Reborn

Summary: Shane Wolfe and Zoe Plummer meet nearly a decade after the events of when The Pacifier took place. Zoe has moved to Los Angeles, California to attend UCLA and is dragged into a rather unfortunate incident. Through this incident, a familiar face enters the picture. For anyone concerned, this will most likely be a Shane/Zoe story because there are none and I felt compelled to write one.

A/N: I have no idea how long I’d like for this story to be, so it all depends on the reviews I get from you, the reader. As to enlighten you, the reader, this first chapter will be told in Zoe Plummer’s point of view, and the second chapter will most likely be told in Shane Wolfe’s point of view. It all depends on whom I feel like writing when I get around to it.
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Pacifier. The people who own The Pacifier own The Pacifier and not me…did that make any sense whatsoever?

I saw a familiar face today. This face I have not seen in over eight years, yet the face did not appear to be older such as mine has, only this face looked younger. Much younger. As I study it, I do not see any fine lines or wrinkles or crows feet or blemishes, though it would not matter how I feel about the person behind the face, but for me to tell this story, I must start at the beginning.

“Mickey, hurry up, could you?” I shout to one of my best friends from across the hall.

Michaela Robinson and I have been friends since our junior year of high school when she moved to California nine years ago with her parents. Her father, Jack, worked for an oil company and she and her family were quite used to the gypsy lifestyle they had acquired with her father’s job. By no means did she and her mother enjoying moving around the country, but they loved Jack and would never let their unusual living situations get in the way of their feelings for the man. I think of this, I think of Mickey’s family and my eyes become wet with tears because it makes me think of how I took my own father, my own family for granted but not any more. I think of the happier times, when we were all together. I remember Peter’s birthday party, his second, and he flung that double chocolate cake everywhere, literally everywhere. Somehow, the little rascal managed to throw the brown sludge right onto my new trousers. I was so upset, and I ran off to my room, slamming the door shut so hard that the hinges nearly fell off. I think back on it, and I laugh.

“Hey, Zoe, you okay? What’s so funny?” Mickey was in my face and I had not even noticed until her voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Nothing,” I answered sheepishly and my eyes search around my room for my purse. It had to be around here somewhere…

“Okay, well, you’re all tellin’ me to hurry up and all, and here you are, standing in the middle of your room drooling like a cat,” she said, huffing. “Come on, we’re going to miss the movie!”

“First of all, cats don’t drool, Mickey, and second of all. Second of all, what the heck are we seeing tonight anyways?” I ask and move about my room, which is decorated in soft green tones with a window that looks out on the UCLA campus though I have graduated over six months ago. I won’t move, besides I’m off campus anyways.

“We’re going to see that new Julia Roberts flick,” she pauses as if daring me to interrupt her with some nasty comment, and I do.

“Why do we have to see another Julia movie?” I complain and snatch up my purse, the Couch purse I cannot afford, but bought anyway. A present of some sorts to myself, for exiting college with a BA in political science and English. Michaela only graduated with an AA in mythology, but that was because she did not start college until two years ago. Before then we were still roomies but she had taken up a full time job to pay for her BMW beamer, the BMW beamer she cannot afford, but bought anyway though the public transportation in Los Angeles is wonderful. Not as good as the East Coast, but close.

“Zoe, usually I’m the difficult one in this household. What’s with the sudden attitude change all of a sudden? Are you on your period?” Michaela asked with a wide grin, knowing she was doing a perfect impression of my mother. “Besides, Ashni wants to see it.”

“Mickey, are you sure Ash isn’t gay cause normally guys don’t wanna see a movie about a woman hitting her menopausal state in life…normally,” I say cautiously yet amusedly.

“Thank you for your concern, but Ashni is not a homosexual man. Shame on you, Zoe!” she said with a pout.

“What?” I ask and raise my hands up in defense, “What did I do?”

“You are supposed to use the more politically correct way to reference the people of different lifestyles. You of all people who has a bachelor‘s degree in political science should know better to use correct terms,” Mickey replies and walks out of the hall with me in tow.

“Why, when you put it that way…” I trail off as she enters the bathroom we have to share, though it is too small for even one person to occupy let alone one person with a tote of make-up, a hair dryer, a curling iron, and a toothbrush. Then one must take into account that the bathroom already includes certain amenities such as a sink and a toilet and shower tat can also be used as a washtub basin. That’s a lot of stuff to fit into a room the size of an Office Space cubicle, which already includes the creepy stapler guy in it.

“I’m right,” my friend says cockily, “you must admit it.”

“Well, if you had finished letting me speak, I could have said what I wanted to,” I mock upset.

“Continue, I guess I’ll listen,” she responds as if listening to me is the most boring thing in the world to do.

“Thank you, Michaela, I feel honored. As I was saying: when you put it that way, it makes the ‘homosexual’ community seem freaky and that’s not setting it any better than calling them gays would.”

“Whatever,” Michaela says dramatically and pushes past me, out of the bathroom, and into the living room. “Let’s go. I want to make out with Ashy in the film room, plus I don’t want to miss previews.”

