My foot came down on the brakes like a ton of bricks!
Damn! I really had an unfortunate talent for literally running into people! First on foot with Sam, and now in my car with this lucky guy, who I'd probably squashed into a bloody pulp! What would it be next? Crash landing a helicopter?
"Oooh..."
The low moan that came from the street level somewhere in front of me jerked me back to the here and now.
Reversing without even looking behind me, I drove back onto the sidewalk and came to a screeching halt. In a flash, I was out of the door and dashing past the car, leaving the Toyota running. The man on the ground, however, definitely wasn't running anymore. He had wanted to, judging by his sweatpants and sleeveless running top. But a little kiss from my car had changed his mind, and now he was lying on his back, groaning and holding his head.
"Oh my God!"
I ran over to him and knelt down, my hands fluttering, trying to find some way to check if his head was cracked or his ears broken, or whatever happened to you when you were run over by a car.
"Oh my God," I repeated, my voice choked. "I could have killed you!"
"No, no," he moaned shaking his head, and trying to smile.
Now that really pricked my pride. I was a double-murderer, after all!
"Of course I could have!"
"No, really, you don't need to worry. I'm not hurt at—"
"Don't argue! You are hurt! You could be a bloody splat on the road, and all because of me!"
"Well, if you insist..." I couldn't see much—he was lying outside the circle of light from the nearest street lamp. But I could have sworn that his grin widened. "I am writhing in torment. Should I crawl out of the way now? I'm sure you still have plenty more people to run over tonight."
"Oh God, I'm sorry. I... I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm just it's..." I slapped my hand in front of my mouth to prevent a sob from escaping. Suddenly, it all came crashing over me: Matt, Eve, the knife, and now this! Why did fate seem so determined to ruin everything good in my life? What would be next? Would Lucky bite off my little finger and choke on it?
Trembling, I sank to my knees beside the stranger, fighting against the tears that wanted to spill over.
"Um... are you all right?" he asked, cautiously.
I sniffed. "I just ran you over with my car, and you are asking me whether I am all right?"
"Err... yes."
"No, I'm not actually. I've had a shitty week. My whole life just got wrecked, and now I've wrecked you, and I don't know what to do."
He chuckled. "You didn't 'wreck' me. You just gave me a little nudge, that's all. And nothing is ever wrecked badly enough that it can't be patched up. All things broken are meant to be mended."
I wish I could believe that. I wish I could be as happy and easy-going as he obviously was. But my heart had been broken, and I knew that nothing and no one could ever stitch it back together again.
"Sure," I mumbled, nevertheless, wiping my nose. "Sure."
"Say, would you mind terribly if we got off the street?" he enquired, the corner of his mouth lifting. "This conversation is fascinating, but I wouldn't like to be run over twice in one night. Too much of a good thing, you know."
"Oh, yes, of course. Let me help you up."
Quickly, I wiped away the rest of the moisture in my eyes. Getting to my feet again, I grabbed his arm and pulled.
It had no effect whatsoever.
This made me for the first time really look at the guy on the ground. I mean really, actually look—not just at his face, but at the rest of him, too. I looked for... oh, it must have been a full ten seconds. There was quite a lot of him to take in.
Six foot three or so of lean muscle lay stretched out before me—and I don't just mean skimpy little stuff, like what had decorated Sam's and Matt's arms, but real biceps, broad shoulders, abs—the whole package, and clearly visible even through his clothes. Oh boy.
I may have stared a tiny little bit.
All right, I admit it, I stared blatantly. Finally, the guy propped himself up on his elbows, which made his curly black hair fall over his forehead into a face.
"Um... is everything all right?"
"Umm... what? Yes, yes."
"It's just that your mouth is hanging open, and you have a glazed look in your eyes."
"What? Me?"
"Yes. You didn't hit your head against the windshield or anything, did you? Does your car have an airbag?"
"Of course it does! And I'm not the one who got knocked on his ass."
I tried to help him up again, but before I could even take hold of his hand, he had shoved himself up from the ground and onto his feet. For a moment, he just stood there, rubbing the back of his head. I hovered around him, arms extended. I didn't really know what I was thinking—that I could actually catch him if he fell? Yeah, that was going to work.
"We should get you to a hospital," I said, taking him by the arm and attempting to maneuver him off the road. It only worked because he went willingly. Otherwise, I probably would have shoved myself backwards. "You should be checked out by a doctor. You might have a concussion."
