Bleed You Dry Sneak Peek

The following is an excerpt from my novel, Bleed You Dry.  This novel is available in electronic format for $2 through Barnes and Noble in the NOOKbooks PubIt! section at http://tiny.cc/bleedyoudry.

Chapter 1 -- Winter Night

Roman

The Nashville bar was filled with lonely women, lonelier men, and me.  I feared it would happen again.  I’d be forced to kill again, not for blood, but on principle.  I couldn’t see if the man from my dream was at the bar, but I saw her.  I saw his victim.  Her eyes were not dead and glassy, but full of hope and possibility.  I was the only one who could save her.

            She looked too young to be in a bar, and if she was old enough, she was not wise about her choice of dress or lack of company.  The East Side, or the Five Points as some of the locals called it, brimmed with college students, but women alone, and women traveling in small groups, had been robbed at gunpoint several times.  Car keys were once stolen from a man’s jacket pocket and his vehicle was found parked on a drug dealer’s front lawn.  The bars were fun, but people had to be aware of their surroundings due to the potential for danger.  She was completely unaware.

In Nashville, the bars were full of tourists, young people, or drunken men.  She sat next to the latter in a black sweater, a short skirt, and high black boots.  She smelled of shampoo, a floral perfume, and white wine on top of her natural scent.  Past her dark, shoulder-length hair, I noticed she was cold.  I studied the thin, blue lines of her veins splayed against the surface of her skin.  It was amazing how sexy a woman was to me after so many years – their long legs, their delicate faces, the arch of their throats.  A beautiful woman was tempting for a vampire, but they were even more tempting for men.  And there was a man waiting for her that night, the worst kind of man.

            A group of men stood near her, one of whom made a pass.  She made the mistake of looking at a group of men in the corner of the room and one took his cue.  She was too naïve to realize that a woman alone in a bar was like a wounded gazelle in the plains.  The jackals wouldn’t waste any time approaching the easiest prey they could find.  He touched her and she cringed before she sent the man away dejected, but cocky.  She turned her back to him and his friends.  It was unclear if she waited for someone, such as the man I dreamt would kill her, or put on an act to discourage unwanted attention.  Either way, she continually checked her cell phone. 

            I sat at a small, two-person table near the front door.  Though I had no use for alcoholic beverages, I ordered a draft beer and idly turned the glass in my left hand.  If it looked as if someone approached and could distract me from my mission, I averted my gaze to the local entertainment newspaper on my table.  While my intentions were pure, sitting alone in a bar, drinkless, and watching a woman from afar would spark the sort of curiosity and suspicion I couldn’t afford.  Practicing human behavior was often difficult for my kind since we were so far removed from it.  It required a vigilant and active effort.  Concentrating on blending in sometimes distracted me from the task at hand.

There was more than camouflaging myself that preoccupied me.  The bar was saturated with the scent of cigarettes and sound of blood pulsing thin and quickly from the alcohol already flowing within the humans.  It made it slightly more difficult to hone in on the girl.  Then, there was another smell and sound.  The girl’s blood at the bar slowed almost to a stop, but grew increasingly hot beneath her skin.  Her face was flushed and she nearly fell from the barstool as she gathered her things and stumbled toward the door.  I smelled more than alcohol in her blood. 

I missed something. 

            I saw the man in the grey coat turn from the group and I recognized his face immediately.  I saw his face as in the dream, his leer as loaded her into the car unconscious.  I saw her as she woke, wide-eyed in the home of the man that would kill her.  He would kill her because she was not like the others.  She would not slink out of the stranger’s house with her clothes in her hands.  She would not blush in shame over what happened, or over what may have happened.  She would not remember, and she would suspect he drugged her.  She would fight.  He would not like it. 

My eyes burned and I fought to keep the change at bay.  My lips barely curled over my teeth.  My fangs ached with the desire to rip his flesh and drain him of blood despite the fact it would taste metallic and thick with whiskey.  I hadn’t tortured a man for nearly fifty years, but I wanted to make him an exception.  I would’ve taken pleasure in breaking both of his arms, filling him with terror and drawing out his last, painful breath.

The man motioned to his friends before he disappeared from the bar.  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and followed her out into the dark.  He didn’t know that he was not the scariest thing in East Nashville that night.  I followed him up Woodland, from a distance, and he closed the space between himself and the girl. 

