Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)(3)

“I . . . uh . . . I’m really sorry . . .” I stood there like a deer in the headlights. He’d just suggested that he planned on being on time for whatever the hell that was all about. He saw a woman alone in a garage parking lot and circled the block, effectively making him late. He was beat up, in part, for protecting some woman he didn’t even know. Me.

“Sorry? For dropping off your car? Look . . .just . . . we both better get out of here. I’m fine, no need for medics. Get home, or wherever you’re going.” His words were even. He sounded like a man who rarely took “no” for an answer, and expected me to follow his orders. He turned without bravado and headed for his car.

“I . . . OK . . .” I just stood there as the ice-cold wave of the last half hour crashed violently over me. Spike turned around and stared in my direction for a minute before speaking. He couldn’t see my face, of that I was sure, due to the darkness that swept in without invitation.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Are you ok? I don’t know what you heard or saw and it’s probably best if you don’t think too much about it. Are you OK to get home?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

I suddenly had no words; my throat was tight under the noose of panic. If I’d blinked, I would have started crying right there in the parking lot, so I kept my eyes wide and slowly turned to go home.

“Hey, you alright?” he repeated, his voice up an octave. He took a step forward, landing just under the streetlight to the side of the parking lot.

He was standing much closer to me now, but still about 20 feet away. Despite the haunting shadows cast by the street light, I could make out more than his height. He was broad, tight but not a muscle-head, with a narrow waist that held up his dark blue jeans. A snug red t-shirt clung to his shoulders and rested just on top of his belt. He was pretty hot and that thought annoyed me, given the circumstances. I couldn’t make out his face, but could tell he had dark hair and a fair complexion.

“No, yea, it’s fine. Glad you’re ok.” My emotions bound an unforgiving fist around my vocal chords. I had to get out of there.

He nodded as he touched his hand to his bloodied lip, cursing as he pulled it away.

I turned and ran. He didn’t call after me, didn’t follow me, and I didn’t look back. I ran all the way to my apartment, locked all the doors and windows, and tossed through a sleepless night.

***

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The clock marched time through my ears on Friday as the work day neared its end. Usually up to my neck in paperwork, today had been graciously light, and I was ready to go home and get ready for girls night. I thought I might wear my black pants and a tank; not too conservative and not too slutty. Never too slutty.

“You want a ride tonight, Ember, or you gonna meet us there?” Monica, my best friend and co-worker, startled me away from my gaze out of the window.

“Geez Mon! You scared the hell out of me!” I huffed, realizing I startled her, too, and continued. “Sorry, yea I’ll meet you there-nine o’clock, right?”

“You sure? I mean, after what happened the other night you don’t want us to come get you?” She tilted her head to the side.

“Monica, it didn’t happen to me, remember? Besides, I have my car and I’ll meet you there at nine. You can’t imagine how much I’m looking forward to it.”

“I guess you’re right. See you at nine.” She turned and headed out of my office.

“See ya!”

I still hadn’t shaken off the events from the garage a few nights before; the emotional trauma loitered in my gut days later. Tonight, I declared to myself, I would get over it.





Chapter Two

I took stock of myself in my full-length mirror while I touched up my make-up. Looking good, November. My height of 5’8” seemed to work in my favor; people typically didn’t mistake me for younger than my 26 years, and guys usually didn’t try to mess with me the way they might a 5’1” counterpart. My thick auburn hair fell in soft waves to just below my shoulder blades, and my green eyes set in my pale face made people think I’d won the DNA lottery.

I rarely struggled with self-esteem issues growing up, save for the acne debacle of freshman year high school. I liked how I looked, so I took good care of myself. I was an athlete in high school, continued working out through college, and maintained a healthy relationship with the local gym.

My friends assume my lack of boyfriend means I have some serious issues since clearly, according to them, my looks don’t have anything to do with it. They are the kind of friends that fuss over their looks more than I do, and they insist I don’t have to care what I look like. Why do women do this to themselves? Anyway, my lack of boyfriend didn’t have anything to do with my looks or my personality. It had to do with the men. They’re idiots. Not all of them, of course; just the ones that are single, 25-29 (my preferred age range), and trolling for a meaningful relationship in a bar with Jose, Jack, and Jim as chaperones. Please.

Even though my parents raised me with an appreciation for all things love, I’m a realist. I was born on the warmest day of that November in New England, under the bluest sky they’d ever seen. My name, November Blue Harris, exemplifies everything my parents loved about that day. Despite my mother’s encouragement to always love with reckless abandon, I grew up slightly guarded and suspicious. To her, spontaneity was as easy as breathing. To me, it seemed like skydiving without checking to see if you had a backpack or a parachute.