Love on the Run (5 page)
Authors: Zuri Day
Oh. My. God.
“Make a scene and I'll cut you,” the voice hissed into her ear. “Now, come on.”
“Let me go!” Pure instinct took over as she tried to loosen the vise-like grip the man had on her arm.
Jarrell?
No, couldn't be. The man's voice was deep, raspy, nothing like that of her ex.
Jarrell?
No, couldn't be. The man's voice was deep, raspy, nothing like that of her ex.
What is he trying to do? Rob me? Or worse?
Panic flowed over Shayna like water. Her heart slammed against her chest; her body slammed against the assailant's chest. She realized he was walking them toward a narrow opening in the side of the building. In that moment, a line from an old
Oprah
episode flashed into her head:
Never let your assailant take you to a second location.
No matter what type of weapon this man might have, she had no intention of finding out what was on the other side of the concrete wall.
Arrgh!
Using all her strength, she jerked away from his death grip. Or rather she tried. For an nth of a second, it seemed that freedom was possible. If only her arm wasn't attached to the rest of her body, and if only the attacker hadn't chosen the very moment that she stepped left to go right. The pain that shot through her side and up her shoulder was excruciating, surpassed only by the feeling of air leaving her lungs as the man wrapped his other arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground and trying to carry herâmuch like a running back would a footballâthrough the narrow opening. The second location.
Panic flowed over Shayna like water. Her heart slammed against her chest; her body slammed against the assailant's chest. She realized he was walking them toward a narrow opening in the side of the building. In that moment, a line from an old
Oprah
episode flashed into her head:
Never let your assailant take you to a second location.
No matter what type of weapon this man might have, she had no intention of finding out what was on the other side of the concrete wall.
Arrgh!
Using all her strength, she jerked away from his death grip. Or rather she tried. For an nth of a second, it seemed that freedom was possible. If only her arm wasn't attached to the rest of her body, and if only the attacker hadn't chosen the very moment that she stepped left to go right. The pain that shot through her side and up her shoulder was excruciating, surpassed only by the feeling of air leaving her lungs as the man wrapped his other arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground and trying to carry herâmuch like a running back would a footballâthrough the narrow opening. The second location.
“Help! Somebody, help!” She was vaguely aware of people around her, but no one directly came to her aid. With legs flailing and time running out as they both neared the doorway, Shayna summoned superhuman strength and bit down on the arm that held her captive.
“Damn!”
The man's hold loosened for a second, just long enough for Shayna to wriggle out of his grasp. Her left side felt as if it were on fire. No time to think of that now. She headed to her car, but after hearing heavy footsteps hot on her heels, and seeing someone trying to tape the event with a camera phone, she knew that she had to leave the scene as quickly as possible, like yesterday even. So she did the next best thing, that which she did best: run.
But not before she looked back, and locked eyes with her ex-slash-PT-slash-former-childhood-best-friend-slash-man-gone-crazyâJarrell “Jay” Powell.
7
Michael whistled a tune as he splashed on cologne. His hand stopped midway between his jaw and the bottle, as he thought of Project Shaynaâupping the profile of his latest client by first establishing and then expanding her brand. Everybody and their kin was endorsing perfume these days.
What could I call it? Shayna's Secret? The Sprintress? Run Tell This?
“Ha, man, you're crazy.” Continuing to look himself in the mirror as he thought about a perfume for the up-and-coming track star, he asked, “Why not?” He made a mental note to add this to the list of possibilities he'd formulated since she'd left his home, along with the cereal commercials, talk show appearances, and maybe even some TV or movie options.
Hmm, maybe we'll even do some type of collaboration between her and Huang Chen, him running and her shooting hoops.
Michael smiled at the thought, his mind racing as he straightened his tie, gave himself one last glance in the mirror, and headed out of the room. He paused in his bedroom just long enough to put on his jewelryâdiamond stud, platinum cross, and an understated Rolexâand grab his suit jacket. He was headed to the garage when the gate bell rang. When expecting guests his gate remained open, but when he headed out of town or out for the evening, he always locked the security gate and activated the alarm.
What could I call it? Shayna's Secret? The Sprintress? Run Tell This?
“Ha, man, you're crazy.” Continuing to look himself in the mirror as he thought about a perfume for the up-and-coming track star, he asked, “Why not?” He made a mental note to add this to the list of possibilities he'd formulated since she'd left his home, along with the cereal commercials, talk show appearances, and maybe even some TV or movie options.
Hmm, maybe we'll even do some type of collaboration between her and Huang Chen, him running and her shooting hoops.
Michael smiled at the thought, his mind racing as he straightened his tie, gave himself one last glance in the mirror, and headed out of the room. He paused in his bedroom just long enough to put on his jewelryâdiamond stud, platinum cross, and an understated Rolexâand grab his suit jacket. He was headed to the garage when the gate bell rang. When expecting guests his gate remained open, but when he headed out of town or out for the evening, he always locked the security gate and activated the alarm.
