by Keyes, Janae
Deciding to let the matter go, I shrugged. I could always buy another one. It was a mild inconvenience. In the past, I would have raged over the matter, but it was only a blip. I had to let my anger out elsewhere. Tomorrow, my fists and a bag would settle my rage.
Taking a deep breath, I began toward the train station, and as luck would have it, the first of my trains was just arriving at the station and I quickly hopped aboard.
During the ride, I thought about a decent motorbike I’d seen for sale near my house and wondered about its current availability. That would be my first stop before the gym tomorrow.
Slowly the train arrived at Central Station, and I got off to catch the second train that would take me home. The station was still brimming with a few tourists here and there I easily weaved through, along with the few locals and homeless who sat on the edges of the floor in hopes of someone giving them a Euro or two.
With my mind on the black and red bike I was hoping to get my hands on, I waited on the train platform and heard a sharp scream. My head snapped up to see a woman with shock on her face as a man ran off with her bag in tow, typical Brussels.
The man was coming in my direction and I took action. With an easy leap, I tackled the short man. His body slammed against the tiled floor with a thud as I snatched the shockingly heavy bag from him and tossed it away before my fists landed on his face the same way they’d landed in the face of my opponent earlier tonight.
It wasn’t long before blood was leaking from his nose and mouth as he begged me to stop. Maybe the rage from having my own property stolen had come out when I saw this woman have her property snatched from her hands by some low-life fucker.
With the sight of blood, some around began to cry out for me to stop, but what made me ultimately stop was the sound of children crying.
I was taken back to my own childhood while my father laid into my mother, beating her senseless as I was doing to this man. I was scared and the knowledge I could be scaring these children brought me out of my rage and into the present.
I stood from the man who pulled himself from the ground bewildered, blood pouring from his face. He looked at me, fear in his wide eyes, but it served him right.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I growled, my voice low, and menacing.
Knowing I meant business, he staggered away as quickly as he could manage, blood leaving a trail from where I’d kicked his ass.
The dark gray duffle bag he’d snatched from the woman lay near. Bending, I picked it up by the strap and stepped in her direction. The crowd began to part to allow me through to where she stood, her deep brown eyes filled with gratefulness as I handed the bag over.
“Me… Merci,” she stuttered nervously as she took the bag back with a shaky hand. She was clearly in shock from the entire incident.
I peered down at the soft pink embroidery on the bag. There was a name, Nina.
“De rien,” it wasn’t a problem taking care of the weak punk who’d made it his business to take advantage of her.
My eyes took her in. She was thin, but curvy and tall. Her dark hair was braided into long individual braids that went down her back. The dark skin of her bare shoulders was like a smooth dark chocolate bar with not a flaw in sight. There was a sensuality about her curves as she stood in all black with plump lips and delicately sweet hooded brown eyes. She was honestly the most beautiful woman I’d ever had the chance to rest my eyes on. She was one of those women I’d remember until the day I entered my own grave. Perfection.
That moment in time struck me. This wasn’t by chance. It was on purpose.
Chapter Two
Nina
I’d let my guard down. I didn’t know how. I grew up watching my surroundings and knowing exactly what was up and who the shady perps were. I grew up in Brussels and I knew all the risks. I’d seen it done plenty of times too. Tonight, after a tiring performance, I’d lost myself in my own head, in my own fears, and in my pulsing anxiety.
Every day was a battle with my anxiety, but as specific dates neared, it was easy to lose the control I’d gained. Like smoke slipping through fingers, my resolve was slipping, and my panic settled in deeper.
As fast as my bag was snatched off my arm in the crowded station, a white knight was quick to my rescue. The guy who’d not just gotten my bag back but beat the shit out of the guy who’d taken it in the first place was a beast of a man. He stood next to me, tall and bulging. The tight dark gray shirt he wore left nothing to the imagination and I turned away trying not to gawk.