She parked on a side street away from the bar. By the time he caught up with her, both of her palms were pressed to the driver’s side window so she could keep balanced.  I heard the false concern in his voice as he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. 

            “Are you okay?”

            She turned toward him, her back against the car. Her arms were limp at her side. 

            “I feel…dizzy.  But…but, I only had one glass of wine.  I’m not sure why I feel bad.”

            “Did your friends show up?  Could they drive you?”

            She shook her head.

            “Her boyfriend got sick,” she murmured.  “Not coming.  But I’m …okay.  I think I can make it.”

            “I could take you,” he said as he touched her face. 

            She was unaware of her surroundings.  Her speech was strange and as soon as she failed to pull away, his pulse quickened with adrenaline.  I could smell it and the wave of adrenaline passed through me like a wind.  The bloodlust was strong.  The closest thing I could compare its power with, from my human life, was how a sudden wave of nausea could stop a man in his tracks.  If I killed him tonight, it would be difficult not to drain him immediately. Nothing tasted as wonderful as human blood pumping with adrenaline.  We didn’t need it, but when we tasted it, the chemical-filled blood sent us into euphoria.  

The desire for blood left me as soon as she crumpled.  She dropped her purse and her keys.  Her knees buckled, her head rolled back, and her body lurched toward his open arms.  He smirked, but before he could catch her, I swept his legs from under him.  As he fell, I leaned her body against the car.  I moved too quickly for him to see me and his surprised expression quickly turned to fear when he looked up at me from the pavement.  He was so enthralled with the hunt that he never saw me coming.  Unfortunately for him, I was also on the hunt.

            “What the,” he began, but when our eyes met, he crawled back a few inches.

            I took a step forward and considered what I should do with the man.  What I should’ve done with his friends back at the bar.  I grabbed him by the shirt.

            “Look man, I didn’t do anything,” he said.

            “Yet.”

            “I didn’t know she was with you.  I’m sorry.  Please,” he said.

            “She is not with me,” I said. 

I leaned closer to him and allowed my eyes to go fully black.  He reacted as I expected, as they all do when they see the whites of our eyes disappear and the pupils take over.  He was horrified.  I smiled down at him, my fangs exposed.

            “What the hell are you?”

            “Does it matter?  Perhaps I should kill you to be sure you will leave innocent girls alone,” I said. 

“You’re a vampire or demon or something, aren’t you?”

I grabbed his shoulder. 

            I imagined pulverizing his collar and shoulder bones with one tiny motion.  I wanted to.  I wanted to grind his bones into bits, dust off my chalky hands and leave his powdered remains in the street, but I couldn’t.  The girl still sat against the car, vulnerable, and the last thing I needed was innocent, human collateral.  I didn’t want her exposed if his friends approached.  I anticipated how she would react if she came to as I murdered a man in the street.  She’d scream and I’d have to snap her neck.  Or feed on her.  Or both.  It would undo what I went there to accomplish.  I knew I needed to get the girl to safety before the man’s friends saw us.

            I let the scumbag live. 

            While he was still seated in the street, I punched him and he bellowed in pain.  He clutched his face in his hands, but he was still conscious, so I hit him again.  After the second blow, he blacked out.  I dragged his limp body toward the curb.  I pulled the flask I’d seen him drink out of in the bar from his inside jacket pocket. I unscrewed the cap and poured whiskey on his clothing.  I hoped the cops would find him, discover he reeked of booze, and take him in.  Men like him were the worst.  He preyed upon women because they were weaker than him.  He couldn’t hurt anyone if he was in jail. 

Even if he was lucky, and his buddies found him first, they would never believe he was attacked, especially not by something supernatural.  His type didn’t like to ruin their reputations by admitting that they’d been beaten.  What would he say?  That a demonic creature with black eyes and fangs scared him, knocked him out, and disappeared with the woman he wanted?  His friends would assume he’d gotten drunk and passed out and the girl got away. 

I knelt down next to the girl to check her breathing.  As the girl slept, I searched her pockets for her car keys and lifted her off the ground.  I held her up with one hand and I opened the car door with the other.  I laid her in the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt over her thick, red coat.  Once in the driver’s seat, I pulled her wallet out of her purse.  I searched for her license and an address.

Emma Hadley.  Goodlettsville. 