"I'm fine." Flashing me a grin, he stepped onto the sidewalk. "I get hit harder every single day."
I stared at him. If ever I had not envisaged somebody as a domestic abuse victim, it was this guy.
"Um... your girlfriend?"
This time he didn't just grin—he burst into laughter. A deep, rock-solid laughter.
"No! My self-defense classes."
"You take self-defense-classes?"
I eyed his body, which was about as ripped as a piece of paper that just went through the shredder, wondering what he might possibly need defending from. Tanks, maybe? Small warships?
"God, no! I teach them. You see," he explained, "I work at a gym."
"You don't say." I let my eyes wander over his perfect physique, from the steel of his arms over his rock-hard chest to his abs, showing subtly under the smooth cotton of his running top. "I never would have guessed."
"What gave it away?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curving upward. "My superbly manicured fingernails?"
"No, your haircut."
"Dang. I'll have to change it."
"Don't. Long hair looks good on you."
He laughed again, and then winced, starting to rub the back of his head again.
I took a step closer. "Won't you let me take you to the hospital? You really should let yourself be checked out."
"Nah." He waved my concern away. "Like I said, I get harder knocks on the head every day. There is one thing you could do for me, though."
"Anything."
The word was out of my mouth before I could shut the stupid orifice. Damn! What if he wanted to know how much I earned so he could sue me for damages? What if he asked me to let him drive me over in return? What if he asked me to sleep with him?
Well, said a little voice in my brain, that last one might not be so unpleasant...
"Could you drive me home?" he asked, bringing me abruptly back down to earth. "I was out for a run in the park and was going to run home, but I don't really feel like it anymore."
"Oh. Sure." I gestured to my waiting car, hoping he didn't notice my ears turning red. "Get in. Where do you live?"
"On Second Avenue. It's not far from here."
"Okay."
He got into the passenger seat while I took my place behind the wheel.
"I'll say stop when you're there." He hesitated, then added: "My name is Chuck, by the way. Chuck Benson."
"Nice to meet you, Chuck. I'm Cassy Summ—" I clamped my lips shut. I wasn't Cassy Summers anymore. Cassy Summers had been Matt's wife. Cassy Summers was a killer now, on the run from everyone she had known.
"Peterson!" I blurted. That was Eve's last name. The one on my passport. My name, now. "Cassy Peterson."
If Chuck noticed my hesitation, he didn't let on. He probably was too busy with the black, furry passenger inspector who had just come to check him out.
"Meow?"
"Who is this beauty?" he asked, picking up Lucky, who promptly tried bite his nose off.
"Meow!"
"Careful! I don't think she does very well with strangers. I had some problems at a number of cat restaurants."
"Oh, we'll get along fine, I'm sure."
We drove in companionable silence until, next to a large apartment building, Chuck held his hand up and said, "Stop. This is where I live."
I swerved until the car was idling half on the empty sidewalk, out of the way of passing cars. Glancing up at him, I smiled an awkward smile. I didn't really know what to do or say around someone I had nearly killed. If I had finished the job, I could have found a freezer to stuff him in, but like this? What could I possibly do?
"Oh, well... I guess this is goodbye, then, Chuck. You still wouldn't like me to drive you to the hospital instead?"
"No, I'll be all right. But I was wondering, do you want to come up and sit down for a minute, maybe have a drink for the shock?" he wanted to know, leaning across the car towards me. It was a really sweet thought, and with his long hair and warm brown eyes, he looked at me like a large, hopeful puppy. I had never been able to resist puppies.
"All right," I conceded. "But only if Lucky can come, too. I don't want to leave her out here all on her own."
"Certainly." He nodded at Lucky and extended his hand. "Would Miss Lucky please accept my offer of transportation? I would be honored."
Lucky swiped at him, and hissed. I quickly picked her up, constraining her efforts to jump out of my arms and eat Chuck's eyeballs. Chuck didn't seem the least bit disconcerted by this.
"What a sweet kitty."
Somehow, I got the feeling that Chuck was the kind of person who, if a large Doberman tried to bite his hand off, would still laugh and say, "What a nice doggy." This immediately endeared him to me. I mean, it isn't the Doberman's fault that he likes human hands for dinner, is it?
Getting out of the car, Chuck unlocked the front door and started up the narrow staircase, me and Lucky following close behind.
"I'd let you go first like a gentleman," he told me over his shoulder, "only once we're upstairs, I'd have to squeeze around you, since it's my apartment and I have the keys."
