Page 27 of One Night Rendezvous

“The fuck you say, old man. I’ll knock you on your ass and do what I want with her,” Wade retorts with a laugh.

The sound is cut short. The man in front of me moves quickly. So quickly I don’t see anything but the aftermath. Wade collapses to the floor, blood pouring from his nose.

Daddy McHotness looks at me over his shoulder. “Go ahead and call the cops. I’ll stay ’till they get here.”

Still shaking, I press the numbers again, this time not messing it up. It goes through to dispatch and I tell her my name and where I’m at and that I was threatened by Wade Bartlett. And then we all just wait in silence, listening for sirens.

It takes less than fifteen minutes. Two of Bellehaven’s deputies, younger guys that I don’t know by name, have loaded Wade into the back of a squad car. They’ve gotten my statement and that of the man who intervened. Then they’re driving off and I’m still sitting there, shaken and more scared than I’ve been in a very long time.

An alarm blares, the sound sharp and discordant, making me jump. Before I can even register that it’s the dryer cutting off because my clothes are done, the man is over there. He opens the dryer door, bundles my dry bedding into the basket and walks to the door. Then he just stops.

It takes a minute, but I finally put it together that he’s waiting for me. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “Unlock your car and I’ll put these in for you.”

I do and I watch as he loads them into the trunk. Then he opens the door, and beckons for me. When I step outside, there’s a chill in the air. Or maybe it’s just me.

“I’ll follow you to make sure you get home okay. You look pretty shaken up,” he offers.

I feel like a complete jackass. “You’ve already done so much. I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me.”

A half-smile curves his lips, barely visible with his beard and the dimly lit parking lot. “Not really. Just get in and drive.” He hands me the keys.

I slide behind the wheel and close the door, starting the engine. The adrenaline is still pumping, my body still trembling with it. Somehow, I manage to get back onto the highway and drive the fairly short distance to my condo. I park in the driveway and get out. He’s been behind me the whole way, on a loud-ass motorcycle that will undoubtedly piss off my neighbors.

He cuts the engine. “You need help getting everything inside?”

“No. I can manage. Thank you—I don’t know your name.” He literally saved my life, and I don’t have a clue who he is. I don’t have a clue who he is and I let him follow me home.

“Ranger.”

“Ranger what?” I ask.

“Just Ranger. Good night, Ms. Stanfield.”

He climbs back on his bike, revs it up and then drives off into the night.

Just Ranger. The whole thing has played out like an eighties action movie, minus the requisite boob shot.

“What a fucking night,” I whisper. Then I grab the laundry basket from the trunk and haul it into my house. I let it drop to the floor right there in the foyer. I don’t bother making my bed. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Instead, I just lay down on the couch and pull the afghan off the back of it over me. My grandmother made it, and somehow, through everything, I’ve managed to hang onto it. As a kid it made me feel safe. As an adult, it makes me feel grounded. And I need that right now. Because I’m shaken to my toes by everything that’s happened.