The girl still hadn’t stirred when I put the car into gear and pulled out onto Woodland, nor did she wake when I merged onto I-65.  I tried not to focus on the smell of her skin, floral and oozing with the drug, or how it blended with the scent of half-eaten French fries and vanilla air fresheners in her car.  Though I wanted to keep her safe, I was still a predator with a predatory nature.  And being in close quarters with a human, especially one more helpless than usual, would defeat most vampires’ willpower.

I concentrated on what to do next.  If I’d left her in the car in the apartment complex parking lot, it could’ve caused more problems.  The police, or worse, more evil men, could’ve found her.  I wondered what I would do if I took her inside and discovered she had a roommate.  The girl wouldn’t believe that my only intention was to rescue her, especially since I didn’t call the police.  Or that I took it upon myself to take her and her vehicle home.

I decided I’d speak to her.  I’d reassure her that she was safe and nothing happened between her and the man in the grey coat.  I planned to speak to her though I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke more than a few words to a human.

It was an interesting night. 

                                                          ***

            Luckily, her apartment number was on her driver’s license, along with the street address, but the trouble was getting her into her apartment without being seen by her neighbors.  I moved fast, but I didn’t want to frighten the girl or accidentally hurt her.  I walked around the car to the passenger side and lifted her easily.  I cradled her in my arms, my left hand under her knees and my right hand just below her shoulders.  I held her close.  She still smelled wonderful despite the fact the drug oozed from her pores.

I only wanted to ensure the girl got inside safely.  My duty was to reassure her that nothing happened between her and that scumbag – whom I hoped had frozen to death on the side of the road that same evening.  I intended my contact with the girl to be brief before I left.  What could she or the neighbors do?  Call the police and explain that she was saved by a strange man who mysteriously vanished into thin air?  She’d be accused of being crazy and I’d be long gone.  It didn’t exactly work out as I planned.  

I climbed the white steps of her apartment as her purse and keys dangled from my left hand.  She was still curled up against my chest when I unlocked her door, wary that she may have a roommate inside.  As soon as the door opened, a warm gust of air rolled out of the apartment that was permeated with her scent.  She lived alone. 

I stepped inside her apartment and into her living room.  I set her down gently in a green chair on the far side of the room and covered her with a quilt that was draped across the couch.  I took in my surroundings more fully.  Most of her furniture was beige, clean and her décor was minimal.  The girl was fairly neat.  There were a few dishes in the sink, a pink sweater was draped on the dining room chair, and a few books were stacked on the floor in the living room.  Some were college textbooks, others novels, so I assumed she was a college student.

A few lamps lit the rooms and the apartment smelled like a wonderful combination of her perfume, cinnamon and vanilla. When I was a human, my sense of smell was rather pathetic.  I could barely smell food cooking in the next room back then, but now, all the scents around me were distinct and clear.  

She slept soundly in the green chair.  I considered carrying her into her room and putting her into her bed, but waking there was more likely to alarm her than it was likely to inspire her to hear me out.  I pulled a chair from the dining room table and sat across the room from her.  I crossed my legs, folded my arms over my chest and waited.  As I waited, I watched her.  I‘d been in close proximity to humans before, but this wasn’t the same.  Usually, I watched them from public places, either prepared to feed or to prevent disaster. 

I couldn’t remember being that close to a human, a human alone, without the intention of killing the person shortly thereafter.  Watching her was like watching a child sleep.  She slept slightly curled on her side with her mouth partially open.  Her chest heaved and her eyes were tightly squinted shut.  I imagined her sleep would have been more peaceful had it not been for the drug. The thought of the man enraged me all over again.

I wished I’d yanked his arms out of the sockets or ripped his appendages off like a fly’s wings.  He could never put anything in another woman’s drink if he didn’t have arms.  As far as monsters went, his kind was worse than mine.  Vampires killed quickly and painlessly if they wanted to, but men like him tortured his victims first.  They raped and abused them, taking their dignity before taking their lives.  His blood would’ve been horrible due to all of the alcohol, but I would have been able to watch him suffer.  I would’ve been satisfied knowing he was no longer out there, and he no longer a risk, because no innocent women would be fooled by his artificial charm.  His nights of raping women would end forever.  Instead of killing the ones he feared would turn him in, he would be the one to die and have his body disposed of.