“Oh my god,” I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I yank the apartment door open with my left hand, my unaffordable purse in my right. “They have a movie theater guy working in there, you know?”

“Well, we’ll just have to pay ‘em off so they won’t tell. That or let them watch,” she shrugs her shoulders, and sounds deadly serious. Something that made me want to gag.

“That’s wrong, Michaela, I don’t want to hear about your sexual escapades,” I moan painfully as I lock the door. The public hallway, once again, smells like cat urine and marijuana smoke though the building is fairly expensive to live in. Two thousand dollars, and Mickey and I split it fifty-fifty, though this month it was sixty-forty, my coming up with the former. Michaela got another speeding ticket…I taught her to drive and I take full responsibility for it.

“Sure you do,” Mickey smiles through her teeth and skips to the stairwell. We never take the elevator unless absolutely necessary. Gotta get exercise somehow, even though now we are out of college and have no excuse for not going to the gym every once in a blue moon.

“I do not,” I shoot back as we quickly reach the lobby floor, flinging the glass doors wide open that lead to the street.

“Whatever, you’re just jealous,” she replies in a voice, an oh so familiar tone.

“Michaela, I’m not jealous. Besides, you can’t talk like that anymore. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re college graduates,” I say, snobbier than expected.

“Well, geez, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that because I’m a college graduate from one of the most prominent universities in the state of California. I’ll remember to stop acting human in front of you, deal?” Mickey says sarcastically but there is a grin threatening to break out on her face.

“I’m sorry, Mickey. You know I love you,” I say apologetically, “and I’m really not jealous. I happy not to be in a relationship right now. It gives me time to search for a job.”

“Bull,” states Mickey happily as she unlocks her Beamer with her remote connected to her key chain.

“It’s not bull,” I rebutted and slipped into the car, “but I do feel like a fifth wheel going out with you and Ash tonight.”

“Why should you? There’s only gonna be three of us. We’d need two other people for you to become a fifth wheel,” she says good-naturedly. “Don’t worry ZoZo. You know as well as I do that Ashni invited himself along, that asshole.”

“Hey, I thought you said you weren’t going to say anymore bad words for Lent!” I say in false shock.

“Damn!” she smile and starts the ignition, then pulls into drive. “How long does Lent last again?”

“Forty days, Michaela.”

“How long did I last? Two weeks about?” she guesses.

“Two days,” I answered, fighting my laughter.

“I was close, I was close. But I guess it doesn’t really matter cause if God could hear my thoughts when I’m angry at my boss, I think He might blush,” Mickey drives towards the theater.

“You know most Catholics believe God can hear anything you think too, right?”

“Damn,” she says shortly, “cause now He’s probably still embarrassed then.”

“Mickey,” I say, “I think anyone would be embarrassed after your tirade if you’re angry enough. Even Denis Leary?”

“You think?” she asks me, a curious look adorning her dark-skinned Vogue worthy face. “I’m going to marry Denis.

“I thought you wanted to marry Ashni.”

“Naw I want to marry Denis. Ash can be my dog. My mom always said I’d marry a white man. She says she wouldn’t support me ‘marrying out of my own breed.’ Doesn’t that sound terrible?” she shakes her head in disbelief. “She thinks people are racist in the East, but she needs to take a good look at herself or something cause I swear to G--- I mean, I swear she’s the racist one. Who says that kind of stuff about their own race? It’s just a shame to the African-American community. I’ll marry anyone I want: A black, a white, a Hispanic, a Chinese, a Japanese, an Iraqi, a Nigerian. Anyone!”
I remain silent.

“Michaela’s Pacino rant declared done,” Mickey added before taking a huge exaggerated breath.

“You sure you done?”

“I’m satisfied with myself,” she says gleefully.

“Well, I happy for you then,” I say and then spot a large neon sign up ahead. It looks a blurry red through the windshield because it has been raining all night, but has subsided to a drizzle as of the moment. I roll down my window, which is heavily tinted (remember, this is L.A.) and it smells of rain, a wonderful break to the normal smoggy air I have become accustomed to breathing in. “It’s up there,” I point to the large neon sign, flashing the words CROUSTEN CINEMAS in neat maroon cursive, delicately put up next to the dark, cloudy sky. The lights of the city make the clouds easy to see, the illumination reflecting off the stormy pillows resting in the night sky.

“I see it, I see it,” Mickey states as she pulls her car into the theater parking lot, “there’s a lot of hot guys working here at
Crousten’s , ya know?” she says suggestively.

“Are you trying to tell me I should try to get it on with the popcorn guy?” I ask incredulously.

“Naw, it could be the usher. They could be hot if you ignore their pimples and the fact that they’re mostly college drop outs,” she answers and parks, which is on the other side of the parking lot.

“Michaela, you have no idea how mean that sounded coming out of your mouth,” I say sullenly.

“I’m sorry, that was mean and I apologize,” she says seriously and cuts the engine, pulls the key out of the ignition and snatches up her purse, as do I.

