Looking Death in the Face

Chase, who pushed between the gaping spectators and put himself between us and Danny, makes himself a roadblock. A really big, muscular roadblock that makes my mouth go dry.

But deep inside his drug haze, Danny doesn't register Chase's sheer size.

"C'mon, man, you need to go." A massive, bronze bicep bends up as Chase raises his hands to stop Danny.

"I need to t-talk to Ember." His bares his teeth and tries to dodge past.

"I can't go with him!" Ember cries.

"You don't have to. We'll take care of this," I tell her, putting my arms back to pen her in, so I can reassure her without looking away from the guys.

Unfortunately, our voices catch Chase's attention and he turns his head a hair to check on us. His eyes flick to me, concerned. Then, with the impeccable timing of a junkie, Danny throws a punch that takes snaps Chase's head to the side, and pushes to get past.

Chase jerks, grunts, scrambles for purchase. I brace and open my mouth to cry out, but Danny's already moving.

"Ember, you're coming with me!" Danny yells, even as Chase shakes off the blow and grabs him, throws him sideways. Danny flails, but somehow keeps his feet. Ember gives a broken sob.

They scuffle then, Chase the stronger, but Danny frantic and full of drugs. There's grunt, then in a blink Danny's on his stomach, on the floor, wheezing, roaring that they have to let him go. Chase cranks one of Danny's hands up behind his shoulder blade, and pins him with a knee in the small of his back.

"A hand, someone?!" Chase bellows, snapping them all out of their shock.

Three other guys leap forward to pin Danny's legs and other arm.

". . . he's trying to remove his girlfriend from the meeting. Get a cop here now." Trista barks down the phone, then snaps her fingers at the people gaping and shoos them toward the windows, out of the way.

On the ground, Danny's reduced to groans and cries for Ember. Chase shakes his head and winces, obviously hurt, but he doesn't let go.

My heart's in my mouth. Ember's crying behind me.

Trista snarls into the phone, "Yes, he's threatening. Send them now. And an ambulance!"

Time moves too quickly, even as it inches like poured honey. Amid Danny's roars and curses, and the shouted instructions from Trista. More adults, staff from the center shows up at some point and corral everyone into the corner.

Eventually, siren's wail in the distance outside and a minute later several uniformed officers rush into the room and spread out. Everyone breathes again.

More adults arrive. Trista and a woman I haven't seen before approach and usher Ember aside. Trista shoots me a grateful look as they walk her away. Three of the police officers move Chase and the others out of the way, pushing them towards the rest of us, while they handcuff Danny and work to keep him under control.

His screams echo in the room, my tension ratcheting up with every torn and ragged word.

Ember's a mess, mouth turned down and brows furrowed Chase keeps rubbing his hand over his head. Everyone watches in horror. I'm sure they all see what I do: An addict so wasted that he's lost all touch with reality.

I can't take my eyes off him because I've been there. And with Danny's screams assaulting the room, and adults snapping orders, I see what I was. What I could be again.

It's an ugly, ugly sight.

A warm hand lands on my arm and I turn.

"Are y-you okay?" Chase's voice catches as I turn and my eyes go wide.

His eye is swelling. There's a cut on his cheekbone where the skin's split, and a bruise already dark enough to be peek through his burnished skin.

The room seems darker, somehow, with all these people in it. but I can't take my eyes off Chase and his already swelling face. My first instinct is to gasp, but the concern must register in my expression, because Chase straightens and his lips go thin. I glare at him. He's just being stubborn.

"I'm fine," I snap. "But it's pretty obvious that you're not." Lips pursed because I'm so mad at this Danny guy for hurting people, more angry than I have a right to be, mostly because I'm still feeling the shame of knowing I've put people in this position before, I grab Chase and pull him toward the door.

"Where's the first aid kit?" I call back at Trista.

She turns like she's irritated and about to snap at me. But then she takes one look at Chase's face over my shoulder, winces, and nods, fumbling in her pocket with the hand that isn't holding the phone. More sirens echo in the streets outside. "There's a handicap bathroom down the hall. It has a locked cupboard." She throws me a set of keys. "It's the brass one. Get him mopped up then bring him back so the paramedics can check him out when they're done with this guy."

Her voice is sharp and commanding. She's worried about Chase.

Suddenly I am too.

I catch the keys in one hand and, grabbing Chase by his sleeve, careful not too jostle him, because he looks like he's only pretending it doesn't hurt, I tug him through the door and down the hall. It isn't until I've found the bathroom that I let go of his wrist.

I flip the lid down on the toilet. "Sit," I order, thankful that my voice isn't shaking. My skin is still tingling with anger and the burn of something I can't identify. My boot heels clonk on the tile floor as I cross to unlock the cupboard where I dig around inside for the first aid kit. When I find I on the second shelf I let go of a tense breath. He's going to be okay. That Danny guy hasn't done any permanent damage.

Get a grip on yourself, Kate.