I blocked the man from my mind.  I focused.  Though she might be slow to come to, once she did, I wanted to be prepared.  I didn’t know how she would react to me, but I assumed she wouldn’t react well.  What else could I have expect from a woman who woke and found herself in her home alone with a stranger?  A stranger who watched her sleep?  She might scream, or run, or fight, and I knew I had to be prepared for all of those reactions.  I hoped I could subdue her fear and anxiety and explain to her what happened.  If I used my powers, she’d believe me and be cooperative.  I prayed that I would not have to kill her after going through all this trouble. 

I’d never gone through this sort of hassle for a girl I didn’t know before, and I’m not sure why I did it that night.  Maybe I still had a soft spot for women in bad situations.  Perhaps I wanted to save those I could to make up for those I couldn’t save in the past.  Whether my subconscious reasons were for redemption, or whether it kept my moral compass in line, I knew the girl deserved a better fate that what that cretin would’ve given her.

The clouds parted outside and the light of the moon illuminated her sleeping face.  The light accentuated her radiant, olive complexion and she sighed in her sleep.  As the hours passed, she slowly began to look more relaxed.  She was deeply immersed in her dreams and she was safe.  Safe from everyone accept me.  Everyone accept a vampire.

Emma

When I woke up in my living room around 1 a. m., the room was dark.  I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck.  My muscles ached, my head pounded and I wondered if it was possible to get a hangover after one drink.  As my eyes focused, I saw a man sitting in a chair across the room. 

I pulled the quilt up to my neck and bolted upright in the chair.  I scanned the room for a weapon, and my cell phone, so I could call 911.  I started to scream.  In an instant he stood over me, his hand cupped to my mouth.  His speed alone shocked me into silence. 

“Calm down,” he said.  “I mean you no harm.  If I wanted to hurt you, I could have already.  Please allow me to explain why I’m here.”

The man was close.  I felt his breath on my face.  His voice was smooth and melodious.  My adrenaline, which kicked into full gear when I first saw him, slowly subsided.  I was strangely calm, though a strange man sat close to me.  His cold hand slipped from my face once he seemed sure that I wouldn’t cry out.  He sat sideways on the ottoman with his body turned away from me.  His profile was silhouetted with an angelic aura by the light from the kitchen.  He was attractive.  He had dark, shiny hair and ivory skin, but unlike a lot of men my age, he didn’t have any facial stubble.  I still smelled his skin.  He sat there, unmoving and silent. 

I closed my eyes as my head continued to pound.  It was then that the memories of that night flooded back to me all at once.  I stumbled from the bar to my car and rested against it.  I could barely keep my eyes open when the man in the grey pea coat approached and touched my face. 

“A guy followed me out to my car,” I said.

***

I remembered the bar was crowded since it was a Friday.  Close to a hundred people were crammed into the bar, though it was no bigger than a typical college student’s apartment.  The hum of so many voices talking at once filled the bar with a loud buzzing, but despite all the people in the room, I’d felt awkward and alone.  I hated eating alone, and I hated drinking alone.  Even if no one was watching, I felt as if people stared, judged me and wondered why no one was with me.  I sat on the last stool available at the corner of the bar, which was also next to a few men in their early thirties.  Amy was twenty minutes late already, which gave one of the men the opportunity to come over.    

I saw him coming. I tried to look busy and unwelcoming, but I mistakenly made eye contact with him as I scanned the bar for Amy.  Our eyes met, he smiled, and I looked away quickly.  Despite my attempt to seem disinterested in meeting new people, he mistook my adverted glance for flirtation or shyness.  From the orange slice perched on his glass, I could tell that he drank Blue Moon.  As he approached, he held the pint glass in one hand.  His other hand was tucked into the front pocket of his jeans as he swaggered toward me.  His gait indicated it wasn’t his first glass of the night. 

Though I wasn’t interested, I tried to be nice when men approached me in places like this.  I understood the courage it took for a man to approach a woman in front of his buddies.  Not to mention her friends.  A lot of girls my age used it as an excuse to be callous.  Shooting men down was often funny to a girl’s friends, so she used it to get attention.  But there was a difference between a man hitting on a woman and harassing her like a pig.  Some men just wanted to strike up conversation and make new friends. Others were only interested in sex, but those characters were obvious and often made ignorant or perverted comments.  It was those men that deserved the cold-hearted shutdown, not all men.  Not the nice guys.  I had a feeling the man who approached wasn’t the nice, wooing type.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?  Do you want to sit with us,” he asked.

 “Actually, I’m waiting for a friend.  But thanks,” I said, but I did not look up at the red-faced man in the grey pea coat. 