Looking at his watch, he decided not to answer.
Man, Gregory is going to curse you out as it is.
He slid into the buttery smooth seat of his Jaguar XK, pushed the garage door opener, and eased down the drive. It was a beautiful evening in September, so he decided to drive with the top down. He stopped at the edge of the drive and as the top was making its soundless transition into the compartment at the rear of the car, he checked himself in the mirror before looking to his right, and then his left to back out into theâ
Man, Gregory is going to curse you out as it is.
He slid into the buttery smooth seat of his Jaguar XK, pushed the garage door opener, and eased down the drive. It was a beautiful evening in September, so he decided to drive with the top down. He stopped at the edge of the drive and as the top was making its soundless transition into the compartment at the rear of the car, he checked himself in the mirror before looking to his right, and then his left to back out into theâ
WTH?
“Shayna!”
“Shayna!”
The car was barely thrown into park before Michael was out the door and kneeling by his crumpled, heavily breathing new client. He scooped her up. “Aw!”
For the first time, he noticed how she clutched her side. “What happened?” he asked as long strides ate up the distance between the sidewalk and the still opened garage door.
Shayna shook her head, tears of relief now streaming down her cheek as she clutched Michael's shirt, holding on for dear life. Michael gave no thought to the still-running Jaguar as he walked through the kitchen, across the combined living/dining area, and down the hall to his bedroom. It didn't even register that he brought her here and not the guest suite. He gingerly laid her down, but when he tried to pull away, she held on to his shirt.
Her eyes were wild and searching, her voice barely audible. “No.”
“Shh, baby, it's okay. My car is still running, and in the street. I'm just going to pull it into the garage. I'll be right back.” He raced down the hall to the front door, pulling out his phone as he did so.
“Gregory.”
“Man, where are you?”
“I'm still at home, and need you to get here. Quick.” In his urgency, Michael's voice took on a demanding, forceful tone.
“What's up, Michael?”
“I don't know yet. Just hurry. The front door will be unlocked. And bring your medical bag.”
“Michael, are you okay?”
There was no answer because Michael had already hung up the phone. He hurried back into his room and found Shayna huddled in a fetal position. His heart clenched at how helpless she looked, how different from the somewhat shy yet laughing woman who'd left his house less than an hour ago.
What in the hell happened?
What in the hell happened?
Easing down on the bed, he placed a hand on her arm. It must have scared her because she jerked away, and then moaned at the pain the sudden move caused.
“Shayna,” Michael tried again, his voice soothing, coaxing. “What happened? Were you in an accident?”
“Attacked,” she whispered, so softly that Michael was sure he hadn't heard correctly. Surely he hadn't. He watched her wince as she moved again, and decided to hold off the questions until his brother arrived and examined her. “My brother's a doctor; he's on his way.” Feeling as helpless as she looked, he again reached out to stroke her arm. He wanted to ease her pain the way he'd once tried to do with the family dog, a German shepherd named Lucky. Poor canine's luck almost ran out when he chased a ball across the street and was hit by a car. A then seven-year-old Michael was first on the scene. His initial reaction was to run up and put his hands on the dog. Almost got it bitten off. His brother's gift, on the other hand, was already apparent as Gregory joined him seconds later and softly rubbed the dog's nose, and Lucky calmed down almost instantly. Gregory then commanded his brother to run and get a sheet so he could tie off the wound, something he'd seen done on the eighties TV show
St. Elsewhere
. Gregory's ministrations had helped save the dog's life. Lucky lived another five years. Remembering the story about Lucky calmed Michael, and his urgent hand strokes became soft and reassuring. Gregory was on his way. Shayna would be all right.
St. Elsewhere
. Gregory's ministrations had helped save the dog's life. Lucky lived another five years. Remembering the story about Lucky calmed Michael, and his urgent hand strokes became soft and reassuring. Gregory was on his way. Shayna would be all right.
“Orlando!” Michael called for his chef and then remembered he'd released him for the night. “I'll be right back; I'm just going to get you a glass of water.” Upon returning, he turned on the lamp next to the bed. That's when he saw them: scratches, bruises, skin discoloration around her neck. He bristled, the hair on his arms almost standing on end as a thought entered his mind, one that he could barely contemplate, let alone believe. “Shayna,” his voice was now low, restrained. “What happened?” So much for waiting for his brother's examination. “Who did this to you?” Fresh tears rolled down Shayna's face. “Baby, I need to know.”
Shayna shook her head, as if the mere thought of the person responsible for her injuries caused more pain.
He started to push and then, again, decided to wait for his brother. Gregory's demeanor was less forceful than Michael's; over the years he'd honed and perfected the bedside manner necessary to deal with people in peril. His brother would be able to find out what had gone down. He was sure of it. Once again, he began to ease off the bed and once again, her hand reached out for him. “Please don't . . . leave me,” she whispered. “Please.”
A rush of something flooded into his heart at this very moment. It would be another several months before he realized that it had even happened, and even more so . . . what that something was.
