went right through her wool coat to her skin. “I’ll call… Shit.” Her phone was gone. Her purse was gone. She had no money and no way to get home.
It appeared as if the same thought occurred to Ravi and Dov, because they stared intently at each other. “It’s after midnight. Let us take you home.”
THIRD DAY
Shira pulled the sleeve up on her coat to stare at her watch. It took her a long while to decipher the time. Longer than it should have. But her mind wasn’t really on it being after midnight. It was coming up with excuses not to have these strangers, however safe they seemed to make her feel, bring her home.
Though what were her choices? Call her father from their phone? No doubt if she did, he’d drag her right to the hospital, and not to her apartment. These guys weren’t criminals; they set off none of the internal alarm bells that would warn her they were dangerous.
Except… she wasn’t sure she should be relying on instincts. Hadn’t she decided to leave the gallery, alone, near midnight to walk home? And then she’d just refused medical care against the advice of professionals…
“I can see you ruminating on accepting our offer. There’s no way for us to prove we mean what we say, so let us call you a ride.” Dov’s voice cut through her worries and she let out a sigh.
“Yes. Thank you.” A car she could accept. “Please give me your phone numbers so I can repay you.”
Both men shook their heads. “It’s the least we can do.”
What a strange phrase. They owed her nothing. If anything, she owed them. Dov removed a wallet from his pocket and pulled out a card. She took it between her fingers. Dov Hasmone, MD. Hertzburg Palliative Care Institute. Mount Sinai Hospital. His phone numbers were on the card. “Thank you,” she said, slipping it into her pocket.
So he was a doctor. Or he had cards that said he was a doctor. Ugh. She couldn’t stop second-guessing herself.
Ravi had taken out his phone and thumbed across the screen. “I’m getting you a ride share, but it looks like it will be a little while. Can we get you coffee?” Glancing up, his green eyes met hers. He gestured toward the diner.
That would be safe. Wouldn’t it?
Enough.
These were nice guys, and they’d done more for her than any other New Y
orker would.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Ravi grinned, white teeth flashing, and a dimple appeared on one side of his smile. It lightened his face, and made him look younger than he had moments before. There was still something dark in his eyes, a sadness or guilt she didn’t understand, but the smile helped.
“Our brothers are there,” Dov explained as she began to follow them and she stumbled to a stop, remembering suddenly the four shadows that blotted out the night sky as she’d lay on her back on the ice.
“We’re all in town for Hanukkah,” Dov explained. “We were on our way back from our grandmother’s.”
Shira nodded. Ouch. There was the movement that angered her head so much. “I need to stop doing that.”
“Can I impress upon you, again, the seriousness of ignoring a head trauma?” Dov stated baldly.
“What would you recommend if I did have a concussion?” Shira asked, but Dov didn’t answer. He continued toward the restaurant, staring straight ahead, his posture tight. “Dr. Hasmone?”
“Dov,” he ground out. He turned abruptly, striding toward her quickly. “You can call me Dov. And I’d recommend rest.”
“Dov.” She liked the way his name felt on her tongue. “I promise you. As soon as I get home, I will rest.”
Ahead of them, Ravi held the door open. He watched them, brows drawn low. “Are you coming?”
Without another word, Dov spun toward the restaurant. Shira followed a step behind, her stomach tightening, this time with nervousness.
The heat of the restaurant was immediately stifling. Even cold and damp, Shira began to sweat. The scent of fried food assaulted her. She was equal parts ravenous and revolted.
“There.” Ravi pointed to two men in the back. Both men stared at her, holding her hostage with their gaze.
Physically, these two couldn’t have been more different than the brothers she’d just met. Both were blonde, one with eyes such a piercing blue that they seemed to glow while the other’s were shielded behind a pair of dark-framed glasses.
But both shared the intensity and seriousness of Ravi and Dov. Their stare never left her as she negotiated the tight restaurant, careful not to knock into diners or waitresses carrying heavily laden trays.
As she got closer, they both stood. “Ravi. Dov.” The blue-eyed brother spoke, but his gaze remained on Shira. He had an accent like Ravi and Dov, and finally, Shira recognized its origin. Israel. Their native tongue was Hebrew.
“This is Shira Rose.” Dov gestured toward her, and she waved her hand awkwardly. He pointed to the blue-eyed brother. “My brother, Pascal.”
“Shalom,” she said in Hebrew.
“Hello,” he answered. She got the sense he did it just to be contrary.
“And this is our youngest brother, Yaphet,” Dov said, pointing to the man wearing glasses.
“Shalom, Shira.” The man held out his hand and Shira took it. Rather than shake it, he held it tightly. “I am so sorry about tonight. You never should have been injured.”
Another strange sentiment. But perhaps they were new to the city, and such things shocked them. Shira was just glad she was alive, and not in a morgue somewhere. “If this is the worst thing that happens to me, I won’t complain.”
Yaphet frowned and pushed his glasses higher with one finger. “Dov said you refused to go to the hospital. Why?” He was direct, but his tone wasn’t disapproving. He struck her as merely trying to understand her reasons.
“Because if I have a concussion, the remedy will be rest. Which I will get at home much sooner than I would if I went to the hospital,” she answered.
“You also said you had too much work,” Dov interjected, “so your excuse is not quite truthful.”