Though I was new to bars, I’d already learned that a girl didn’t make eye contact with a drunk if she wanted him to stop flirting.

“Come on, we’ll buy you a drink,” he coaxed and leaned around me to lay one elbow on the bar and face me. 

He looked like Paul Rudd.  His hair was black and curly and his face was angular.  Only this man’s face was flushed with alcohol and he was slightly huskier than the famous actor.  By his size, I guessed he’d once played football, but replaced the sport he loved with beer and a freshman fifteen, or twenty.  The man wasn’t unattractive, but he was socially strange.  When he talked, his face too close to mine and he slurred his words together.

“I’ve got one, but thanks,” I said politely as possible and held up my mostly full wine glass.

“You let me know what I can get you when you’re done,” he said as he rested his full palm on my thigh through my black, knit skirt.

I flinched. 

“I don’t know you.  Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t be uptight.  I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t need any more friends,” I said.

“Fine, but let me know if you change your mind, baby.”
I turned my back toward him so he would leave.  He turned and mumbled

something I couldn’t hear to his friends.  They laughed and gave each other high-fives. 

“Jerks,” I groaned and rolled my eyes and continued to wait for Amy to show up. 

About fifteen minutes later, she texted me to say her boyfriend, Mark, had gotten sick before she could leave.  She planned to stay home and take care of him. I texted in return, but kept my back to the drunks as I flagged down the bartender.  She wasn’t what a tourist would expect from Music City.  She didn’t wear plaid shirts, Daisy Dukes, or cowboy boots.  She was a greaser’s wife and she styled her hair like Bettie Page.  A tattoo of Our Lady of Guadalupe covered her from shoulder to bicep, courtesy of her tattoo shop-owning husband.  I asked her for the tab, and I signed, but stayed ten more minutes and finished my glass of wine.  After I sipped the last of the chardonnay, and looked to see if the drunken man would come back over. I stood up behind the stool, scooted it in, and pulled my red, wool coat from the chair.  As I pushed my arms into the coat, I became woozy.

I gave myself a moment before I walked away from the bar.  I’d only had one glass.  I couldn’t understand why my head pounded, why I was nauseated,  or why I couldn’t focus long enough to remember which pocket I put my keys and cell phone in.  I attempted to push the big, plastic buttons through the holes of my jacket, but after I failed once, I gave up.  I wanted to get to my car as quickly as possible.  Once I was there, I could rest.  I didn’t want to be the girl that had one drink at the bar and got sick.

I fumbled with my keys and purse and walked out the back door.  I didn’t want to be stopped by any of the staff members, so I tried to walk without zigzagging.  I kept my head down and concentrated on my feet.  My car was parked away from the bar and toward the residential side of Woodland.  I tried to focus on my feet. I silently reminded them to move forward, but I was distracted by how my skin felt.  I was hot with fever and I forced myself concentrate to keep from falling over.  All I thought about was making it to my vehicle so I could rest. 

If I was smart, I could sleep it off without being busted for public intox or getting a DUI.  I wasn’t drunk.  I was sick.  I’d known people with DUIs.  They were usually raging alcoholics that slurred their words, stumbled, hit on women unsuccessfully, crashed their cars or ranted about comic books.  I only had one drink.  Surely I wasn’t in the same boat.  By the time I got to my red Pontiac, I let my purse strap slip from my shoulder down into my hand.  I leaned onto the cool driver’s side window.  I knew I was sick, because even though I lived in the south, the weather was bitter.  Too bitter to enjoy, yet I was burning up and the car’s cool glass felt fantastic.

“Maybe it’s the flu,” I muttered.  I closed my eyes and hoped an officer wouldn’t come by and confuse my illness with drunkenness. 

I felt hands on my shoulders, but it seemed as if it took me years to turn around and see who it was. 

“Are you okay?”

I turned toward the man’s voice. 

 “Pea coat!”

“You’ve already given me a nickname.  Isn’t that cute.”

“Did I say that out loud?  Sorry.”

He smiled, “You okay?”

            “I feel…dizzy.  I only had one glass of wine.  I’m not sure why I feel bad,” I said. 

            I rubbed my forehead with one hand and looked down at the pavement.  He bent down so he could look up into my face.  His hands still rested on my shoulders.

            “Did your friends show up?  Could they drive you?”