“Let’s just get this movie over with so I can sleep while you go make out with your boyfriend for the film attendant,” I exclaim with only a little hint of disgust and step out onto the wet pavement. I don’t mind the light mist falling from the sky, it feels cool an refreshing against my skin. I am wearing a lavender skirt, slightly ruffled at the hem. My top is top is a violet blue with an overcoat which is another shade of purple, and I start to worry if I look like the girl from that movie. My dear friend must have sensed my distress and spoke:

“Don’t worry, Zoe. You don’t look like Violet out of Willy Wonka. She was more blue,” she tried to reassure me as she takes my arm in hers and we walk across the parking lot, our heels clicking on the asphalt.

“I still feel like a blueberry,” I say, looking down at my shoes, and in horror realize that they are a shade of lavender as well.

“Blueberries are blue, hence their name. BLUE berries,” Mickey says as if I’m the idiot of the world.

“Hey, not all blueberries are blue. There are blueberries of violet color,” I answer.

“Well, I have yet to see a blueberry of a different race, so until I see a purple blueberry, I stand at my point,” she says, purposely haughty.

“Okay, you win, but I have seen a blue--”

“Nope, no more on this particular discussion until I see one for myself and if that means that we’re eighty years old and on our deathbeds when I see a different color of blueberry then we finish this conversation, then so be it,” she pronounces finally.

“Convo closed, I got it,” I say and then check my watch. “Crap, it’s already almost eleven, Mickey. We gotta hurry.”

“The movie doesn’t start for another thirty-five minutes. We’re still good,” she says casually. She’s not in a hurry and I know it.

“But you don’t want to miss the previews, remember?” I shoot her earlier words back in her face.

“Blah, blah,” she says off handedly. “I hungry. Let’s hurry so we can eat.”

“Mmmm, salty popcorn and flat soda. Delicious,” I’m trying to bother here, but salty popcorn and flat soda sounds really good to me as of the moment, to be truthful.

“I prefer the stale Reeses Pieces myself, but everyone to their own tastes, you know?”

“I guess so…hey, where’s Ashni going to meet us?” I nearly forgot to ask.

“In front,” Mickey and I approach the theater and the numerous shops and cafes that encircle it, the theater being the biggest, brightest, and busiest of all. Crousten Cinemas not only brought profit in for its own, but also to the surrounding companies in the area. I loved Crousten’s Center, what the area is called (unofficially). Beautiful dresses and items have been set it decoratively in the large glass windows. The buildings are made of brick and adobe, giving it that homely feel rather than generic. Soft music filters out of hidden stereos built into the walls as people walk joyously. Most people who come here are families, but this is not a place where the rich come to hang and for that I’m glad. I had to put up with the snobbish, wealthy daddy-loves-me-and-has-a-bigger-check-than-you folks at UCLA and I definitely did not want to spend any extra time with them than absolutely necessary. I soon forgot all about it though when hunger set in. Luscious smells waft from the small restaurants and vendor carts, the scent of the foods heavenly.

“Hey, Mickey?”

“Yeah?

“Do you think once we get the tickets, I could get something to eat and then meet you in there? I ask.

“You want to get something to eat alone?” she seemed surprised for some reason.

“Yes, I could get lost in my thoughts for awhile, same old, same old.”

“Don’t see why not. There’ll still be tickets, so we’ll meet you inside?”

“Yeah, if you’re not putting on a show for the film attendant , that is,” I laugh as Mickey mischievously grins and winks.

“Alright,” I pull my arm from hers as I see Ashni through the thick crowds of people: children, parents, high scholars, preps, the elderly, the irritating. We make our way over to Michaela’s boyfriend and though I would never admit it, Ashni is actually pretty cute. Not anything above handsome, but definitely not hideous. He had deep dark skin, from his Indian descent, thick dark hair, and a toned body with startling green eyes. Every thing a women could wish for, but for some reason, there was nothing about this man that seemed to attract me as it should’ve. After Mark…I hadn’t been attracted to anyone…except for one man, but that was from a long time ago and I never completely got him out of my mind.

“Hey Ashni,” I stated casually as he and Mickey finished their very physical version of ‘hello’ in which I averted my eyes to the passerbys.

“Hey, ZoZo,” he replied and took Mickey’s hand. Their hair was tousled already and Mickey seemed quite out of breath as she swung their hands together.

“Look, I’ll meet you guys inside later,” I say and walk backwards a couple of tiny steps. “Bye.”

“Okay, see ya later,” Mickey says, and I see something I don’t like in her eyes. Sympathy. I stumble back a little but cover it up by glancing down as if I had tripped on something.

“Yeah,” there is a strange, unsettling look on Ashni and Mickey’s face and I feel sick to my stomach. I walk away without looking back. Gladly.

