Blinded (14 page)

You punch him in the jaw once, then in the forehead, then in the ear. You punch several more times and feel his body go limp.

He didn’t see it coming. He didn’t see those punches in me
.

As he falls down, you turn around and begin running. You know the big guy in black is coming after you.

You find the large staircase and bolt down it, sending a half-drunk bystander sprawling down the stairs. If only you could have done that to the bruiser back there. You turn and continue down another flight of steps, heading to where you last saw Jasmine.

A quick glance upstairs reveals the man in black coming toward you like a robot. He’s in no hurry.

You get to the hallway and run past an open doorway that
has a picture of a woman on it. You back up and go inside. A lady sitting on a stool looks at you without surprise. She’s listening to a boom box and sits beside a counter full of gum, cigarettes, perfume, and various items of makeup and hairspray.

“There a blonde in here?”

“Lots of blondes in here,” the lady says, talking ten times slower than you.

“Now. Like right now?”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“No. She came in here about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Nobody’s in here now.”

You turn and look toward the stairs.

“You sure?”

She nods and you go rushing out, away from the stairs and into one of the main rooms that has blasting hip-hop music. The dance floor is crowded with couples all moving to the beat and blending in to the vibrant yellows and reds from the lights.

You try to scan the room but it’s impossible.

Forget Jasmine
.

But a part of you can’t. A part of you won’t.

I’m getting out of here
.

You’re going to call him Johnny Cash, the man in black who stands by the door. He scans the room and finds you.

In his hand watch what’s in his hand
.

It’s not a gun. It’s a phone or a walkie-talkie.

You scan the room for somewhere else to go. Wall, wall, bar—

There it is
.

Another open entryway leads to who-knows-what.

A man in a white T-shirt and jeans stands there, looking your way. He’s not as big as Johnny Cash, but he looks mean. Chiseled arms. You’re not going to be able to punch him five or six times.

You have no other choice.

You meander around the dancers and then stop several people away from the new guy. He’s coming toward you.

You take the hand of a woman dancing by herself. You pull her to you, then bring her over toward the doorway. It’s after four and she’s good to go and she laughs as you mock dance with her.

Stopping in front of the guy in the white T-shirt, you hand her off to him and start sprinting again. The guy lets go of the woman and follows after you.

You pass a bar with half a dozen television screens. This is where Jasmine first found you, where she held you in her arms. A set of stairs, smaller, go off to the side. As you ascend them, you hear steps behind you. A guy calls out after you and curses.

Another floor up, you continue sprinting and find the main dance hall of the club. Only three people dance, the music still jamming and the lights still flickering.

I got to get out of here
.

You suck in breaths and feel the ache in your side.

You pause for a moment, then go back to the main area where the stairs are.

Your cell phone vibrates against your leg.

You continue up the main flight of steps. You must be on the second floor now. The music is different up here, more industrial and loud and violent. The dance floor is smaller and fuller.

You try to lose yourself in the crowd but it doesn’t work.

White T-shirt guy walks to where you are. He’s holding something to his side.

He approaches you and looks at you, motioning you to come with him.

In his hand is a gun. A small handgun, but very real.

You’re not going anywhere
, his look says.

He grins, thinking that the gun gives him total control.

He doesn’t realize who he’s got cornered. A rabid dog who will do anything to get out of here
.

Anything
.

Your hand goes toward his forearm. You find yourself trying to wrestle the gun away from him. Somehow you can’t believe your own strength.

Fear
.

You jerk and fight with the guy and it looks like the two of you are involved in some violent, brutal dance.

The music and crowd and the guy’s biceps and the jerking result in a loud shot that stuns everyone for a millisecond, then sends everybody in a panic.

You send an elbow into the man’s gut. You hear him suck in air in pain as he drops the gun.

Pick it up pick it up
.

People tear past you but all you can see is the gun on the floor.

Pick it up before it’s too late Mike pick it up
.

Someone’s foot sends the gun sliding across the floor.

You follow it and then dive to try and get it.

Somehow your hand finds the pistol. You pick it up and then get back on your legs and follow the crowd out of the club.

Halfway down the flight of stairs, you see the man in black.

Watching. And waiting.

People are tearing by you, a few women screaming. You decide to go with the crowd.

Watch it
.

As you get closer to the man, standing there, waiting, you look over the banister.

Use the gun use the gun it’s time to use the gun
.

The main entryway to the club is just below. People are streaming into it from three ways trying to get out. A gunshot in a club might not be a common thing, but people have an idea what they need to do when they hear it.

You go to the edge of the stairs and hop on the banister. You climb over the railing and then lean your body off, dropping the rest of the way. You make sure you don’t drop the gun.

You land on your feet. Hard.

As you go to run, something doesn’t feel right. Your left foot stings and you go hopping on it, following the stream of people.

He’s after you and you know it. He probably has a gun.

So do you
.

He probably knows how to use it.

What he wants—what they want—you’re not thinking of that now.

You follow the crowd and feel trapped in the mass of bodies and almost get tripped up but finally you feel the coolness of the night, seeing the people standing around and looking panicked and confused.

You’re not sure where you are or where Jasmine is.