             I shook my head.  I was afraid that if I spoke, I’d puke on him.  Then again, I wanted him out of my personal space, so puking wasn’t out of the question.

            “Her boyfriend got sick.  She’s not coming so she can take care of him.  I’m okay, though.  I can make it.”

            “I could take you,” he said.  His fingers traced my cheek and jawline. 

            I didn’t shy away, not because his touch was welcomed, but because I was too sick to care.  I was too dizzy to make a scene.  I began to answer him, but I lost control of my thoughts.  I felt my legs give way.  I knew I was going to faint.  I was going to faint in front of a stranger in the middle of the street.  I fell toward the man in the pea coat. My eyes swam.  I tried to reach back toward the car, but before I could catch myself, I felt a cool hand at the back of my neck.  Though I anticipated the pain of hitting the sidewalk, my body lowered slowly to the pavement.  I assumed I hadn’t cracked my head open because the man in the pea coat was just sober enough to catch me.

I sat on the cold side street with my back and head leaned against the car.  It was refreshing to feel the bitter ground and cold metal rise to meet my burning skin. My eyelids were like anvils, heavy with the sort of sleep I only experienced when I had my wisdom teeth removed.  No matter how hard I tried to keep my eyes open, I could only do it for seconds at a time.  Though it was hard to focus, I caught a glimpse of a second man under the dim streetlights.  In the few seconds I stayed awake, a man towered over Pea Coat, who had fallen into the street despite the fact that it was a clear, winter night without rain or ice. 

At first, I though Pea Coat was drunk and fell, but then it seemed that he was pushed into the street.  The second man made low grumblings at the drunk who cowered beneath him.  I could hear the sound of his voice, but I couldn’t make out his words.  Everything went black

***

“Nothing happened, let me assure you,” the stranger said.  He interrupted my thoughts completely.

“How do you know,” I snapped, but stopped when my hazy memories crystallized.  The events of the night became a little clearer. 

“Wait! You’re the man who argued with him in the street.”

 “I’m surprised you recall it.”

“I couldn’t hear what you said, but you sounded angry.”

“I was angry.  He was up to no good.”

“How did you know?”

“Instinct, I guess you could say.”

“And you protected me?”

“I did.”

“Not that I’m not grateful, but why?”

“It was necessary – and because I could only imagine how a creep like him could take advantage of a sick girl.”

“It was that obvious I was sick?”

“I could tell from across the bar.”

“You’d think other people would’ve seen it, too.”

“I’m afraid most people are not that observant.  If they are, they are usually smart enough to mind their own business.”

“So, he drugged me?”

“I imagine he or one of his friends did, though I didn’t see them do it.  I just figured it out as you were leaving.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing, really.”

“What do you mean, nothing, really,” I asked.  I hadn’t intended to sound as alarmed as I did when the words came out.

“Well, he has not given up the ghost, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What?”

“I didn’t kill him, if that is what you’re asking.”

 “What did you do?”

“Hit him.”

“You hit him with a car?” I screeched.  “What were you thinking –”

He held up his left hand, palm toward me, to stop me.  I was immediately quiet, but wondered if the cops were on the lookout for me now because I was last seen in the car that made Pea Coat into a winter pancake.  I imagined him splattered on Woodland Street, his puddle-like body surrounded by chalk.  The cops probably radioed out by now and looked for the car with his final expression on the bumper.

“I hit him with my fist.  In the face,” he said, once I calmed down.

“Good,” I said, as I crossed my arms.  “What happened?  Did he fight back?”

“No,” he said.  “He didn’t have the opportunity.”

“Why?  What did he do?  Run?  I bet he did, that coward.”

“He passed out.”

“And then?”

“I found your keys and drove your car home.”

“Wait.  He passed out?  And you left him in the street?”

“Yes.”

I laughed, and when I did, it hurt since I was still sore all over.  I must have grimaced as I grabbed my ribs, because he became concerned.

 “You should rest,” he said, as he pulled the blanket over my shoulders again.

“We should call the police.”

“I’m afraid that would not be the wisest idea.”

“Why?  They should know about him – about what he’s done.”

“Technically he didn’t do anything.  We can’t prove he drugged you,” he said.  “All they will know is that I assaulted the man and we fled the scene.  It would not look good.  Besides, telling them I was an innocent bystander that just happened to figure it out looks fishy, doesn’t it?”

“Is it fishy?”