With my limbs jittering, my breaths were hurried and sweat filled my palms. I fought with my focus, but I was losing it quickly with the last couple minutes replaying in my mind repeatedly. My own mistakes the most prominent in my mind.
“Nina, are you okay?” The stranger who’d saved my bag asked.
I hadn’t realized I was hyperventilating and shaking so intensely. With the racing of my heart, I felt like I’d completely lost control which only made it worse. I shook my head at his question.
“Where do you live? I can take you home.”
“Jette,” I managed to tell him.
“Perfect, me too.” He gave me a warm smile and even though I didn’t know him, it was comforting, the racing of my heart began to slow, and the churning of my stomach settled. I was grateful to the stranger who took it upon himself to take care of me. “Je m'appelle, Marc.”
“Merci, Marc,” my voice sounded small in comparison to his deep tone.
Wait.
It struck me he was a complete stranger that knew my name. It was strange only until I glanced down and saw it where it’s always been on my bag.
We waited side by side on the station platform in silence. There were whispers and eyes staring us down after Marc’s assault on the man who tried to take my bag. As if he sensed the attention we were already being given, he wrapped his strong, muscular arm around my exposed shoulder.
“It’s okay.”
I peered up at him and gave him a weak smile. With each passing moment of having him near, my anxiety lessened and eased. The only other natural thing which had that effect on my anxiety was dance. Dance kept me alive and kept me as sane as it possibly could.
Growing up as a black immigrant in a largely white country wasn’t the easiest. Technically, I wasn’t an immigrant, just the first of my family born in Europe, but still inferior to my white counterparts. As a teenager, my love for ballet saved my life, literally. It pulled me from the dark and lonely depths and breathed life into me.
With the train arriving, Marc kept his arm around me, and we boarded together. There was a single seat and Marc led me to it. I sat with my bag on my lap while Marc stood next to me, holding the pole.
Timidly, I glanced up at the man and took in his massive body. He obviously worked out and did so frequently and with apparent dedication. From where I was sitting, it was hard to miss the bulge in his dark sweatpants. I peered away so as to not get caught staring at his crotch, but looked back and allowed my eyes to scan higher over his clearly muscular chest and arms to his gorgeous blue eyes and bald head.
His eyes met mine and I quickly looked away with my cheeks heated. He was handsome as all hell, but at a time like this, I shouldn’t have been thinking about how delicious he looked. He was still a complete stranger who’d I’d just witnessed beat the absolute shit out of a guy and was now escorting me home.
Eventually, the person next to me got off the train and Marc took the seat. He peered down at my bag that had been stolen from me briefly. Just thinking about it sent my heart racing again. I couldn’t afford to lose the contents of my bag.
“What’s in the bag anyway? A million Euros?” Marc gave me a playful nudge that made me smile.
I shook my head simply.
“Just my gear but it’s fairly expensive,” I unzipped my bag and reached in to pull out a pair of powdered blush pointe shoes. “I make my living with these. They are kind of necessary.”
The train came t
o a stop and I glanced up to see my stop. I rose and Marc stood with me as we got off the train together. I led the way out of the station, across the dimly lit parking lot, and onto the street. We strolled together innocently, the dimness of the streetlights lighting our path.
“You’re a dancer,” he spoke for the first time since we got off the train.
“Oui. I dance and teach dance at the conservatory. It’s my passion. Not many people understand.” I shrugged. It was a fact of my life most didn’t understand how dance filled me, nor the emotions it evoked. Being on stage or with my students displaying my passion kept me from my darker moments.
“I understand. It’s not easy to explain how something that seems simple to others can make you feel whole. I’m an MMA fighter,” Marc explained.
I smiled up at him.
He understood in a way nobody had before. “That’s my place there.” He quickly pointed out a modernly designed apartment building I remembered being remodeled about a year back.
“MMA. That explains the ass-kicking you gave that guy back at the station,” I commented in a matter-of-fact tone as I hugged my black, off the shoulder sweater around my body.