Taking out your cell phone, you look to see the missed call. A New York number.

There’s no time for listening to a voice mail. The taxi you asked to wait around is long gone. You head down a sidewalk, the darkest one you can spot, hoping to find a cab or the entryway to the subway.

Your left ankle is tender and feels like it could give way any minute.

You look behind you and around you to see if you’re being followed.

You keep walking down the street, trying to get far away from this club.

The gun in your hand feels oddly comforting.

S
TEPS LEAD DOWN TO THE SUBWAY
. You keep turning around, afraid someone is following you, afraid someone will catch up and stop you from going any further.

You descend the stairs and feel your ankle ache. Trying to sprint anymore tonight will be pointless.

At least you have the gun. It’s resting against your gut tucked in your jeans.

At the bottom of the steps, a narrow graffiti-marked hallway leads to an open area where machines let you buy tickets. You purchase one, not sure where you’re going, not sure you even care.

As you hold the plastic card in your hand, you decide to check the voice mail.

Don’t do it
.

Maybe you’re tired and still a little buzzed and not thinking on full capacity. But night has almost turned to day and what are you going to do?

You’re still worried about Jasmine.

You press
play
.

The voice, of course, is Jasmine’s. Frantic but muffled. Talking very slowly.

“Michael. He took me—Riley came and he’s a crazy man. I’ve never seen him like this. I tried—I didn’t know what else to do—he made us go back to my place. He hit me. I’m scared, Michael. He stepped out for a minute, but he’s coming back and I’m scared of what he’s going to do—what he’s going to make me do.”

She pauses, then speaks deliberately, in a whisper. “Please come. Please help me.”

You ask the guy at the information counter how to get to Jasmine’s address in the Village. He gives you a few directions and tells you which stop to get off at. Your mind has always been good that way. Someone tells you something—instructions, directions—just once, and you get it.

You know where to go when someone gives you directions. Wandering around on your own—that’s when you get into trouble
.

The subway is surprisingly occupied with people and once again, you wonder when this town sleeps. If this town sleeps.

You sit and rest and listen to the tracks click underneath you and the sound of strangers talking in muffled, tired tones.
The cold hard light makes you feel sleepy. You sit and wonder what you’re doing.

You take a deep breath, in and out, in and out. Your heart is just slowing down.

This isn’t a television show. This is real and it’s your life and you feel the adrenaline still coursing through your body.

You work on a laptop and deal with numbers and theories and salesmen and women and you’ve never been shot at before.

How many people can claim they’ve been shot at?

The doors open at a stop. You look around the cabin of the train. A couple sit holding hands looking as though they’ve had a long night and that night is coming to a close. A homeless guy sleeps in a corner. An African-American man looks as though he’s on his way to work. A young lady looks like a tourist.

Then you see the well-dressed Asian guy, looking your way, not hesitating when you glance at him.

For a moment you think it’s the guy who held a gun to your face in the back of the town car. But it’s not.

This guy is wearing a coat and looks wide awake and sits in a seat close by.

When did you get on?

You can’t remember seeing him get on, but you didn’t pay much attention right after you first stepped on here and sat down.

Was he at the club?

Which club, another voice asks you.

You don’t know why the man at the club was interrogating you. Why the men picked you up and drove you to the middle of nowhere. And why an ex-boyfriend has seemed hell-bent on finding Jasmine tonight and making life miserable for you.

You know exactly why
.

It’s the weakness of men like yourself and others everywhere. A woman like Jasmine—she is rare indeed.

Outwardly
.

Yes, you don’t know anything about her. She’s confident and enticing but you don’t
really
know her, do you?

Can a gorgeous face and body have this sort of effect on a man like you?

The train passes in the night and you feel the jerking motion and close your eyes for a second. You can see Jasmine’s lips, her long hair, eyes that move and melt you.

You are that weak. You know it. You can admit it, here, early in the morning, in the train car heading back to a stranger’s apartment.

She might be in trouble
.

And you might be too, another voice says. Why risk it?

Risk what?

You picture Lisa and Olivia and Peyton. The home and the family and the life you’ve spent so long trying to build, that you have helped build, that should be standing firm.

A firm foundation
.

You wonder if that’s what you have. Have you ever had a firm foundation? What does that saying really, truly mean?

The song about building your house on the sand or on the stone—is it stone, what is it again?—runs through your mind.

How could you throw it all away just for

for what?

a night with a beautiful woman?

You gotta get perspective.

The Asian man with the chiseled jaw hasn’t stopped looking at you, watching you, almost waiting. He has remarkably pale skin, flawless in its complexion.

What am I doing?

You’ve asked yourself this question a hundred times. A sinking, clawing feeling rips open your inside. You can feel your heart beating.

Turn around
.

You don’t know what’s out there when you get off this train. What’s up those steps and out on those streets and in that high-rise.

Trouble
.

But the stop comes and you stand up, your ankle burning.

You step off. For a moment, nobody is around you.

Then you see him twenty yards away, the well-dressed stranger who has been staring at you for some time.

Do I run?

You can’t run and you know it. You turn around and start heading out, up stairs that you have to ascend slowly.

The man is lagging behind.