Isn’t it funny how someone may act completely different in the presence of different people? They have different attitudes and different styles and different ways of thinking and speaking. They are entirely new people every time they wake up. I never wanted to be one of those people, but I’ve molded myself into one of those people. The people who remake themselves every day. The people who have a name but acquire disguises, and those are the people who have something to hide. I have something to hide, and it’s stayed hidden for five years. For five years, I’ve become this person that Michaela has become best friends with, but in reality, this person she befriended is not real and never has been. She is friends with an imposter, a false ally, a character. Sometimes I feel bad that she continues to correspond and confide in this act, this charade, this travesty. But I have no choice but play out this feint until I can get away, but for now, for now, I must remain in this city. I must remain in the dirty depths of the country along with the smog and the crime and the homelessness and the abuse and the assault. I must live hand and hand with this metropolis because it offers me the protection I need. The protection I need to stay alive.

I look at myself in the mirrors of the shops, illuminated by the neon signs and the street lights and the cars and the buses. My figure is lit up by the city to my back and I see a woman. Just a lone woman staring right back at me as the world passes her by right in front of here, right behind me. I see pain and anguish in this woman’s eyes, hidden by weariness and fatigue. Whoever this is, she desperately needs sleep and though she sleeps eight hours a day, her dreams have been ravished by horror that a nineteen year old should never have to witness unwillingly. She has been affected, affected by disease, only this disease will never kill her from the inside nor the out. This disease will gnaw at the back of her mind with memories like nightmares. I wonder if this will kill her, not the disease itself but the aftermath of its traumatizing trajectory. This woman is me, but I will deny it. I will deny that my past comes back to haunt me everyday. I will deny that this city is not good for me. I will deny my hatred of this world and its existence for just a bit longer. Just a bit longer. But now my stomach is complaining.
My hunger wishes to speak to me and I suppose I will answer.
Crousten’s Center is shaped in a circle, a massive sphere lit up by signs that states the names of boutiques and restaurants and cafes, as I have already said before. Though many of the family- oriented diners that I would have eaten a bite at will have already closed, it’s eleven-thirty now, I decide on a bar called Horuniers. The wooden sign that states its name has been draped in twinkling Christmas fairy lights and it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. I find that amusing and smile as a handsome man clothed in a stylish black suit holds the heavy wooden door open for me and I walk in. Greeting the loud atmosphere, the smoky air, and the chatter coming from the men and women at the bar and tables, I walk to the bar. I act as nonchalant as possible as the same man who held the door open for me remains behind me, I can feel his warm breath against my neck and for some reason, it doesn’t bother me as it usually would of.

“A Corona please,” I tell the bartender as he looks in my direction from over the bar. He nods and accepts my order.

I see his eyes move, almost warily to the gentleman behind me and I still do not turn around, even when I hear him speak, “Vodka, put it on my tab, will ya?”

“Sure, anything else?” the bartender asked the man, still eying him strangely.

“That’s it, Mike,” he answered.

I’m not sure if the attractive man standing next to me heard the bartended say, “It’s John, you cocky asshole.”
I laughed at this and sat down on the barstool in front of me, not at all surprised when the man in the black suit sat down next to me. And I knew instantly that this man was in fact a cocky asshole, but he was cute so I wouldn’t complain just yet. Maybe he’d buy next drink because I knew and Michaela knew I wouldn’t go back to the movie theaters. The only reason I came was for a change of scenery that didn’t include my apartment or the university and I hadn’t seen the university in about three weeks since I graduated. I felt the man lean slightly in my direction. Number One: Name.

“Hi, my name’s Christian,” he says brightly. I decide to play this stupid and drag it out.

“That’s such a cute name!” I say and hold my hand out to his, which he takes and we shake. His hands are soft and very feminine. He’s a womanizer and I already know it. “Zoe.”

“That’s a cute name too,” he answers and smiles a smile that shows he thinks he might just lucky with the dumb blonde in front of him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Well,” I pretend to ponder his inquiry. “How about you put my Corona on your tab?”

“Sounds good,” he says and looks around for the bartender and leans over the bar when he comes to give us our drinks. “Hey, Mike, can you put this woman’s drink on my tab?”

“Of course,” he says and pushes the glasses across the worn wood to us.

“Thanks,” Christian says with a pained grin and practically snatched up his drink. He brought the glass up to his lips and threw back over half of the drink, swallowing with a grimace. I felt myself cringe and I hope he didn’t see.

“So, thank you for the beer,” I say motioning to my own alcoholic beverage before bringing the frosty glass to my mouth and taking a sip. I don’t like alcohol very much and don’t appreciate the effects it can have on a human being, but as of tonight, I could do well to forget.

“My pleasure,” he answers and without wasting any time, asks, “So you in college?”

Number Two: Education.

“Uh, no,” I say a little warily, “I just graduated from UCLA three weeks ago.”

“Really? How neat,” Christian says. “In what field?”

“A BA in political science and an AA in Vietnamese,” I answer, watching for his reaction. I am not surprised to see he has been taken aback. He probably thought I was just some dumb college dropout broad who likes to hang out in bars and wait for free drinks. “What about you?”

Number Three: The Lie.

