I knock and ring the doorbell but no one answers. I can’t very well tuck this envelope in the mail slot, so I head to the main entrance. The door is big and painted black. There are no sidelights, so I can’t even tell if anyone is home. I ring the bell and then try to lean over the side of the stoop to see if I can see any movement from the front windows. I wait what seems to be a long time but is likely only thirty seconds or so. Maybe I have the wrong address. I pull out my phone and am in the process of pulling up Malcolm’s phone number when the front door opens, revealing a husky man of indeterminate age, dressed in boxers and a short robe that hangs open.
“What the f**k are you doing?” he snarls at me. I start to reach into my pack when he grabs my wrist. “Were you taking a picture?”
“No,” I answer and try to wrest my wrist away. “I was calling Mr. Hedder to see if I had the right address.”
“You can’t take f**king pictures.” he rants and squeezes my wrist a little tighter.
“Sir, you are hurting me. I promise I wasn’t taking any pictures.” But my words don’t penetrate.
He repeats his claim, only this time there is white spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. He grabs my other hand and yells again, shaking me hard. “You shouldn’t be taking pictures of my f**king house.”
My heart is pounding, but I try to stay calm. “I wasn’t, sir. Really. Let me get your package.”
I should’ve noticed the wild, dilated pupils. Maybe the flushed skin was a warning or his disheveled appearance but none of it registered, so when the slap comes across my face, I only respond with dazed surprise.
The first blow is followed by another and then another. I’m trying to pull from his grip, but he has both my wrists captured in one hand. My legs kick out, but he’s unmoved by it. There’s a ringing in my ears and my face is on fire. I try to hold my hands up to avoid more blows, but he’s relentless. Suddenly he releases me, and I fall backwards down the stairs. I try to catch myself, but I’m so so dizzy. The ground rises to meet me.
And then he’s on me again, bludgeoning me with his fists on my face, my body. The pain is piercing and pulsating and I can’t breathe. I curl up and try to avoid direct hits to tender organs and then suddenly he’s gone. There’s a shout and a scuffle. I hear thuds. He’s away from me, so I try to crawl in the opposite direction of the noises. If only I can get to my bike. My hands scrape against the concrete, and I feel as if I’m leaving bits of me on the sidewalk but I’m okay with that. I need to get to my bike.
Despite my blurred vision, I think I see the curved back tire maybe ten feet away. I pull myself up on my hands and knees and start forward until a big hand drops on my back. My immediate reaction is to collapse into another ball. Raising my hands to cover my head and drawing my knees up, I cower. “No more, please. I wasn’t going to take a picture,” I sob out.
“Victoria,” I hear a deep male voice say. “It’s Steve. You’re going to be all right, sheila. Ian is on his way.”
Steve’s voice, so distinctly not American, is comforting in its familiarity.
“What’s a sheila? Is that like a girl kangaroo?” I ask, catching my breath. My fingers run over my helmet, and I cringe at the long crack I feel on the top of the plastic. My bike helmet helped cushion my fall, but it obviously didn’t make it through unscathed. I’ll have to get a new one before I show up downtown at my job. Struggling to my feet, I fight back a wave of dizziness. In the back of my mind, the presence of Steve niggles at me but I can’t think about that. All of my concentration is on not puking my guts out. I try breathing through my nose.
“Nah, it’s like the opposite of bloke.” Steve answers. “Maybe you should sit down before you—”
My sudden retching interrupts his words of advice and I puke right into the front bushes I was admiring. Groaning, I lean forward and rest my hands on my thighs. Lying back down on the pavement seems like a good idea. My legs buckle, but Steve is there to catch me before I do a header into the plants. He presses a white cloth against my forehead.
“You hit your melon pretty hard falling down the stairs, so you need to stay awake, girl.” He snaps his fingers in front of me. I decide that I no longer like Steve and his nasally accent. Jerking my head away is a mistake, though, and I close my eyes hoping that the darkness will make the pounding go away. Wish he would let me go.
Is it okay for me to sleep on the sidewalk in Brooklyn Heights? There’s probably a homeowner’s association policy against that sort of thing, and really, I need to get to Neil’s. I can’t afford to be late.
Heaving a sigh, I try standing upright using Ian’s driver for support. “What are you doing in Brooklyn Heights?” I ask, trying to figure out why there’s two of him. “And stop moving,” I order. He’s swaying so much that the motion is creating a double vision.
A squealing of tires followed by the hard slam of a car door grabs my attention, but when I turn toward the sound, nausea rises up and I bend over to avoid another bout of vomit. Heavy footsteps slap against the asphalt as if someone is running and then I feel Steve move aside and a new, familiar body settle next to me.
“Ian.” It’s funny how much being next to him makes me feel better. He strokes my back in sure, comforting movements.
He lifts the white cloth stuck to my forehead and hisses. “Oh, bunny, what have you got yourself into?”
The tender concern in his voice threatens to break the dam that’s holding back my emotions. “I thought Batman and Robin traveled together,” I joke lamely. “How come you and Steve aren’t together?”
It doesn’t make sense to me but not much does right now. I take a few more deep breaths and then straighten up so I can get on my bike and go—only the sudden movement makes me stumble and my knees buckle again. Before I can take another breath, Ian lifts me into his arms.
“Put me down,” I say. “I have to get going. What time is it anyway?”
I had it planned so that my last delivery would allow me to get to my job in time. Too many late arrivals and absences due to my mom’s illness have put my once-secure courier position in jeopardy. Ian’s arms tighten around me as I struggle, but then the pounding in my head gets stronger so I give in. It’s easier to lay my head against Ian’s broad chest and close my eyes.
He curses softly. “What happened?”