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He comes down to my level and looks me directly in the eyes.
“Can you focus?”
I nod, for at that moment, he’s completely clear to me.
“Jasmine. I’m not going to hurt you, but I want to get you out of the middle of the corridor. My room’s just down here. I want to take you to it because I think you need somewhere quiet. You're having a panic attack.”
I gasp. He knows.
“How?” I managed to splutter out.
“My mom. She suffered from them all her life.”
He opens his arms to gesture he wants to carry me. I don’t know why, but even though he’s a man, and I should run from him, something tells me I should trust him. Maybe it’s his revelation about his mother.
“Ok.”
He scoops me up and cradles me close to his chest. I’m still topless, and there are people in the hallway looking at us.
“Move,” he orders, and they jump out of the way.
I lay my head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. It’s regular and calm unlike mine, which is all over the place. It has a hypnotic effect on me, soothing my own panic. The anxiety of the situation weirdly seems to lessen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still on high alert in case the building blows up, or the man holding me suddenly trips over a nick in the carpet, sending me flying into the wall, but I am calmer. I’m no longer on the verge of throwing up the copious amount of alcohol I’ve had or passing out. My breathing is actually stabilizing. It’s surreal after all I’ve experienced.
We enter Heat’s bedroom, and he places me on the bed. He walks over to a drawer and pulls out a black t-shirt emblazoned with the club’s logo.
“Here, put this on.” He hands it to me, and I just stare at it. Firstly, it’s going to be the size of a tent on me, given how big he is, but secondly, he’s asking me to cover up and trying his hardest not to look at my tits. Is there something wrong with them? I bet he wishes they were all big and perky like the porn models. Well, I’m sorry mister, I’ve got natural boobs, and they’re size non-existent. Seriously, I want to punch myself in the head. What’s wrong with me? I’m getting stressed because he doesn't want to see my tits. “Take the t-shirt and put it on!” I reach out, grab it, and turning my back to him, pull it over my head. I can hear him clunking around behind me, and when I turn back, he hands me a bottle of water.
“Drink the whole thing.”
I take it from him. He’s already unscrewed the lid. I just have to flip it off and take a long sip. Water has never tasted this good.
“What medication are you on?”
I look at him and blink a few times. My breathing has slowed now, and I’m able to fill my lungs to full capacity. I’m also feeling a little chilly compared to the furnace that frequently overwhelms my body, which is akin to an erupting volcano.
“Citalopram.”
“You take the right amount or more than you should have?” He stands in front of me with his thick arms folded across his chest. His legs are slightly parted, and his thighs look the size of tree trunks in jeans, leaving little to the imagination. His features are schooled, but I can tell the underlying tension in them from the vein pulsating on the side of his forehead.
“The correct amount,” I reply and look down at the bottle of water in my hands. Right about now, I’d like to dive into it.
“So just the alcohol is impacting your judgment tonight, then,” he scolds. “Does Al know?”
“No.” I bite back and look up. “Please. You can’t tell him.”
“I’ll think about that one. Drink more.” He raises his chin toward the water. “You need to sober up as much as you can before I let you sleep.”
“Heat, please, I mean it. You can't tell him. He won’t handle it. I know it. Please, I don’t want him to get hurt.”
He comes closer to the bed and, without touching me, kneels on the floor in front of me.
“I need reasons. You’ve come in here tonight heavily drunk and started a fight with one of my brothers. It could cause problems in the club between that man and your brother. It could lose your brother his patch. You want me to sort this, then you got to start talking to me. I can’t help you if you don’t. I can’t help Al.”
I bring the water bottle to my mouth again and take a long drawn out drink to steady my emotions.
Five: bed, wardrobe, chair, jeans, leather cut. Four: ceiling, walls, floor, door. Three: distance music, my ragged breath, a heart beating. Two: water, a random orange on his dressing table. One: Heat.
“My name is Jasmine Walker. I was raped. It has left me with crippling anxiety but I will survive this.”
