3. Elizabeth
THREE
ELIZABETH
I AM CHOKING AND GASPING for breath. The surrounding air is thick and heavy. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, because the burning sensation of the chemicals is so overpowering. I reactively blink and squeeze my eyelids tightly to stop the stinging, but all that does is give me a dull headache at my temples.
I’m not sure what to do with my hands first, as I indecisively alternate between rubbing the corners of my eyes and grasping at my throat, almost breaking the delicate gold chain hanging around my neck. I desperately need fresh air, but my lungs are being denied what they crave most and like the idiot I am, I have paid no attention to where the exit doors are located. This is exactly what I deserve for not listening to my inner voice. My instincts. My gut. The voice that told me to just keep my ass at Sloan’s, eat ramen, and watch Netflix.
Panic swells inside of my chest. Was it those girls that did this? Although I know that a little pepper spray never killed anyone, I am also well aware of the pandemonium that spraying it in a confined location can cause. I wonder if people feel this type of dread right before they meet death, like in the final five seconds before a fatal car collision or a plane crash.
While I can’t see very much, especially at a distance, I can definitely hear the quickening click-clack sounds of women’s stilettos and the growing chant of deep male voices straining the words, “Push! Push!” in unison.
After a few high-pitched screams, I realize that the surrounding hysteria is starting to mushroom, and I am certain that the shrieks are coming from young women being pushed and crushed not only at the front doors but through the other exit side doors as well. Without consideration of others, people are running, pushing, and stepping on top of other people’s bodies to get out of the club as fast as they can.
Not. Good. At. All.
The level of danger in the room is rising at an accelerated pace, and I realize that I need an exit plan and fast, because getting out of the club through the main doors unscathed doesn’t seem to be in my immediate future. I don’t see her at first, but am relieved when Sloan grabs me from behind by the shoulders. “It’s me, Bitsy.”
“Thank God,” I exhale.
Sloan coughs a bit while spitting out her idea of an exit plan. “We’ll get trampled if we stay by the bar or if we try to leave now. Let’s hide behind the speaker over there. When it thins out, we’ll leave.”
“I can’t breathe,” I say, and frankly I don’t really like her exit strategy.
Hide in the middle of a chemical apocalypse? So at this point I am freaking out, but I also don’t have any other better ideas, especially with the three drinks I’ve consumed clouding any coherent judgment I have left.
Since I don’t want to compound the issue by totally losing it, I take a few deep yoga breaths (not easy since the air is filled with pepper spray), while I continue to consider her suggestion. I can feel Sloan carefully studying my face. She knows I’m on the verge of a meltdown.
“I can’t see the exit, Bitsy,” she explains slowly to me like I’m an idiot. “But I definitely hear people getting mashed. Trust me, the best thing to do is to wait this out. We’ll be fine. Take shallow breaths and hold on to me.” She pats my shoulder in an attempt to calm me. I’m pretty sure she can see the fear all over my face and oozing out of my pores. I hate who I’ve become since that night. I reluctantly offer a soft, “ok” in agreement and follow her lead. Both of us moving low to the ground.
Sloan’s plan to get us out of the club in one piece includes having us, much to my horror, crawl on all fours to hide behind a huge sound speaker that I pray is unplugged or blown out, so that I’ll still have my hearing by the end of the night. In my favorite and only pair of two-hundred-dollar jeans, a halter top, and platform heels we start our trek towards the speaker by crawling our way across the gritty, sticky, concrete floor of one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. Or so I’ve been told.
Sloan turns her head. “Don’t stare at my ass. I’m going on a Paleo diet on Monday.”
I grin at the fact that Sloan is either trying desperately to make me laugh or that she’s extremely delusional. There is nothing fat about her ass. I wish I had that ass.
As we hesitantly creep across the floor of the club, we discover all sorts of disgusting surprises with the palms of our hands. Flattened pieces of chewing gum, small puddles of beer, droplets of wine, bits of paper, grit and dirt. Really gross stuff and somewhat surprising considering where we were, plus it wasn’t even that late yet. How can all this crap be on the floor already? I just pray to myself that no one has spit on the floor.
That would be IT for me.
“I can’t believe this nonsense.” Sloan stops crawling for a moment, still slightly coughing. “I can’t believe I paid a hundred bucks a piece for this.”
Sloan mentioned in the cab ride over that there was a pretty steep cover charge to get inside the semi-exclusive club, but that there were always plenty of attractive men inside to buy us drinks to offset the cost. Her words, not mine. She didn’t tell me how much the cover charge was, because she was treating me to a night out to cheer me up. Plus, she makes a lot of money selling some sort of generic version of Viagra to doctors.
Two hundred bucks for a night out is normal for her, but regardless of that, she’s right. This is nonsensical. Who pays through the nose for a night out only to end up having to scramble around on the floor like we’re in the middle of some drunken frat party?
I nod my head in agreement and agree with her. “Yep, this is really dumb.”
We finally make it to our destination and crouch behind the gargantuan black sound speaker. Luckily the sound seems to have been cut by the deejay, so I’m relieved that we will at least still have our hearing when this is all over. I decide that it won’t hurt to say a little silent prayer to myself, and that God will forgive the fact that it is something that I haven’t done in a long while.
Between the pepper spray burning my eyes, the drinks fogging my brain, and the sounds of pure terror all around me, I’m getting pretty close to losing it. Someone is definitely going to get hurt tonight. I just hope like hell it isn’t me. I can’t afford another hospital visit.