“I’m actually working towards my PhD,” he states casually, but he is in fact lying. I can see it in his facial structures.

“How intriguing,” I say as if I’m actually interested, though I most definitely am not. “Why do you want to get your PhD, may I ask?”

“I know this sounds silly, but I would really like to become a doctor so I can help the people of this city. Why did you graduate in political science and Vietnamese?”

“Do you really want the answer, the real answer?” I ask carefully, though I’m about to lie.

“Yes.”

“To be absolutely truthful, I have no idea. The classes just felt right, I guess,” I lie through my teeth and chuckle in my mind, this guy is too easy.

“I can understand the feeling, I took Spanish in junior college, but then cut it at the University. I really enjoyed the class but I didn’t have enough time on my hands to continue,” he answers and finishes off the rest of his vodka.
I couldn’t help asking, I had to, “Not to sound rude or anything, but how old are you?”

“I’m thirty-seven,” he smiles.

“Wow, you don’t look it,” I smile brilliantly, but felt sick inside. It wasn’t because of Christian’s age, but he sincerely didn’t look in his mid thirties. It was just the man gave me the chills. His smile, his dark, penetrating eyes. They unsettled me.

“What about you? How old are you?” he asks, breaking me out of my train of thought.

“Oh, I’m twenty-seven,” I answer truthfully and then add when I see his widened facial expression, “and I know I look older
than that.”

“Yes, but when I mean to say you do in fact look older,” Christian says, “it doesn’t mean you look old. You look more mature, more calm, more knowledgeable.”

“Thanks,” I pretend to blush by staring down at my beer bottle before realizing not only half of it was gone so I take another small sip. I forgot I had to play it dumb and now he might actually think I’m smart. “It’s good to know men still care about a woman’s intelligence.

“I think a woman’s intelligence is what lures me to them,” he says, having no idea how slimy it sounded coming out of his mouth. “Do you want a new beer?”

“No, lukewarm beer is still beer after all,” I state blandly and my eyes search around the bar. People are dancing, mostly college students by the way they are dressed. The tables are jam packed with people of all ages though. I see a couple who barely looks old enough to be in here, and then I see and man and woman, probably husband and wife, who look like they might be in their early sixties. Christian must have been looking at the elderly couple as well.

“You see that?” he points to the man and the woman. They are holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. The man must have been saying something funny because the woman laughed. “I wish I could find someone to grow old with like that, but it might be too late for me.”

Number Four: The Bigger Lie.

This man sitting next to me doesn’t want someone to grow old with, someone to have children with, someone to be supported by, someone to support. That is what I want. What Christian wants is a lay in bed and a quick goodbye kiss before never seeing each other again. That is not something I want…again. On my high school graduation night, I lost my virginity to a football player in the weight room. First of all, I didn’t even like Jose and besides his charming looks, his attitude was not up to par. And second of all, a stupid dumbbell had been digging into my back the whole time. I say with clenched teeth, “It’s not too late for anyone.”

“Even for a thirty-seven year old man working towards a PhD?”

Number Five: The Valiant Search for Sympathy.

“Sure, love is never too late for anyone,” I say cautiously. My motive is not to lead this guy on too much. My motive was to forget just momentarily, just forget.

“If only, huh?” and for a moment, Christian seemed genuinely honest. His dark eyes, nearly black in the dimly lit bar. “But, hey,” he brightened slightly, “cheers.”

We clinked our glasses together. His glass empty, mine half full. Always half full, never half empty. Through all I have been through. Through all the things I have seen and should never have to see again. And for all the nightmares and for all pain of remembrance and for all the memories I wish I could erase from my mind forever, the glass will always be half full. Half empty is forfeit. Half empty is defeat. Surrender. That is one thing that I will never lay down my arms for. I manage to swallow the rest of the lukewarm Corona and set it down on the wooden bar, pushing it about a foot in front of me.

“Can I get you another one?” Christian asks, and I have no idea why he has stayed by my side when it is surly obvious I’m not going to invite him back to my apartment or anything like that.

“No, but thank you. I think I’m just going to get my self a Coke,” I say politely and gesture to John.

“Yeah?” he asks and once again glances to Christian, who doesn’t see, and then turns to me. “What would you like?”

“A Coke please.”

“How about Pepsi?”

“That’s fine,” I answer. It tastes the same to me.

“You can put it on my tab too Mike,” Christian say to the bartender.

“Don’t worry about it, Christian. I’ve got it covered,” he is about to protest but I am insistent. “Really, I got it.”

“Okay,” the bartender says finally and is about to walk off to assist another customer when I say:

“Thank you John,” I smile and he grins before continuing to the other side of the bar, though he eyes Christian guardedly. I take note of it.

“I think it’s Mike, Zoe,” Christian says as if he’s explaining something to me that is extremely difficult and complicated. As if I’m a child. Why won’t he just go away. My thoughts are answered when he stands and says, “I need to use the restroom. I shall be back.”

I nod, and with other men, I would have believed I would never see them again, but with Christian…well, I had a feeling I would most definitely see him again. “Okey-dokey.”