“A little,” Marc gave a laugh and peered down at me as we turned the corner and arrived in front of a modest brick apartment building.
“This is home,” I nodded to the building I’d stopped in front of. “Merci beaucoup. I honestly mean it. You didn’t have to do this for me. I’m sure you have a family waiting for you to get home.”
“No family, just me, and I get it. Sometimes I get where my heart races and I can’t breathe. It’s not fun but we have to deal with it. Bonsoir.” With a wave, Marc turned away from me.
I watched him for a moment before I produced my keys and began to unlock the front door of my building.
“Hey, if you want to come to the gym. You can check it out. A body like yours, you’d be a good fighter. We’ve got a few women. How about it?”
Turning back to him, I saw the hope I might take the chance at coming to check out the gym he fought at. I didn’t quite know about that, but there was this bit of desire in the back of my mind to see him again.
“Umm, je ne sais pas.”
“How about you come with me and just check the place out?” This guy didn’t give up. I liked his attitude. I didn’t want to seem too eager and say yes, but I definitely didn’t want to say no.
“When?” I stood in a relaxed stance, my hands on my hips as I tried my best not to appear wound up over his proposition.
“Tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got some business to handle in the morning but tomorrow afternoon I can pick you up.” It was an offer I didn’t want to refuse.
Normally, I wasn’t one to jump at a chance like this. I considered myself reserved except when I was on stage giving it my all. Something in the back of my mind whispered to me this wasn’t by chance. There was a purpose to the madness of the universe, I believed that wholeheartedly.
“Okay.”
“Perfect. I’ll be here hopefully around une heure moins quart. Is that okay?”
“Its good.”
“Bonsoir et à demain.”
Once again, he bid me goodnight and turned away leaving me smiling. I finished unlocking the door and stepped into the foyer of my building. Unlocking the second door, I went about my usual and took the elevator upstairs. The entire time I was moving on autopilot while my mind stayed on the man who I’d only known for a short time but had intrigued me deeply. He talked about dealing with anxiety, from the outside looking in, I’d never expect him to deal with anxiety the way I had. He was different but in a good way.
* * *
I sat on my couch nervously awaiting Marc’s arrival and glanced down at my smartphone. It was twelve fifty-five. He was ten minutes late, but he did say he’d be around twelve forty-five and it wasn’t a definite time. Rubbing my hands together, I tried to silence the negative voices that crept into my mind with every passing moment of his tardiness.
Those voices had always been with me. They kept the constant reminder I wasn’t good enough or didn’t belong. I fought to keep my confidence and those voices generally came to tear me down.
They took on different people in my life—from my strict mother to my strong-willed father. There was my grandmother, and my brother every now and then. Old classmates and teachers would come through to torture me and scare me out of what I wanted. The harshest would be that of my ex-husband whom I kept buried deep in the confines of my mind under contents to never be allowed free but on occasion he’d leap into my mind and release his horror on me.
“You don’t mean nothing to those white people,” my dad would say in his thick African accent when I’d express wanting to spend time with my friends who were born and bred Belgians. “Do you think those white people would die for you? Eh? Do you think they care what happens to you?”
Growing up in an immigrant family was hard. I was the first member of my immediate family to be born in Europe. My parents fled violence in Mali in 1990 while my mother was pregnant with me. It was the two of them with my older brother, Jaheem. They struggled to make their way but eventually, my father found a job driving taxis, while my mother cleaned houses.
Later my father’s mother, my grandmother, joined my aunt, uncle, and their three children. It was family above all else but none of them understood me, I was different. I stood out and had adapted to European life. My struggle was different from theirs and my Belgian counterparts. It gave me uncertainty, fear, anxiety, and overwhelming depression.
My eyes fluttered down to my wrist where two of the many scars were visible. Swallowing hard, I shoved my sleeve down over them. They were my pain, my deliverance, and my secret.