As if on cue, in the middle of my “amen,” I hear a very clear and distinct set of heavy footsteps advancing towards us. Whoever it is, isn’t panicked like the rest of us. He or she (no, it was definitely a he) is moving calmly and very deliberately towards our direction.
I experience a brief moment of alien-like movement in my stomach, warning me of something. I’m not sure what. Maybe to be on guard, or perhaps to run. Suddenly I feel five very warm, strong, and calloused fingers grasp my upper left arm and pull me up on my feet.
“Stand up,” the deep voice orders with a rumble. His lips just inches away from my ear. His breath smells of peppermint, chocolate, and cognac. A yummy mixture. It’s familiar. Reminds me of Christmas.
His distinctive voice reverberates throughout my body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, and then settles in as if making a home in between my legs. I’m shocked at my body’s reaction and frankly embarrassed. Typically, I would never blindly follow the commands of a stranger, but this isn’t a usual circumstance I find myself in. So for once I decide not to overthink things (like he may be a serial killer) and instead just follow his lead.
With his hand still firmly clasping my upper arm, he notices that my feet are unsteady and quickly adjusts himself to place his other hand loosely around my middle to balance me as I stand. His massive hand almost spans the entire length of my torso and although my clothing serves as a barrier, to me it feels like I have nothing on. His thumb nearly grazes my breast, which sends my nipples into a hard alert, while his pinky finger comes dangerously close to the waistband of my panties.
I am so overwhelmed by all the sensations of him touching me, that my body probably feels heavy to him, as I inadvertently sway slightly forward and allow him to bear more of my weight. My heaviness doesn’t seem to be an issue though, as he effortlessly guides me upwards onto my feet with one sweeping movement.
“Easy,” he murmurs softly by my ear.
Even with all hell breaking loose in the club, that one word, the stranger’s raspy voice, and his unforgettable hands are all I can concentrate on. His touch feels personal, careful, and intimate, as if we already know each other or as if we are definitely about to. As he continues to direct me, his commands suddenly turn somewhat clipped, almost like he is annoyed with me for some unknown reason.
“She with you?”
“Yes.”
“Grab her hand too.”
“Wait, I-” I protest. His terse tone throwing me off.
“Grab her,” he orders again.
As he continues to hold on to me, to help me keep my balance, I reach down to grab Sloan’s arms and lift her up with me. “Come on, Sloan.”
“Walk,” is all the stranger says next.
And we do.
I trust that he knows where he is going, because I still can’t see much. Between the pepper spray up my nose and all the wine that I had earlier, standing up so quickly makes me feel a little light-headed. I’ve been rubbing my eyelids and contact lenses for about ten minutes, but now they are feeling like little dry circles of sandpaper scraping against my pupils, so I decide to just pluck them out and toss them as we walk.
Things will be fuzzy until I get home, but that’s better than the permanent scars I will have on my corneas if I left the little suckers in any longer. It’s actually a really gross thing to do since there isn’t enough Purell in the entire state of Pennsylvania to get my hands clean from crawling across the floor of a nightclub, but I just don’t really seem to care at this point.
Without saying another word, we walk for about seventy-seven more steps (yes I count the steps, because I do weird counting things like that when I’m terribly nervous) further into the club and then down a short corridor, until I feel a sharp gust of cool evening air blow on my face. The breeze feels absolutely life affirming. That’s when I know that we must be close to an exit. We’re actually going to make it out of here. I just hope that we have reached an exit door that we won’t get trampled walking through.
The stranger positions Sloan and I in front of him as we continue to push our way through the door. When two guys dressed in button-down shirts and dark slacks walk swiftly towards us and start pushing us roughly from the side, it takes the stranger only several seconds to wrap one of his massive palms around one of the guys’ throats.
“Step the fuck back,” he growls, and then both of them jump back as high and fast as two high school cheerleaders.
“Sorry, man,” one of them mumbles.
We finish elbowing our way out the set of steel double doors in front of us, with the stranger’s help of course, and I’m actually wondering why there aren’t more people at this exit. I really want to round back and tell some people inside about the exit doors over here, but I know that Sloan would try to fight me first, before she would let me go back inside Armageddon. And I’m thinking this guy wouldn’t let me do it either.
“Don’t stop. We’re crossing the street,” the deep voice orders while expertly guiding me across the street with his hand ever present on the exposed small curve of my back.
The halter top Sloan loaned me gives him easy access, and so with every step I take, my entire body can’t help but be laser focused on the spot where his warm hand rests. I don’t want to obsess about it, but I can’t help it.
Once the three of us make it to the other side of the street, I bend myself over at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, silently grateful for the crisp midnight air that’s seeping up my nostrils and down my throat. Utterly relieved that I made it safe and sound out of another life-threatening situation ... again. I must have a guardian angel watching over me or a mischievous one who enjoys tormenting me.
“Take a few deep breaths, but slowly,” the stranger directs both of us while still only touching me. Is he ever going to stop touching my back? It’s driving me bat shit crazy.
Finally, I begin to feel some actual relief from the burning sensations of the pepper spray, and my skin and eyes feel better as well. As I stand to a full stretch with my palms clasped together, inside out and above my head, my lungs delightfully fill again with oxygen and then...
I freeze.