I didn't complain. Walking two or three steps behind Chuck, I was just on the right level to have a direct view of his tight ass, which moved in a rather interesting way while he climbed up the stairs. I had to admit, it was the nicest view I had seen so far in New York. Far better than Central Park.
"Well, here we are."
"W-what? Where?" I blinked, abruptly torn from my contemplation of beautiful New York panoramas.
"At my apartment." He looked back, raising an eyebrow. "Remember? That's where we were going."
"Oh. Of course." I blinked.
Get a grip, Cassy! And no, not on that ass. On yourself!
"Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"
"Yes, quite sure, thank you."
He opened the apartment door and stepped in, holding the door open for me. The light inside was muted, and came from large, Japanese hanging lamps that turned this way and that. The intricately painted birds on the lamps threw warm, colorful patterns on the wall. The furniture was sparse and modern, leaving a lot of space—at least until Chuck stepped inside. With him towering in the middle of the living room, I could totally see why he preferred not to fill his flat with chunky furniture.
The only decorations were a number of posters on the walls. Somehow, I expected them all to show musclebound men and women, showing off their biceps and triceps and other cepses—but instead, they were photos of various consumer products, PCs, Polaroid cameras and cars: all displayed in museum showcases, in black and white, with captions saying thing like: "Last Car of the Earth. Used up the world's last drop of oil in 2123."
I had to hide my face behind my hand to conceal my smile. So, Chuck possessed a sense of humor, did he? And quite an interesting one, at that.
"Please, take a seat." Giving me a reassuring nod, Chuck gestured to a sofa in the corner of the room. It looked soft and comfy, and honestly, after several days in the seat of my car, I wanted nothing more than flop down on it and snore for a week. But he had said "take a seat," not "take a nap."
He waited until I was seated, then swiveled around a lone chrome chair and sat down astride, facing me. I could have sworn that the gleaming metal back bent an inch or two under the weight of his muscled arms.
There was a pause as we looked at each other. I bit my lip, glancing away. What to say? I had no idea why, but it suddenly felt so damn difficult to talk to live people. But I couldn't just bump Chuck off and stuff him in a freezer to make things simpler, could I? He was such a nice guy.
"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked, hesitantly.
"Yeah, absolutely. As I said, I get knocked harder on a regular basis."
Again, a pause. I groped for something to continue the conversation.
"And you go running in the Park?"
"Yes."
This time I didn't have to grope for words. My eyes did the groping for me. "No wonder you're in such a great shape."
"Well, being in good shape is kind of my job. Talking of jobs, what is yours, by the way? If you don't mind me asking?"
"No, I don't mind at all. I'm a vet."
His mouth dropped open. "Wow. At your age? That's pretty impressive."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes, of course! Where did you fight? Afghanistan? Iraq?"
It took me a moment to get it. Then I burst out laughing. Guys! "Not that kind of vet!" I held up Lucky, who hissed at chuck with all the vehemence of a homicidal maniac. "The kind that takes care of animals."
"Oh, right." He winced. "I guess I hit my head a little after all! Sorry. As if a girl as sweet as you could ever handle weapons or harm anybody."
"Ehem."
I wisely refrained from giving an answer to that. The knife at my side seemed to become increasingly heavy as Chuck and I chatted on, until at last it weighed a ton. I didn't really hear one word of what was said.
What was I really doing here? I should be in some lonely corner, crying for the lost love of my life!
Still, I stayed. There was something oddly relaxing about sitting in Chuck's living room: all around me was the space of someone whose life was obviously right on track, who knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. I wished I could be like that. But without Matt, all I wanted to do was run and hide. And maybe hug Lucky really hard.
"Dang! Where are my manners?"
Chuck suddenly jumped up in the middle of his sentence, smacking his forehead. I was surprised the blow didn't knock him out. "I forgot to offer you something to drink." He hurried over to the kitchen unit and opened a cupboard. "Wine? Sherry?"
"No alcohol, please." I held up a hand in protest. "I still have to drive, and I think I've run over enough people for tonight."
"Drive?" He came over, handing me a coke. "Where to? Where do you live?"
I grinned over at him.
"You expect me to just tell you that?"
He grinned right back.
"Well, you know where I live, Cassy, so if I turn out to be some kind of crazy stalker, you can always stalk me back to get revenge."
"Fair enough, I suppose. But I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I don't live anywhere."
"Not... anywhere?" The little crinkles that appeared on his forehead looked quite adorable. "You mean, you just... move around? From city to city?"
