Blinded (13 page)

The drink feels good going down.

And you wait and listen to three more songs before you place your empty glass on the bar and decide to go find Jasmine.

Not again
.

You no longer hear that voice saying
You know better
.

Y
OU
’
RE IN THE RESTROOM WASHING
your hands and listening to the animated beat outside. You look in the mirror and see someone standing behind you.

He’s staring right at you.

You go to get a paper towel and the guy blocks your way.

“Excuse me,” you say.

He wears a black sports coat and jeans. He’s your size with a thick mustache and dark eyes.

“Someone wants to talk with you,” he says, his eyes unwavering.

“Who’s that?”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“I don’t think so,” you say, starting to walk around him.

You feel an arm wrap itself around your neck, and suddenly
you can’t breathe. It’s strong and quick and you think
God what am I thinking what is he doing
and then someone breathless and sweaty comes to the open doorway to the bathroom.

“Get out!” the man holding you in a brace shouts, along with a few expletives.

The young sweaty club hopper turns around instantly.

“Either I drag you upstairs or you go on your own,” he whispers in your ear.

You’re beginning to black out and you nod, not able to say anything, not able to breathe.

He lets you go and you fall to your knees, gasping, choking.

“Get up,” he says, oblivious to the fact that he almost crushed the life out of you.

You nod and hold up a hand and keep coughing. You stand and feel wobbly and start to go get something to drink, but the guy pushes you and tells you to move.

Outside the men’s restroom, you half expect to see Jasmine waiting in the hallway at the bottom of the wide stairs. But she’s not there.

Thank God
.

“Keep going up,” he tells you.

You walk up the stairs as music continues to dance and beat around you and strangers pass by oblivious.

“What’s this about?” you ask over your shoulder.

“Shut your face and keep walking.”

You pass a man dressed in black pants and a black dress
shirt who looks like he could bench-press you. The guy nods at the man behind you.

Where do these Herculean guys come from and what do they really think? Do they get hired to look tough and act like pieces of meat?

They’re doing a great job
.

You wonder if Jasmine is going to come back.

Maybe I should leave before she does
.

A couple passes by laughing hysterically and having what looks like the night of their life.

Why couldn’t that be Jasmine and me? Laughing and drunk with no cares and no responsibilities?

You reach the top of the stairs and a man stands there sizing you up.

“It’s okay,” the guy behind you says. “Second door on the left.”

You look behind and see that the man who strangled you is being accompanied by the big guy in all black.

You cough again.

Your head still hurts.

Your mouth is like cotton from the alcohol you’ve drunk.

Your heart is hung out to dry.

You wonder where Jasmine disappeared to.

Again.

“Go on in,” the guy tells you.

You open the door, unsure who you’ll meet, unsure what this is all about.

This is all your own fault, Michael
.

I
T
’
S
4:08
A.M. AND
L
ISA IS PROBABLY DEEP
into her sleep and Olivia and Peyton are in their beds tucked away and breathing sweetly and silently.

Meanwhile you’re standing in a room that looks like a small VIP lounge with several couches and glass coffee tables positioned throughout. Strange artwork with naked women in various provocative poses adorns the dark room with moody canned lighting. You notice a man sitting on the white couch, smoking a cigarette and watching you.

“Come on in,” he says in a calm voice.

You walk over to the couch and sit in a leather loveseat next to it. The door is closed but you can still hear the music from below.

“I don’t know what this is all about,” you rush to say.

The man looks to be in his forties. He has dark features and could be Cuban. He has thinning hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow. He wears light pants and a suit coat with a colorful shirt.

He doesn’t react to your comment. He continues smoking his cigarette and just watches you.

“What is your name?” he asks in a voice that has a tinge of an accent, tempered by years of living in the States.

“Michael.”

“Michael what?”

“What is this all about?”

He smiles. “Ms. Shreve says you have something for me.”

You look at the man and in the dim glow of the lights of this room, you notice a scar on the edge of his neck. It looks like it came from a knife.

“She told you I have what?”

“To make things even. To square things away.”

The man looks at you, watching, waiting. You wonder if he blinks at all.

The guy who strangled you and the big guy in black are probably out in the hallway waiting. They’re just a call away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man nods without expression.

“I keep taking the young lady at her word. It’s becoming a little difficult to continue to do that.”