Shira’s face heated and she covered it with her palms.
“Excuse me,” an annoyed voice interrupted.
Moving aside, Shira made room for the waitress attempting to place cups of hot coffee on the table in front of Yaphet and Pascal.
“Sit down, Shira,” Ravi said, pressing a hand to her back before gesturing toward the booth. “Please. You’re pale and I’m afraid you’re going to collapse.”
Grateful, she slid into the booth. She happened to glance up, and met Pascal’s stare. He frowned, his bright eyes examining every inch of her face. For a moment she wondered if she was covered in dirt, but then he spoke. “Ravi is right. You are pale. Can we please get a Coke?” he asked the waitress, who nodded and left. “Sugar will help.”
The idea of swallowing the carbonated, syrupy sweetness made her stomach roil, but she didn’t reply. Hopefully, the car would be there before it arrived.
“Are you a doctor, too?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. Soldier. But I know enough first aid to know a head injury merits a hospital visit.”
Ouch. He certainly didn’t think very highly of her. But what did she care? Why was she letting these men she’d just met influence her in any way?
It had to be the events of tonight. She glanced at her watch, or today as it may be, since it was nearly one in the morning.
“I fell,” she answered. “And I only lost consciousness a little.” For some reason, she needed to justify herself.
Yaphet snorted and shook his head. His hair caught the light hanging above the table, highlighting the threads of gold in its depths.“I don’t believe one can lose consciousness a little. You either do or you don’t.”
Opening her mouth to argue, Shira cut off when Dov’s hand sliced through the air. “Enough,” he said. “Shira has said she won’t go to the hospital, and we have no choice but to accept her decision. Perhaps you’ll allow us to check on you in the morning?”
“Her ride is here,” Ravi stated softly.
“Well?” Pascal pushed for an answer. His hand, which rested on the table, was tightly fisted. He leaned forward, as if ready to press her more.
A waitress walked by with a steaming plate of eggs and vegetables, the smell of which wafted toward Shira, turning her stomach. She needed to leave. “Yes,” she answered distractedly as she stood. “That’s fine. I’m at Lohse and Gottleib House, the auction house and gallery. You can stop by.”
“You’re going to work?” Dov’s mouth dropped open before he snapped it shut.
“I’m curator there. We have our first art auction in a week, and I have more work than I can handle.” Why did she say that? She could handle it, of course she could! There was no other choice.
“Fine.” His lips didn’t appear to move he was so tense. “We will find you there tomorrow.”
Shira walked toward the door, but stopped and went back to their table. The men were as still as statues, their eyes the only thing moving as they tracked her. “I’m sorry I was rude just now. Forgive me. And thank you. For helping me earlier and for now.” It was amazing actually. These strangers had gone out of their way for her. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least we could do,” Yaphet answered, and tossed his glasses onto the table to push the heels of his palms into his eyes.
There was that confusing phrase again.
“Happy Hanukkah,” she said quietly. She didn’t understand them, but then, she didn’t need to. By the morning, they would forget all about her and she’d never see them again.
The idea filled her with something akin to sadness. Still, she waved. The car waited at the curb and she gingerly lowered herself in, resting her throbbing head against the upholstered seat.
“Where are we going?” the driver asked
Reciting her address, she happened to glance toward the diner. Inside, four faces remained framed in the window. She lifted her hand once again, but they didn’t reciprocate her gesture.
Slowly, the car pulled away from the curb. Perhaps tomorrow would bring another introduction, but she doubted it.
Putting her hair back in a ponytail hurt too much, so Shira left it long around her shoulders. It didn’t help with the rough-night look she was sporting, but from her reflection, there
wasn’t much she could do to improve her appearance. Dark circles framed her eyes, and the white around her irises was more pink than white.
Even her lips were pale. First, Shira tried makeup, but for some reason, her foundation seemed to enhance the lines and bags, and eventually, she just wiped it off.
White face, black hair, bags. She’d aged ten years.
Flipping down the bathroom light, Shira shook her head. Ow. The headache hadn’t abated, even after the extra strength Tylenol. If this was what she had to look forward to all day, she might as well get to it.
Shira made it to the gallery well before anyone else. She’d brought her spare keys from her apartment, and her emergency credit card so she could buy a card for the subway, but she’s was shit out of luck when it came to identification.
Glancing up, she eyed the camera in the corner of the entrance. Had it picked up the mugging last night? Would the police be by to confiscate it?
Confiscate?
Who was she kidding? Unless she went to the neighborhood station and filed a report, maybe pushed for a cop to take her statement, this would die the death of a thousand similar muggings. It wasn’t worth her time.
Narrowing her eyes at the camera, she made a note, after all this was done—the provenance backgrounds, the auction—she’d watch the recording and see what she could glean from it. Maybe she’d recognize her attacker, and she could stop them from doing this to anyone else.
Everything in Shira’s office was just like she’d left it. Which was to say, it was a complete and utter mess. Files were open, photos spread over the surface. The magnifying glass she used to examine the photos to look for gallery stamps or tags, sat on her chair.
Carefully, she removed her coat and hung it on the back of her door. The muscles in her back and shoulders ached like she’d been weight lifting, and she groaned as she lowered her arms.
“Rough night?” Carmen’s hand snuck through the open door. She held a white cup with a familiar green logo. “Here.”