He has been gone for about thirty seconds when John, the bartender comes back with my Coke…Pepsi…whatever and passes the cool glass to my waiting hands, “Than--,”

“Hey lady, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you need to stay away from that man right now,” he says, his words coming out in a gush.

I am taken aback and feel a little offended, “Why?”

“That man you’re with. I seen him before,” John says, leaning closer to me as if he wishes for nobody to hear our conversation.

“So, he’s been here before,” I offer and shrug my shoulders.

“No, sweetheart. I ain’t never seen him here before, but I know his name and where he’s from and I already called the cops,” he glances around some more.

“What are you talking about?” I’m starting to get nervous.

“You see those two flat foots over there?” he points to the front entrance and sure enough there are two LAPD officers, in dress blues searching the place. “Christian Cache, that’s whole name, must have seen ‘em. Can’t believe he was stupid enough to tell you his real name.”

“Okay,” I’ve passed the nervous stage and entered into the angry one, “What the hell is going on? Please enlighten me.”

“Christian is a serial killer. He preys on blonde women. Meets ‘em in bars like this and rapes ‘em and kills ‘em. His photo was released to the news this morning. KTLA may’ve saved your life, sweetheart. Best write ‘em a letter cause after tonight you may’ve been pushing up daises. Has he told you that he’s been working on a PhD?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Number Six: The Part of the Date When You Find Out Your Interest is a Serial Killer.

“Damn it,” he says and looks over me and the crowd. “Officers! Officers, over here!”

I turn around and see the two officers hurry over to us. They stand on either side of me and one places a hand on my shoulder.

“This woman was about to be victimized,” John says. Customers are calling to him, but he heeds no notice even when a crowd gathers around me. They probably think I’m about to be thrown out for something I did.

“Mam, did a man named Christian approach you here in the bar?” one of the officers asks me.

“Yes…I mean no. What’s happening?”

“What do you mean by no?”

“He followed me inside. He opened the door for me,” I can’t help but feel a bit confused. “God, something about that man
made my insides squirm.”

“Mam, this man that you met is a serial killer and we now believe you would have been his next and fourth victim,” he says.

“Then why the hell aren’t their more cops in here?” I say angrily.

“There are ten black and whites outside waiting for him in case he decides to make a break for it. There’s also SWAT and a half a dozen Motor cops. Where did he go, mam?”

“The bathroom,” I say and the other officer pats my shoulder reassuringly.

THIS IS OFFICER GONDLA. CACHE IS IN THE BATHROOM. REQUESTING TEN OFFICERS TO EMPTY THIS PLACE OUT NOW. COPY.
ROGER.

“Okay, mam,” the officer says, “Let’s get you out of here, sound good?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I say and for some reason, this situation I’ve shoved myself into doesn’t really worry me any longer as I stand up.

“Okay,” the officer turns to John. “Sir, I need you to cut the music and turn up the lights. Help us get these people outta here.”

John nods and jogs to the other side of the bar and cuts the pounding rave-like music and flips on bright lights. The bar crowd roars in shouts and yells from surprise. He stands up on the bar and hollers out firmly and loudly over the crowds’ buzz. “Bar’s closed. Everybody out. Drinks are on the house for all who haven’t paid. Just leave, everyone out now.”
I watch the people walk out, some upset, angry. Some confused and bewildered to why they were being kicked out of Horuniers. As the nice officer takes me out, I hear a commotion coming from the back. It sounds like screaming and the sounds of punches ring out over the moving crowd flowing through those heavy wooden doors like radio waves. I hear what I suppose to be the LAPD shout over and over:

“He’s got a sword! He’s got a sword! Hold ‘em down. Goddamn, hold him down!”

I wonder to myself why a man would carry a sword instead of a more compact weapon, such as a gun or a razor…I think I might be in shock because I’m not making much progress walking in straight line. I can’t possibly be drunk.
“I think you may be in shock, mam,” the officer says to me gently. Tell me something I don’t know, I think bitterly to myself but shake my head in agreement though I already know.

I am leaning against the officer to keep upright and become aware of the flashing blue and red lights all around me. I see Ashni and Michaela jump from the steps of the theater, Michaela’s face is smeared with mascara. Another officer restrains her as she struggles to make her way towards me, a worried look on her facial structures. I wonder to myself why she is crying and why I cannot hear anything, as if my brain has decided to turn off all audibility that passes into my ears. I see the ten officers…actually eleven…no ten bring out Christian Cache. Christian Cache, the serial killer. Christian Cache, the womanizer. Christian Cache, the rapist. Christian Cache, the cocky asshole who called John Mike. Christian Cache, the man who thought he could victimize me or anyone and get away with it. He resists the cuffs restraining his hands together behind his back as two flat-foots strain to keep him walking. He looks at me, as if mystified by his unfortunate situation, and then when the officer at his side tugs him along, the puzzlement is quickly replaced with fury. He is screaming, spittle flying off his lips, but I hear nothing. Not a sound. I just stare as he continues to roar what I assume are things I am lucky not to have heard. Then I become enraged. This man in front of me was going to kill me. He was going to take my life in his own hands. This bastard was going to play God? Not with me, he wasn’t. Not now, not ever.