"No. I intend to stay here, all right. It's just that I haven't found a place yet." I hesitated. "Do you remember my mentioning the wrecked state of my life?"
There was a short pause.
"Yeah, I remember."
"Well... I had to leave home rather suddenly, and didn't really have the time to book a hotel room, let alone rent a flat. Until I had half the trip behind me, I wasn't even sure that New York was where I was going. It's all a bit of a mess."
The frown lines on his forehead didn't go away. Instead, they deepened.
"What happened?"
Thundering silence answered him. It stretched out for ten, twenty, seconds. Minutes, maybe? I didn't really know how long. And I certainly didn't know what to answer.
Well, Chuck, I'm a double-murderer on the run from the police. And the guy I killed? Yeah, that was my husband. It turns out that stuff like that isn't exactly conducive to a happy home life.
"Never mind," he said, abruptly, and I was surprised to see color in his cheeks. "It's none of my business. I'm sorry I pried."
"It's no problem," I mumbled. But of course it was. I couldn't talk about the love of my life with a man who was, after all, a perfect stranger to me. And I certainly couldn't talk about the fact that I had disemboweled said love of my life.
"Anyway," Chuck hurried on, apparently eager to change the subject, "let's get back to the important point. Do you mean to say that you're here, in New York, without a roof over your head?"
"Well... not exactly. My car has a roof."
He gave me a look.
"Okay, okay. I might be slightly homeless at the moment."
"We can't have that, now, can we?" Getting up from the sofa, he strode over to a small desk in the corner, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to me.
"Here. That's the phone number of a friend of mine. He's a night porter at High Tower Hotel. They're decently priced, and always have two or three empty rooms that are being cleaned, even if they're supposedly full. Mention my name and he'll get you one. It might be a bit dusty, or smell of window polish, but the beds are clean and the food is good."
"And you would do me this favor why, exactly? Because I ran you over in such a nice way?"
He grinned. "Exactly."
I rolled my eyes, but took the card anyway. Tipping back my head, I drank down the last of my coke, and rose to my feet.
"Well, thank you very much. Really, I mean it. But I'd better get going now." His grin was so infectious, I couldn't help but return it. "It was a real pleasure running into you."
"And it was a real pleasure being run into by you. Though, next time, I think I'd prefer it without your car's fender involved."
Next time? How likely was it that among the eight million pips of the Big Apple we were ever going to meet again?
Though, I had to admit, it might be nice if we did. Chuck seemed like a really great guy, someone I could easily be friends with. He walked me to the door, where I asked him one last time if he didn't want to call a doctor to have himself checked out. He refused obstinately, and I let the matter drop.
Just before I left, he held me back, and handed me a small, brightly colored card. It looked a bit like a business card.
"What's this?" I asked, smiling. "Another hotel's address? One is enough, you know. I don't have to store multiple bodies."
Not tonight, anyway. I did that last week, and used a freezer for it.
"No, no, it's not a hotel," he assured me. "I... Well, do you remember me saying I teach self-defense classes?"
"Yes."
"Sorry if I'm being an ass, but, you know, you said your life was messed up. And I just couldn't help wondering if... if it was a man who messed it up for you."
The way I jumped at his words was all the confirmation he needed.
"I see," he said gently—not pitying at all, just gently. "Cassy... if you ever want to learn how to keep men from messing with you, come by the gym, and I'll show you. It's my job, and I'm good at it. I'd be more than happy to teach you."
Oh, I think I've done pretty well so far.
But it probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell him exactly how well.
"Th-thanks Chuck." My voice was more than a little wobbly, and I ducked out of the door in a hurry.
"Cassy!" he called.
But I didn't look back, or turn. I couldn't face anyone right now. Tears were streaming down my face again. I already knew that I wouldn't go to the gym. Chuck might be able to show me how to keep a man from breaking my bones. But to keep him from breaking my heart? I didn't think so. And it was too late for that, anyway.
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Hi, my dear homicidal maniacs,
Please tell me your opinion of my latest character Chuck? Is he hot? Interesting? Murder-worthy? ;)
I'll be awaiting your feedback, sitting down here in my writing dungeon. Thank you very much!
Cheers
Sir Rob
PS: Oh, and by the way, during the latest chapter, I somehow forgot to sign the author's note with the noble title that you, my dear readers, so generously bestowed on me! I sincerely apologize! Rest assured, It shall never happen again, I promise! ;)