“What do you think I have?”

He ignores the question.

“I would hate for something to happen to Ms. Shreve.”

“Where is she?” you demand.

“Please, no need to raise your voice.”

The man puts out his cigarette and then rests his arms on his legs, staring at you.

“What is a guy like you doing involved with something like this?”

“Something like what?”

He doesn’t believe your earnestness, but looks amused at the fact that you’re trying.

“You know, all I need is a name,” the man says. “Then your life is ours.”

You think of your license in your wallet.

No way is anybody touching me
.

Nobody is going to find out who I am
.

“Whatever is going on, it’s none of my business.”

“This is your business. I think you know that.”

You stand up, wanting to get away from feeling like you’re in trouble, like you’re being interrogated.

“Where is she?” you ask.

“I think you know that better than I do.”

“I just saw her a few moments ago.”

“Of course you did. Why else did you come here?”

You look at him and he acts as though he’s spoken with you a hundred times before.

“I don’t know what—”

“Please now. This is not worth the effort.”

“What effort? What are you talking about? I just met her tonight.”

“Did the plan change?”

You stare at him and shake your head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say in the most earnest voice you can utter.

“You being here means something, and I know that.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I just want to leave.”

“You can’t do that.”

He takes out a cigarette from the pack in his coat and starts smoking it. He doesn’t look bothered or worried in the least.

“I don’t know what this is about or what’s going on with you and ‘Ms. Shreve,’ and I think that it’s none of my business.”

“It’s only business,” the man says. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, but it’s not mine.”

“Where are you from?” he asks.

You look at the door and then back at him.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

He inhales the cigarette and blows out the smoke. He seems okay at your reticence.

“It doesn’t matter if you leave this club or this city. I have ways of finding people.”

“This is not my business.”

For the first time all night you feel like Lisa and the kids could be pulled into this mess, that they could actually be in serious danger.

It’s not just about you and a pretty stranger anymore.

This is your family they’re talking about.

They don’t know my name
.

All you have to do is get out of here. Somehow get out of here without their knowing anything more about you.

Jasmine knows your name
.

But she doesn’t know your whole name, does she?

“Uh uh uh,” he starts to say as you turn for the door. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Open that door.”

You look at the man as he takes a long draw from his cigarette. He grins and shows teeth in bad need of repair.

“Maybe I want to,” you say.

“And maybe there are fifty guys in this place who don’t really want you to leave. It won’t be my problem if you leave this room. It will be their problem.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And you don’t want it to be their problem. You want it to be my problem. With me, things stay calm. Things stay safe.”

“Look, man—”

The man curses at you and you begin to wonder if he’s going to do something instead of just sit.

“Don’t call me
man,”
he says.

This is a decision point. Stay in here with this little calm guy or go outside

to what?

and risk something.

Nothing about life is ever safe. Every breath and every decision and every second is a risk.

This is no longer about me and about the woman named Jasmine. This is about my family tucked away safely in Deerfield, Illinois
.

“Why don’t you stay and talk for a few more moments. Be rational.”

You breathe in and look around and then know that there is only one thing you can do.

“See ya,
man,”
you say right before opening the door and sprinting outside.

H
E STANDS A DOZEN YARDS AWAY
from the door, close to the wall. A towering figure of black, unmovable. You don’t think but simply run at him, doing your best linebacker impression, steadying your shoulder for the dig into his gut. But it feels like barging into a statue. The man barely moves while you feel your shoulder crunch and sense a tight pain and then go bouncing off to the side. The man curses and for a minute looks like a bull being charged by a Chihuahua, as if he’s wondering
What in the world are you even trying to do?

You roll to one side and get back on your feet. You glance at him and see a hand going to his side.

You don’t stick around to see what he’s grabbing for.

Where’s Jasmine?

The hallway is dimly lit and you don’t notice the other guy coming your way. All you want to do is find the stairs.

As you gain your balance, something slams against your back and sends you flying.

You manage to fall on your knees and your hands. Somehow you get back up and turn around just in time to see the man who got you in the armlock down in the bathroom.

Not this time
.

Fear and adrenaline rush through your body and are almost so thick that you can taste them. You see the guy coming at you and grab him by his collar with your left hand, slamming your right fist against his cheek.