“You son of a bitch,” I growl and yank myself from the officer’s grip on my shoulder and with renewed strength, run over to Cache. I step in front of him and glare up into his face, almost shivering as I see his dark eyes glow. “You’re sort of pretty.”

“Thanks,” he sneers as the officers stare at me incredulously.

“Yeah, that’s why you’ll do so well in prison. You’ll never run out of people to rape you and then you’ll finally know how those women felt like when you killed them.”

I see wrath in his eyes, anger in the very pupils and I look, just momentarily into the window to his soul and find that this man has none. He grinned a sick grin as I stumbled away from the wicked glint in those eyes. He stopped struggling against the cuffs that restrained him and discontinued all movement. I was about to scramble away but then, but then with a sudden jerk forward, bringing the two officers forward with him, Cache brought his foot up faster than I can say my own name. His foot swung up into my rib cage, above my stomach and below my breasts. My vision darkened and I groaned softly. The air rushed out of me like a popped balloon and I was incapable of making any other sound. I heard something snap inside myself, like a muffled gunshot. I swayed and then heard another snap, this one louder than the first. Strangely enough, I felt no pain and assumed the force of the kick had thrown my body into shock, into a physical lockdown. I fell to my knees where I stood, not believing I had just been kicked in the chest and took no notice as the officers attempted to pull Cache away as more policemen ran to help but that was when everything steadily became a blur. This evil man screaming above me brought his foot up one last time, and with revolting crack, his foot met squarely with the left side of my head. My face met the pavement and all went to black.

~~~

Number Seven: Don’t Let a Serial Killer Buy You a Beer Again.

I woke up on a stretcher, seeing spots as bright as the sun and instantly began to cough. There was a hot substance in the back of my throat and I begin to choke in what I think is blood. I can see nothing but the vivid spots as somebody turns me on my side and I scream as a pain that is literally indescribable tears through my side. Something cold and metallic is shoved into my mouth and I can feel the blood being sucked away. The stretcher I am lying on jumps up and I realize I must be in an ambulance. Two sets of hands flip me gently back over onto my back. I shriek for it feels as if my ribs are being torn from my body right from beneath the flesh.

“Sweetheart,” I hear someone say. Someone very familiar.

“Shane?”

“You know this woman?” I hear a new voice ask.

“Yes,” this familiar person takes my hand in theirs. Their hand is large and warm and comforting. Not like Cache’s.

“Shane?”

“Hey Red One,” I hear Shane Wolfe say to me in a pained voice. “You’re back. You’re really back,” he runs a hand across my cheek as if he needs proof to see if I’m really here.

“Hey Navy Seal,” I say back and my eyes roll into the back of my head as a needle slips out of my arm. So warm…so cold…I’m tired…I think I’m going to…faint…again.
~~~

I open my eyes and I feel reborn. There is no pain. There is no pain in my head, no ringing in ears. There is no pain in my chest or on my side. My vision is still blurred but I have enough common sense to know I lay in a hospital room. I can feel the IV imbedded in my left arm, the saline and I what I am guessing to morphine drip slowly into my system, making me drowsy but making me happy at the same time. I smile weakly when I see Shane, his head laying on my hospital bed covers and his body lying halfway out of his of so comfortable plastic gray chair. He is wearing dress blues, the kind a lieutenant or a captain in the LAPD wears, but his suit jacket lies on the table next to the bathroom door. My vision is clear and I see a badge pinned onto the jacket and I lazily put two and two together. So big, bad Shane Wolfe is a higher-upper in the Los Angeles Police Department. I look down at him and am alarmed to see a grimace on his handsome face, his mouth contorted as if in some sort of pain. I am hesitant to wake him up, and against my best judgment, decide to wake him anyway. I cautiously raise a hand, IV needle and all, and place it softly on his head. The tiny hairs tickle my skin as I run y hand gently to his cheek and pat it delicately. His eyes open, and I am glad to se the warmth and care in them…completely opposite from the cold darkness seeping from Cache’s eyes. Shane’s eyes were inviting and compassionate.

“Hey,” I say, my voice is cracked and my throat feels parched as the word rolls out of my mouth.

“Hey,” he says back against my arm before straightening up. I will never admit it, but I slightly missed the warmth of his skin on mine. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m…” I can think of no words to describe how I’m doing so I decide on a few simple words. “I’m not in pain.”

“That’s good,” Shane answers and his eyes fill with concern, “really?”

“Really, I swear.”

“Oh,” he looks a bit uncomfortable before changing the subject my well being after seeing how uncomfortable I had quickly grown to be. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Eight years,” I state shortly, but not harshly. “LAPD?”

“Yep,” Shane says, his deep voice contrasting against my rough one.

“No more Navy?”

