This one’s harder to answer. It cuts open old wounds. “My wife and I used to go there because she was worried that if one of us had a medical emergency and died, she didn’t want the other to be alone. The club offered that sense of safety. When she died, I felt lost, and the club became like a home. But everyone would tell me how great she was, how sad they were for me, and I felt like …” I never really dissected it until Amber forced me to confront it. “I lost my wife, my home, and Club Midnight was my last refuge. And that was slipping away, too. But then I put on a mask one day, went in, and no one brought her up—it was like getting back a small part of my life.”
I relied too much on Fox. He was a fantasy I thought I could never live up to. But lately I began to feel like my old self again. And it’s all thanks to her.
I’m about to tell her all of that when there’s banging on the other side of the line. She curses as the sound of wood shattering and a door being kicked down explodes through the phone. “Amber, are you okay?”
“Bo?” she whispers, and then there’s a scream and shouting I can’t place. I don’t know what language it is, but she’s answering back. I can hear panic and pleading in her voice.
“You think you could leave me?” The snarling male voice yells. Then there’s a crash and the line goes dead.
She’s in danger. I want to rip the IVs out, but I stop. I’m half-naked and I have no way to protect her. I should call the police. But the police mean questions, and she’s right, I don’t really know her. Instead, I call the one person who can help.
Dimitri picks up on the first ring. “Ryan, you okay?” His voice sounds concerned.
“Amber’s in danger. Someone broke into her house.”
The good-natured Russian on the other end goes dark and menacing. “I’ll call my guys.”
“Please hurry,” I say.
Dimitri adds, “My guys will come at a cost. You understand?”
“I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
The line goes dead and I’m left with my racing heart and soul-crushing anxiety. One minute, two minutes—there’s a lifetime of worst nightmares with every passing second. The heart rate monitor rapidly beeps. The TV show is doing a shitty job of distracting me, it can’t hold my attention for more than a few seconds at a time.
My phone rings as the credits roll for the show. “Is she okay?” The words rush out in a garbled mess.
“Amber is safe.” A woman’s voice answers, and at first I think it’s Amber, but it’s deeper, harder—someone who’s seen shit. Then I realize who’s speaking. “We’re moving her to a secure location,” Alana says.
“Can I see her? I just need eyes on her.”
“No.” Her tone is final, like law. “She was roughed up, but she’ll be out of the hospital long before you will. She needs time.” She pauses, then adds, “You both do.”
“But—” I start, and she cuts me off.
“She’s alive and safe, but it will be a long time before she’s healed. If I were you, I’d use that time to heal yourself.”
She hangs up. Relief and a new set of questions sit next to each other in my chest—relief that Amber is alive, and a gnawingneed to fix all the things I broke. The heart rate monitor beeps slow down as I take a deep breath. Amber is safe and alive …. I can’t help her heal or even be the glue to fix all the things I broke. And I don’t know how much can be repaired because I never bothered to ask her anything about herself. I only cared about how she made me feel. She’s right, I’m selfish. I won’t even get the chance to prove to her that I will do better.