“If it was would I have brought you here?”

“Good point.  Should I go to the hospital at least?”

“Probably not.  You should be fine.  A trip to a doctor would only spark questions that would involve the police.  The type of drug he slipped you is probably illegal and I would hate for the police to think you did those drugs recreationally.”

“People do that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why?”

“Heightened sexual experience.  At least that’s what I hear.”

“Oh,” I said and flushed with embarrassment.  I’d inadvertently invited sex talk from the strange man in my apartment.  Great.

Then, he was quiet, as if he was in another place, or had someone else on his mind.  He barely moved, barely breathed.  When I touched his shoulder he turned toward me slowly and looked at my hand as if it were something foreign.  Maybe he was socially inept.  Social prowess hadn’t been on the menu with men that night.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Roman Sykes.”

“Thank you for saving me, Roman Sykes,” I said.  I looked into his eyes, which were a deep, entrancing green.  “I’m Emma.  Hadley.  By the way.  But I’m sure you already know that.”

I extended my hand for a handshake, and when he took it, his fingers and hands were cold to the touch.  I assumed he was still chilly from the winter air and I considered turning up the heat to be a good hostess.

“You’re quite welcome.”

“And another thing,” I added.

“Yes?”

“How did you get into my house?”

He chuckled, “I wondered when you would get around to asking.  Do you intend to call the police?”

“That depends.”

He smirked.  “Really, on what?”

“Well, it depends on what intentions you have.”

“I never have intentions.  I didn’t want to leave you vulnerable, so I found your keys and your license.”

“And stole my car,” I said and returned the smile.

“I suppose so.”

He stood, went to the kitchen and poured me a glass of water.  He planned to leave afterward, but we talked for hours.  We talked about our favorite places in Nashville, movies, and books.  We talked as if we met under normal circumstances.  I was caught up in my conversation with him completely.  I almost forgot the guilt and worry associated with the near-incident. 

Though it wasn’t my fault, the thought of what could have happened to me that evening made me feel like an imbecile.  My father, a career Army man who’d been stationed at Fort Campbell, always warned me to watch my drinks and be aware of my surroundings.  Since I was little, he knew I was naïve and that I believed people were inherently good. 

“There are bad guys out there, doodlebug,” he would say, just before he reminded me how to hold my keys defensively as I walked out to my car at night.  My father would never know about this.  He would think all his lessons about fighting dirty against an attacker – by going for the eyeballs, the groin, or the ears – would have been in vain.  If it weren’t for my carelessness, none of that ever would have happened, and I didn’t want to imagine what could have happened.  My caution would’ve prevented me from meeting this gorgeous stranger.  Without my distressed situation, he’d never have noticed me.  I felt as if a pendulum was in my stomach, and it began to sway rapidly as Roman rose to leave.

“It’s late.  I should be going.”

“How are you going to get home?”

“I will hail a taxi.”

“I could drive you.”

“No, you should rest.  I will be fine.”

“Thank you again,” I said. I stood and followed him to the door, my blanket still wrapped around me.  “Really. Thank you.”

He nodded and turned to leave, but as if my arm had a mind of its own, it jumped from my side and grabbed his elbow.  He looked at it like a foreign substance again and I drew my hand away before I spoke. 

“I feel like I haven’t repaid your kindness.  Could I take you to dinner, maybe?  Or make you dinner one night?”

Maybe I should have been suspicious, but I wasn’t.  If he’d drugged me, he could have taken advantage of me during the time I was passed out.  But my clothes were intact and when I woke and he sat across the room.  Instead, I saw him as my own personal hero.  He was as worthy of my adoration as a man who pulled me out of a burning building.  In the moments before his reply I questioned myself.  Did I ask this man on a date?  Was I crazy?  Was it the Florence Nightingale effect?  Stockholm Syndrome?

 “That is not necessary.”

“Really, it’s no trouble,” I said.  My heart nervously flailed inside me.

“I’m extremely picky.”

“Perhaps a movie, then?”

 “Alright.”

I scribbled down my number and handed it to him before he disappeared out the door and into the dark.  That night, in bed, a million thoughts raced through my head.  It was hard to believe the evening actually happened.  Hard to believe in the way a first kiss is hard to believe the next day.  It was as if I’d woken from a dream.  There were heroes in this world.  Not movie heroes or war heroes, just ordinary people doing good things.  And before I knew it, I was asleep.

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