Page 2 of Call Out
Burying my painted nails into a jumble of highly necessary items in my shoulder bag, I rummage for car keys.Reminder to self: re-organize the crap in this monster sized purse.Although, it's perfectly acceptable to carry extra packets of tissues and two mini bottles of antibacterial hand wash. Not perhaps the air freshener or lint roller. Always be prepared. That’s my motto. It was Nonna’s first, and then I adopted it when I realized the benefits.
There’s no jingle jangle. I drop to one knee and stare into the black hole. After a fruitless search and a loud groan, I tip the contents out onto the pavement. No keys. Just a heap of well thought out necessities. I palm my face and rise to my feet, peering through the driver's side window. Low and behold, my flashlight key chain is dangling from the ignition, and the car key is fully inserted. I yank the door handle to find the car one hundred percent locked. With my nose squished against the glass, it fogs, hiding the big fat blunder.
The spare set is at home in my kitchen drawer where all duplicates, batteries and chargers live. There’s no point going back inside to inform the residents that I’m a buffoon; they’ll just offer me a hot drink and too much conversation. Anyway, it’s still bright enough to be visible on the streets. If I make a dash for it now, technically I won't be walking home in the dark.
I glance up to the burnt orange sky overhead. “Sorry, Nonna. It won’t take long to get home.”
Thankfully, I’m wearing sensible ballerina pumps, which means I’ll be curled up on the sofa in no time. I hug my belongings close to my chest and march on. Let’s hope I don't get kidnapped by the mafia or bludgeoned over the head by a rock, or held at gunpoint for my purse.Why a mob of men would want my stuff is beyond me.
With a quick pace, I leave Blossom Grove behind. A prickle of risk licks my nape. I bet Nonna is glaring down at me, beyond annoyed at my reckless behavior. It’s not my fault I’ve no significant other to call on in my hour of need. Most of my friends live in the nursing home and can’t drive.
I half walk, half run, with fidgety fingers curled tightly around the leather bag strap. “This was such a bad idea,” I mutter. It’s like one of those scenes from the unsolved mysteries series.Girl missing. Bag found in the gutter. Car left at place of work. I’m subconsciously calling out to the universe and asking for something bad to happen.
A thunderous rumble breaks the peacefulness.Oh, shit. My pace quickens. It’s a gang of ruthless lady snatchers who prowl the neighborhood on motorcycles. I’ve literally manifested my own murder.
As the soles of my shoes pound the pavement, my heart hammers harder within my chest as if warning me of impending doom. In one hasty step, I break into a run. However, speed and shoes without straps should never be coupled. An unsteady wobble leads to a loose pump careening into the air behind me.
The engine roars hellishly loud as I tumble with an unladylike earth-shattering force. My knees crash to the pavement, skimming over a gritty surface.
Woman down. Ass in the air. Braid strangling my neck. After a sharp breath, the numbness subsides, leaving a stinging burn. I bite my lip, holding in a mass of frustrated tears.
Footsteps clatter until I’m greeted with immaculately clean biker boots and a baritone that introduces goosebumps into the equation.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” I nod my head as if it’s not attached to my neck properly.
Don’t make eye contact.
Nonna’s wise old voice chatters inside my mind as the boots move out of sight. I let out a breath and roll to my side, propping up on an elbow. Pomegranate wispy clouds merge with periwinkle, illuminating the immaculately presented matt black motorcycle.
The boots return, halting before me. “I think this is yours.” My eyes flick up to the offending cream pump hanging in the dangerous atmosphere between us. “Why were you running in these? Are you hurt?”
A surge of roaring heat blazes over my cheeks. I reach for the offending shoe while keeping my lashes lowered. “I’m fine. Thank you for my shoe.” When I lift a little higher, my knees bend, causing me to wince.
The stranger releases the shoe, crouches down and hitches up my shin length skirt. “Whoa!” I shimmy back, blanching as needles of fear spike my skin.
My wide eyes cut to his face. Well, the lower half of his face. There are pouty wet lips, a shadowy scruff over a square jaw and a black visor hiding his eyes.
“You’re hurt.” In one flick of his wrist, the strap around his chin falls open, and he removes the helmet.
Nonna, prepare me a seat beside you in Heaven.If this guy doesn't stab me in the heart, he’ll break it with his James Dean good looks. I’m not prepared to meet fiery flecks in the most piercing amber eyes I’ve ever seen. He looks me over, and true concern burns up in the furnace of his gaze.I’m in trouble.
He slides off a backpack, unzips it and hauls out a black pouch. A light clicks on, and he hunches over my ripped stockings. “Looks like there’s a few stones in your wound, ma’am.”
Before I can come to terms with his choppy coffee-colored hair and masculine shaped eyebrows, he lurches forward and whips my skirt up higher. His lungs expand, and he stills.
Oh no! This is it. I’m done for. Now he thinks I’m a hooker.He’s just gone and located my sheer black thigh-highs with the lace top. I have a smallish obsession with Hollywood glamor. It’s not apparent from my basic work attire, but underneath I like to wear the finest hosiery.
“These need to come off,” he says after a beat.
“Oh no you don’t, mister motorcycle maaan.” I somehow verbalize the randomness in my head, lingering on the last word because I know it sounds so stupid. “Next thing, you’ll try to see my love glove.”
His lovely shaped brows fly upwards. “Uh, ma’am, I don’t need to see your—” He gulps. “Love glove?” There’s a subtle face scrunch. “Your wounds need to be cleaned, or they’ll get infected. If you leave those on, they’ll stick to the dry blood and cause more damage.”
I flick my skirt over my thighs. “I’ll take them off when I get home. Thanks for your help. I’ve got it from here.”
“Let me help you. I know what I’m doing.” My breath catches when he bends over me, slides his fingers under the elasticized band and inches the mesh fabric down my legs oh so slowly.
Ishouldbe fuming, outraged and ready to defend myself. Ishouldalso scramble away from the man with his eyes on my thighs and his hand on my skin. Instead, I’m entranced by the seductive sensation. Tingles catapult into places I never knew could get so––tingly. This is shameless. I’m letting an unknown male peel off my stockings in public. An older guy at that. He must be nearly thirty, which means he’s experienced in all areas. My temperature fires up to scorching, and my pulse is off the charts.