“Well…” he runs a hand over his head, “I’m on Reserve so practically no more Navy. Only every once in a while for training.”

“Ah, do you like your new job?” I state plainly, shifting in my stiff bed.

“To tell you the truth,” he says and leans forward, “I’d much rather be on missions. More exciting, less paperwork. Besides, being a Lieutenant in the Navy is the polar opposite of being a Lieutenant in the PD.”

“How so?” I’m interested now.

“In the Navy, a lieutenant has rank. Stature. Control. In the PD, a lieutenant has a fleet of rookie flat-footed cops and a coffee machine that hasn’t worked right in years.”

“Then why don’t you go back?” I have to ask.

“I’m too old,” he states with a sigh.

“You’re like what…thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six and only getting older. Are you still at school?”

“Me? Oh, no. I graduated three weeks ago, right after my twenty-seventh birthday. I got a BA in politics and an AA in Vietnamese,” I start to feel the making of a blush on my pale skin.

“I always knew you were a smart kid,” he says and then adds casually, “but then again, you’re now a smart woman.”

I smile and he mirrors mine. Patting my hand gently, he says:

“Listen, I’m going to get a bite to eat and be right back up. Can I sneak you in some jello or some mushy banana pudding? Just for the hell of it?” Shane pronounces and stands up, his body towering over mine.

“Some water would be wonderful,” I look right into his eyes while speaking and spot something beyond description in them. Like sympathy laced in something secretive, something emotional, something that had been pushed deep down, but then again, I tend to look into things a little too much sometimes. It could be pity, though I hoping that’s not. He does something that surprises me. Leaning down, he presses his lips to the corner of my mouth and mutters lightly against my skin:

“I’m glad you’re okay Zoe,” he straightens back up and smiles kindly to me before retreating to the closed hospital door, opening it while still looking at me. “Too bad we couldn’t have met under different circumstances, eh?”

“Yeah,” I say, a grin threatening to break across my face.

“The world is a bitch,” Shane states, and my grin must be contagious because a beaming smile graces his features as he enters the door jam. He is about to leave when I call out after him. There is something I have got to know.

“Shane, how bad is it?”

He must understand what I am talking about because he does not turn around to look at me this time, his shoulders slump slightly. “The padded truth or the truth?”

“The truth,” I state, wishing I were brave, but knowing I was not.

Shane turns around in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the stronger light flooding in through the hospital hallway. The light remains dim in room, just enough illumination to see. He speaks, “You have four broken ribs, one of which nearly punctured your right lung. It was set during surgery—,”

“Surgery?” my heart beats faster at the s-word. “I was in surgery?”

“For four hours,” he states wearily.

“Four hours to set a rib? Four hours is more than enough time! What else happened?” when Shane failed to answer me, I spoke in a little less than a scream, my voice ragged and rough. “What else happened?”

“After he kicked you in the head, you fell forwards onto the cement. The medics say you must have lost consciousness sometime around then. I ran as fast I could over to you, though I didn’t know it was you until afterwards. Cache kicked you again before the officers could drag him away,” he says softly.

“Where?” my voice is a whisper.

“On the right side…right near the shoulder.”

“That’s it? That’s the reason I was in surgery for four hours?” I ask incredulously.

“No, it’s not.”

“Okay, Shane! Stop giving me the run-around! I’m sick of it, just tell me…please,” I say exasperatedly. “Please.”

He walks back into the room and crouches down next to my bed and I finally know what that look in his eyes is: fear. There is fear in his eyes, sugarcoated with disbelief and passed off as concern. “When he kicked you a third time and they took Cache to a black and white, the medics showed up and I had already turned you over on your back. I knew it was you, Zoe. And I got scared because you weren’t breathing. I got frantic, literally panicking. Nothing the medics could do would bring you back. You were pronounced dead at the scene. Your time of death was 12:07. The medics told me to come with them in the ambulance; they knew I had met you before. They told me I was crying but I couldn’t remember. All I remember is how your hand fit perfectly in mine, yours cool, and mine warm. Your eyes were dead to the world, though they were closed. You weren’t breathing and your hand kept getting colder and colder. And then something so great, so terrible happened. The medics preformed CPR, out of regulation, even though you had already been pronounced dead. You started breathing. Jesus H. Christ! You fucking started breathing again!”

It was almost too much for me to take in. Had I died? Had I really passed on? It was like something out of a psychological thriller. Was that why I had felt reborn when I woke up?

“Zoe,” he said and took my hand in his; he was right. Perfect fit. He looked down at our clasped hands and then looked up, staring right into my soul. I felt him search around until he found the core of my emotions, the core of my frustration of my life, of the grief I hold locked up inside. The key has long been lost and by the way he is looking at me, he wishes to help me recover that little piece of seemingly unimportant gold to release my anguish and sorrow that follows me no matter where I move. “Do you know that what happened to is a miracle?”

“Why is that?” I ask though I know resurrection from the dead is probably the answer I receive, but it is not.

“Because you were gone for thirteen minutes before we brought you back.”

I am utterly speechless.