“I'm right here,” Michael answered, his mind filled with possible scenarios of what could have happened and why Shayna was frightened. He remembered how out of breath she was as he lifted her up, as if she'd just run a marathon. His brow creased as he tried to recall if he'd seen her car outsideâthe cherry red Hyundai that he'd teased her about outside her lawyer's office. He didn't remember seeing it, but then again he'd been busy. Still, it was a car that was hard to miss, even in waning daylight. Had she been carjacked? Robbed? Assaulted? And if so, for what reason? And where? Frustration filled Michael's chest as he took in the reddening scratches and deepening bruises, felt her skin growing cold to the touch. “You're cold. Let me get you a blanket.”
He walked to the edge of the bed and opened the chest that had been custom made, along with his bureau and armoire. Pulling out a quilt that had been hand sewn by his maternal grandmother, he started as he heard the front door slam, before remembering that he'd told Gregory to come directly inside.
“Michael!”
“Back here, bro.” Knowing that his brother would need to examine her wounds, he placed the quilt over her legs and feet.
Gregory came around the corner and into the room, his steps purposeful, his eyes scrutinizing. “What happened?” he asked, as he placed his satchel on the nightstand and opened it up.
“I don't know,” Michael said, rising from the bed as his brother approached. He turned and looked at the woman who just an hour or so ago had left his home with a smile on her face. “Shayna.” He adjusted the quilt that he'd placed on her, waited until she opened her eyes. “This is my brother, Gregory. He works at UCLA, and is one of the best doctors in the country. He'll take care of you now, okay?” Shayna nodded, but didn't turn her body to face the men. “Gregory, this is Shayna Washington.”
Hearing the name, Gregory's brow rose in surprise. A quick look passed between the brothers. Michael subtly shook his head and Gregory nodded in understanding. They'd talk later. His tone softened as he addressed his charge. “Shayna, like Michael said, I'm Dr. Morgan.” Taking off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he continued. “I just need to ask a few questions so that I can determine what's wrong. Can you lie on your back for me?” Shayna slowly uncoiled from her fetal position, wincing as she did so. “Where does it hurt?”
“Side,” she croaked.
“Here, Shayna,” Michael said, reaching for the glass. “Drink some water.”
Gregory stayed his hand. “Not yet, Michael. Let me first determine what's happening internally. I need to raise you up and remove your jacket,” he informed Shayna. “Michael, help me out.” Michael held Shayna as motionless as possible while Gregory removed the now torn and soiled off-white creation. After Michael laid her down, Gregory softly placed his hand on Shayna's midsection. “I'm going to apply slight pressure,” he said, his voice calm, almost melodic in its delivery. “It may hurt just a bit, but I need to determine if anything's broken. Okay?” Shayna nodded. Gregory placed a hand just underneath her breast and slowly, methodically worked his way down one side and up the other. “Feels like we've got a couple cracked ribs here,” he said, moving his hands from her midsection down to her pelvic area, then across to the bruising on her arm. He squeezed the area around her bicep. “Pretty good bruise here, but no fractures or breaks.” He noted the bruising around her neck and again, the brothers exchanged glances. “Some pretty nasty scratches, too, but those should heal quickly.” He finished his examination and stood. “We'll need to get you to the hospital to get x-rayed,” he said, pulling down his shirt sleeves and buttoning the cuffs.
“I'd rather not,” Michael quickly interjected. “At least not until we find out what happened. I don't want this turning into negative press.”
Gregory nodded. This wasn't the first time he'd had to get creative when it came to his brother's clients. “Very well, then. I'll call a doctor friend of mine and we'll take you over to his private practice. Get you checked out, taped up, and let the healing begin. But first, Shayna, we need to know what happened and who did this.”
“My ex-boyfriend,” Shayna whispered, her eyes fluttering shut with the pain of his memory. “I stopped . . . on Sunset and he must . . . he must have been following me. Tried to make me . . . go with him.”
Michael gritted his teeth as an instant and all-consuming anger arose. There was nothing worse than a man who'd attack a woman, for any reason. “What's his name?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant when in fact, his hand was already on his phone to call his brother.
“Jarrell,” Shayna said. “Jarrell Powell.”
“Excuse me a second,” Michael said, and left the room. He walked out of earshot of Shayna and punched a number on speed dial. “Troy.”
“What up, big bro?”
Michael ignored the sound of multiple females in the background. “I need you to get the four-one-one on somebody for me.”
“Who and why?”
“A man named Jarrell Powell. He just beat up my newest client.”
“Damn.” A beat and then, “I'm on it, brother.”
Michael nodded at the indignation he heard in Troy's voice. “Don't go after him or anything, yet,” he warned his hotheaded younger brother. “For right now, I just want to know exactly who I'm dealing with.”
This Jarrell Powell dude was about to find out that when you messed with one of Michael Morgan's clients, especially one who made his heart beat the way Shayna Washington did, you'd just pissed off a whole posse better known as the Morgan men.
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