Two days later, Michael found the card in his pocket on which Sandy had written her phone number. He turned it over in his hands, lost in thought. He didn't feel like staying home that evening, and Andy had left for Dublin the day before on business. In the end, he figured that a date with Sandy might not be the worst way to spend the night, so he picked up his phone and dialed the number. They quickly agreed to meet that evening at the Italian restaurant La Dolce Vita.
When he saw her arrive, he thought she looked truly beautiful: her long red hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist. The moss-green dress made her eyes stand out against her pale skin. Her lips curled into a smile when she spotted him, and as soon as she reached him, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
They ordered tagliata and mushroom scaloppine, along with a bottle of red Chianti. They spent the evening talking about their jobs and the many trips they had taken over the years.
At the end of the dinner—courtesy of Michael—Sandy led him to MoMa, one of the trendiest clubs in Oldgrove.
Anthracite-gray walls and hidden lights nestled in alcoves or shielded by frosted glass cast a soft glow over a space filled with plush couches and poufs in shades of white and gray, accented with polished chrome details that reflected the occasional beam of light. Sandy guided Michael to a secluded sofa, and they ordered a mojito and a Macallan.
By the second round, Sandy's hands had started to wander over Michael's chest and face. They didn't finish the fourth. Their glasses remained half full on the sleek lacquered table as Sandy led him toward the exit.
They reached the car wrapped around each other, and by the time he slid into the driver's seat, Michael was breathless.
"Where to?" he asked hoarsely, starting the engine.
"Cleric Street," she replied with a smile, her hands already tracing slow, teasing paths over his body.
---
At the Eye's Rock intersection, a black SUV suddenly cut them off. Michael hit the brakes and swerved, the car screeching to a halt sideways in the middle of the road. The surge of adrenaline was like a cold shower.
My God! he thought. I almost got us killed!
He shook his head and turned to Sandy. "Are you okay?" he asked.
She nodded, pulling her hands back from the dashboard, where she had instinctively braced herself.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. He eased the car back into its lane and lowered the window.
The cold night air was a relief. The arousal vanished completely, and clarity returned. Michael took a deep breath, steadying his heartbeat. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Sandy's legs and asked himself what the hell he was doing. One-night stands weren't his thing—neither with women nor she-wolves. Sure, when he was younger, his animal side had sometimes gotten the better of him, but it had been a long time since he'd lost his head like this.
Maybe that's exactly the problem, he thought.
He looked back at Sandy, who gave him a sultry smile. But now his testosterone had plummeted—along with his desire. He began thinking of a way out: he'd take her home, say goodbye, and they'd probably never see each other again. That sounded like a solid plan.
---
Alex opened her locker and grabbed a towel from her bag. She wiped the sweat from her face and the blood from her leg, where her opponent had given her a superficial cut that evening. Then she stuffed everything back into her bag, threw on her jacket, and stepped out into the alley behind the warehouse. She strapped on her helmet and started up the bike. She couldn't wait to get home.
---
She was riding down Lennon Street when she noticed something large on the sidewalk. She pulled over and dismounted. Approaching cautiously, she squinted toward the shape under the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. As the outline of a man lying motionless came into focus, she rushed over.
He looked to be about thirty—and he was completely naked. She circled him until she was in front of his face and saw the blood covering his features, the dark crimson pool spreading from his chest. She reached out to feel his carotid artery. A faint pulse confirmed he was still alive.
"Help me."
The man's voice—barely more than a whisper—startled her, and she jerked her hand back. Then she shrugged off her jacket and used it to cover him, trying to shield him from the cold.
"I'll call an ambulance right away!" she said, unlocking her phone.
"No!" The man's voice, though weak, was firm enough to freeze her fingers over the screen.
"But you're hurt!"
"No hospital. Please."
His eyes sought hers.
Alex paused for a moment, weighing her options. This man was in trouble with the law. But what kind of trouble? She herself had been in tight spots more than once, and the last thing she would've wanted was a run-in with the authorities. In a strange way, she felt a kinship with him.
"Are you a murderer?" she asked.
"What? No," he replied, holding her gaze.
Okay, we'll see, Alex thought. "Can you walk if you lean on me? I live nearby."
He nodded and gripped her hand with the little strength he had left. Then, drawing on sheer willpower, he dragged himself up and leaned heavily against her.
When they reached the freight elevator, she left him sitting on the ground, propped against the iron frame. She went back for her motorcycle and parked it, just as the first drops of rain began to fall heavily on the asphalt. The rickety lift clanked into place. With a firm tug of her left hand, she opened the gate and all but carried the man inside.
"Okay. One last effort," she said once they reached the fourth floor.
"Thank you," he whispered as she laid him down on her bed—then promptly passed out.
Alex went to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit. She took off his jacket and began assessing the damage. A deep gash ran across his chest, and another cut marked his left arm. His face and torso were covered in bruises and scrapes.
She grabbed bandages and disinfectant and began cleaning the wounds. They didn't look like knife cuts—they were jagged, irregular. More like they'd been made by an animal's claws. Once everything was cleaned, she stitched them up and wrapped them with care. Then she turned her attention to the abrasions and bruises.
By the end, the man was covered in ointments, gauze, and bandages. Alex peeled off her latex gloves with a snap and straightened up, rubbing her lower back. She pulled the blankets over him and headed to the bathroom—she desperately needed a hot shower.
---
As the shampoo and water washed away the blood and sweat, Alex kept wondering what kind of criminal the man sleeping in her bed could be. She had given him the benefit of the doubt mainly because he wasn't in a position to hurt her—and, well, because of that unspoken solidarity between people who operate on the fringes of the law.
While drying her hair, she realized she hadn't even paid attention to his face. Curious, she set down the hairdryer and returned to the bedroom. She stepped closer and leaned in to study his features in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
His facial structure was strong but not harsh. His face was framed by chestnut hair and a short beard that softened his jawline. He looked to be in his early thirties and, all in all, was quite handsome.
Satisfied, Alex grabbed a blanket and lay down on the couch. She fell asleep almost immediately.