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"I wish we could go somewhere to celebrate New Year's, Master."
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
"We'll meet here during your time off. I have no scheduled surgery for a week. I was thinking we could go to a special Fetish party for New Year's. Maybe you could pretend to get sick and we could sneak out and go. This time, we'd have to wear masks so no one would recognize us. The party I have in mind is in Brooklyn. There would be fewer people there that either of us would know compared to the one in Manhattan."
I liked that idea. It would be something special, and I was excited to see what an ordinary fetish club of ordinary Brooklynites would be like.
"What are you doing tomorrow, Master?" I asked, unable to keep from questioning him.
"I'll probably just stay around here. Play some music. You could sneak over if you can make an excuse to be alone for a couple of hours…"
I smiled. "I'll make sure. Will they dance at these Fetish parties?"
"You liked dancing with me the other night, did you, Ms. Bennet?"
"Yes," I said. "I did, Master."
I laughed when he picked me up and swung me around the way I'd seen my grandfather's generation do when dancing the Jitterbug. I giggled when he twirled me around, and then pulled me tightly against his body.
"I did learn in high school," he said. "Although I haven't had much time to practice. I know a few moves…"
Then he went to the sound system and sorted through some records until he found one. He pulled the album out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. When the song started, I heard some faint scratches.
"Rock Around The Clock," he said, smiling. "Bill Hailey and the Comets."
He started leading me around the room, showing me how to do the Jitterbug, tripping a bit over the loose Persian carpets on the smooth hardwoods. He picked me up, lifted me up high and then tried to swing me over his other hip, repeating the earlier move, but his foot caught on the carpet and he tripped just as I was coming down in a less-than-graceful arc. He fell backwards and we tumbled to the floor.
A little too close to the sideboard with it's sharp corner, which struck me on the side of my head, right above my eye. He was able to mostly save us, me falling on his body, his arm going back to stop the fall, but I still toppled against the sideboard. We came to rest on the floor, and immediately I knew something was wrong. Intense pain almost blinded me and I held my head. When the pain finally subsided a little, I was on my back on the floor, stars sparkling in my vision. Actual stars. Something like warm water flowed over my cheek.
"Oh, God, Kate," he said, his voice low, hushed. "You're hurt…"
He turned my face towards his using one hand, while he cradled the other against his body. I could barely see him through the swirling sparks of light. He left me lying on the floor, my hands touching the warmth on my cheek. My fingers came back bloody, and my whole brow hurt.
"How are you?" he asked when he ran back with some gauze and pressed the bandage against my brow. His face was pale as he examined me. "Did you black out at any time?"
"I don't think so. But I saw stars."
"Are you in pain? How many fingers can you see?" He held up a hand with three fingers out.
"Three," I said. "My head really hurt for a minute, but now it just stings."
"Look at me, in my eyes," he said, his expression so intense. I did and he examined the cut.
He exhaled. "Goddammit. I have to take you to the ER and get you stitched up. I don't have my bag here."
I smiled through the pain. "You have one of those little black doctor bags?"
"Something like that," he said, but h
e wasn't smiling. "Damn, Kate. You're going to have to just come with me. We'll have to risk it. That cut is too deep for butterfly sutures."
"You're the neurosurgeon."
After he bandaged me up enough, we took his Mercedes to St. Luke's ER. It wasn't the nearest hospital, but I didn't want to go to Harlem, because Dawn worked there. He didn't want to go to NY Presbyterian because he had too many colleagues and associates who might recognize us. The ER nurses at St. Luke's had me in an examining room within a very few minutes of registering.
I sat on the gurney in the tiny space and Drake stood between my knees, examining me, brushing my hair back, fussing over me like a mother hen. The young female physician entered and Drake stepped aside. She quizzed us about who Drake was and what happened. Drake related how we were dancing the Jitterbug, and he was clumsy and I fell and hit my head against a wooden table. She seemed upset that Drake spoke instead of me.
The physician looked at me carefully while I repeated the story. I watched Drake and smiled while I told it.