The buzz alerting me to a guest downstairs pulled me out of my thoughts. Those were some of the thoughts I danced to keep away. I didn’t want to slip. I wouldn’t be able to afford another slip into the abyss of my depression.
Standing from my couch, I spotted myself in a mirror. We were going to the gym after all. I dressed in a dark purple pair of leggings with a pink tank top and jacket that matched my pants. My braids were pulled back in a low ponytail.
“J’arrive,” I said into the intercom in my apartment before I grabbed my small purse from my dining room table and pulled the long strap over my shoulder.
With a deep breath, I left my apartment behind. Taking the stairwell down, I tried not to hurry too quickly down the stone stairs to the foyer. I paced myself, taking relatively relaxed steps as my heart beat out of my chest wildly.
I reached the ground floor, turned the corner, and there he was standing in the foyer looking even more handsome than last night. He stood waiting in dark gray sweatpants and a gray hoodie. The smile on his face brightened as he caught sight of me. In the daylight, I was able to make out the brightness of his eyes better. They were stunningly striking, like the shallows of the Mediterranean.
“Bonjour,” he removed his hood before giving me the traditional kiss on the cheek greeting.
“Bonjour,” I greeted him as I stood back, awaiting what was next.
“Let’s go. I’m parked out front. You might need this,” he handed me something I hadn’t noticed him holding in the first place, a silver motorcycle helmet. As he turned toward the door, I froze in my tracks before he turned back to me and with a sly grin and winked. “You’ll be fine, promise.”
I trusted him.
Following Marc, we left the building and I saw parked out front was a sleek black and red motorcycle. It wasn’t a rumbling Harley but one of those sporty ones that made a loud humming noise as it sped through the neighborhood.
“I had a silver one. It was stolen last night,” Marc explained as we reached his new bike. “I bought this one this morning.”
“Wow,” I checked out the fast bike. I’d never ridden a motorcycle before.
“Come on.” Marc put his helmet over his head, and I followed suit. He mounted the bike and motioned for me to follow suit
.
Nervously, I swung my leg over the bike and climbed on behind him. Instinctively, my arms went around his waist to keep myself from falling off. I shuddered at the feel of his hard abs under my fingertips. Who exactly was this man? He was nothing like I’d encountered before and he was yanking me from my comfort zone while I tagged along in a way so unlike my reserved self.
“You’ll be fine, ma petite danseuse. Just hold on tight,” his muffled voice called. His Little Dancer, I inhaled deeply at the nickname as I gripped him tighter.
With a rumbling zoom, we were off. Buildings passed by at a rapid pace. Darting toward a busy intersection, I shut my eyes tightly and held on to Marc tighter as if it was possible.
Marc brought the bike to a stop.
I peeled my eyes open to find us waiting at the stoplight. The tenseness in my limbs just relaxed before the light was green and we were off again. It was a new way to see the city I worked in, danced in, and called home.
We zipped and zagged through traffic in the underground tunnels of Brussels. I nervously giggled at the mix of terror and elation which entrapped my body. The recklessness of it all was addicting and with each passing moment, I wanted more.
Arriving in the municipality of Ixelles, and the neighborhood I knew well, Matongé, Marc parked his bike in an alleyway. I swung my leg to get off the motorbike, tumbling slightly at a misstep when Marc grabbed me around my waist and steadied me.
“M… Mer… Merci,” I stammered in embarrassment, my limbs tense to keep myself from shaking under his touch.
“Ça va?” Marc asked, concern in his voice as his arm stayed looped around my waist holding me upright and close to him.
“Oui, ça va,” I anxiously answered.
Slowly, Marc’s arm loosened and my limbs relaxed as he took a step back. Yet, I instantly wanted him closer again, feeling the heat of his body searing me with its intensity.
Watching him take off his helmet, I remembered my own and quickly removed mine and handed it over to him.
