Page 1 of Towles

1

April

Isaw him standing by his bike as I was leaving the hospital. He reminded me of the man I’d just left on the third floor of the psyche ward. Anger spilled from every word I could hear him speak. Everything I knew from psychiatry told me I shouldn’t be attracted to the man, but when the universe dropped something onto my lap, I didn’t walk away from it. I embraced it. I doubted any woman would pass up embracing the man I watched.

He wore tight jeans torn at the knees, a leather vest with Brothers of Chaos on the back, and Pine Bluff, Arkansas below that. A shiny, dangling chain clipped to his belt hung from a wallet in his back pocket. I couldn’t help concentrating on the large arms bulging from the white tee he wore beneath the vest, his tanned skin deliciously radiant against the white sleeves. My entire profession told me to walk to my car, get in, leave, and not look back. I didn’t plan on listening to my profession because my profession didn’t know the things I’d been through.

His dark hair, cut semi-military-like, stood on end and refused to move in the sharp wind blowing through Pine Bluff. He turned away from the others, and I saw his face for the first time. He looked young enough to be my son if I had one. Those features made me feel old, even at thirty-five. His thin, sharp nose sat above dimples that belonged to a high school boy. The young man looked my way, and I pretended to fish something from my purse. One of the men next to him laughed. He did not. He had something on his mind.

Pain resonated on his boyish yet manly face, like maybe he came to see someone in the hospital—someone not doing well. He walked away from his friends toward the hospital, and I covered the ring on my finger. Why? I was happily married. I moved my hand, but it didn’t matter because he had completely ignored my presence.

One of the men called him back, and he turned, slinging his leg over the monster-sized bike and straddling the seat the way I wanted to straddle his waist. His shoulders stretched, and the tee threatened to rip as he reached for the handlebars. He looked too young for the bike, though his body commanded the beast like a ship’s captain. He squeezed the handles, and the veins in his biceps threatened to break through his dark skin.

I stood next to an ambulance and looked like a woman whose life had ended with marriage. I pulled myself together and started across the parking lot, stepping out of the way when a truckload of construction workers darted recklessly past. All the parking spaces except for one were full. The young biker and his friends blocked the only open space and didn’t look interested in moving.

The young God-like man climbed off his bike when the truck bumper edged in his direction. I considered recording the scene but didn’t want to get caught by men who had no interest in being recorded. The man driving flicked a cigarette out the window and said something I couldn’t hear. The construction workers laughed and jumped from the truck. None were as big as my young God, but there were more of them than the bikers. My counseling side told me to step forward and help de-escalate the situation. My brain told me not to step between the two groups of people.

The other two bikers remained seated. Were they scared? I watched the young biker—much younger than his two friends—approach the workers. He towered over the six men. I dipped into my purse again when he seemed to look in my direction.

The workers sized him up. If they were thinking of fighting, none made a move suggesting they thought winning might be an option. The young man’s expression never changed. His body remained relaxed and calm. Did he not think a fight was coming his way? No. He had an unwavering confidence in his ability to defend himself.

One of the workers said something, and the others laughed yet again. They pointed at my man-child, but again, they didn’t move. The workers had gotten out, thinking they were the predators. That quickly changed. My boy had never been prey, except with women like myself. I laughed at myself for thinking a man like him would ever be attracted to a woman like me. We didn’t match.

The leader of the workers said something to the dark-haired, statuesque man. He didn’t reply. His eyes said nothing. His face remained expressionless changed expressions. There was a dare, of course. I think he wanted all six to make the first move.

Two young nurses walked by and gawked at the young biker, whispering to each other what they would do to the man. I couldn’t agree more with what they said.

Man-child reached into his back pocket, the pockets covering an ass I yearned to grab. He pulled on fingerless gloves and shrugged. The other bikers shook their heads. One of the bikers seemed to warn the construction workers. He waved them back to their truck, but they didn’t listen. That was a male problem.

I’d dealt with a lot of angry men in my life. Virtually none of them had the kind of confidence man-child showed. Testosterone practically jumped from his skin and sat on his shoulders, waiting for a chance to join the coming fray.

One of the workers stepped back when the man-child said something. I moved between cars, working closer to where they all stood. I wanted to hear his voice, imagining it deep and emerging from his soul. I wanted to hear his voice in my ear, whispering profound and sensual words.

Nervousness filled the air, and the workers retreated a few steps. What kind of man could look at six other men and make them move away? The kind of man who knew exactly what he wanted and took it without question. Man-child had no doubt he could send the six men to the hospital for treatment. I think he wanted that. It would give him a reprieve from whatever weighed on his mind. Men like him saw violence as a way to deal with the hand life had dealt them.

The workers considered their predicament. They could climb back in their truck and park somewhere else or stay there and test the man in front of them. Against everything I’d learned and taught in my profession, I quietly hoped they would test man-child.

The other two bikers climbed off their bikes and stood. Man-child held out a hand for them to stay back.

The workers took several steps back, never turning, not wanting to lose eye contact with the man-child. The workers’ leader apologized, his voice squeaky and too small for his fat body. I heard him admit to a severe lapse in judgment and finally recognized it.

Man-child put his right fist in his left hand and pushed. Muscles bulged. I spent an entire career talking men out of violence, and for the first time in my life, I wanted to see a fight from start to finish. To cheer on man-child as he punched the six workers one at a time. I felt no shame for wanting this to happen.

Man-child spoke again, and the men nodded. It appeared the men had hope, a way out of getting their asses kicked. Like clowns in a small car, the workers somehow piled back into the beat-up truck and pulled away, their lives still intact.

The man-child stood his ground despite the truck driving right by him. He watched the workers, and the workers watched him. I couldn’t help but be disappointed that I didn’t see him in action.

After the truck passed between us, I found us staring right at each other. The stare lasted several seconds. The other two bikers joined him. They spoke to each other, voices deep and gruff. All three had eyes on me. If they decided to come at me, I didn’t have enough time to get away.

The two bikers and the man-child watched the truck leave the parking lot. The man greedily taking my attention clapped the other bikers on the shoulders, and they laughed deeply, music to my ears. My heart slowed, and I took a deep breath, though neither did anything to calm my nerves or the growing need between my legs.

I dropped my keys, and the men turned away. From this distance, I could not see the color of his eyes but imagined deep and blue, the kind of eyes that made other men cower and make women wet, especially this one.

They walked toward the hospital, man-child stoically in the lead, a biker on each side. I wanted to run to him and offer help, but he ignored my existence and passed within ten feet. I smelled leather and bikes and testosterone. Why couldn’t those smells be on me? Because men like him didn’t go after women like me.

Disappointment and sadness sealed my feet to the pavement. I finally tore my eyes away when they entered the hospital, and the doors shut him off from my world. I took a deep breath and grabbed the keys, dreading the same feeling that grew inside me every day on my way home.

The hot air inside the Mercedes did little to help calm the mess the man had created in my head. I started the car and turned on the air, spreading my legs, desperately trying to cool the growing heat and need.

---