I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and I see that I’m only wearing panties and a bra. We couldn’t have gotten too far if I’m still in my underclothes. I reach between my thighs and feel my panties; they’re dry. Hmm. No soiled panties. Still partially clothed.
Thank God. We didn’t have sex. Maybe a very heavy make-out session? Or maybe we were so drunk we couldn’t reach the next part.
“Ben,” I mutter again, running my hands over my messy ponytail. I need to get it braided. It’s going to be hell to straighten it out again, now that it’s all tangled and matted.
“Ben,” I call a little louder, risking the wrath of the rock band. They get louder, and I wince.
This time when I receive no answer, I turn around to shake him. There’s one problem: It’s not Ben’s smooth, golden skin stretched over taut muscles honed from years of running every morning for the last two decades. It’s not Ben’s curly hair that rests on the pillow.
I jump out of bed, forgetting all about the rock band playing for an encore. The ache throughout my tired body is a dull throb now. I stumble backward and look around the dark bedroom for the first time.
I have no idea where I am. We may not have had sex yet and the room may be dark, but I’ve been in Ben’s bedroom, and this isn’t it. “Hey!” I call out to the stranger as I bend to grab my clothes that are strewn on the floor.
I slip my feet into my sandals as I pull my yellow, floral print sundress over my body. A sliver of sunlight barely slips through a crack in the navy curtains that are drawn. A large dresser sits opposite the bed with an array of colognes, lotions, and a few knickknacks.
“Hello?” I call out again as that knot of worry in my belly turns into a rock of fear.
I’m dressed, so I move around the bed slowly, prepared to run at any minute. Maybe I should have grabbed something that could serve as a weapon, but my curiosity is compelling me to find out who this stranger is.
I don’t recall going home with a stranger from a bar. Hell, I don’t even remember being at a bar. The last thing I recall is being at a coffee shop after interviewing someone. It’s then that I realize who is in bed with me.
“Emmanuel?” I call out to the man whose dreads that are pulled back in a ponytail I now recognize.
When he doesn’t say anything, I rush to his side. His dark, handsome features are barely recognizable over the lumps, bumps, and craters that mark his face. Someone has beaten him very badly, and I pray that he isn’t dead.
I check for a pulse at his neck, and I find a thready one, and his breathing is shallow.
“Oh, Emmanuel. Oh my God! What’s going on? What’s going on?” I repeat, looking at his face and attempting to roll him onto his back.
I don’t know if he has any broken bones or not. It’s probably best if I don’t try to move him.
“Honey, hold on. I’m going to get you some help as soon as I find my phone,” I mumble, rushing around the room to search for my phone. It’s not on any surface I can see.
Lowering to my knees, I check underneath the bed and find my phone. Damn. It’s dead. I search around the room again, and I find Emmanuel’s phone in his pants pocket. Pulling it free, I press the unlock button on the side of it. The fingerprint scanner pops up, and I rush to his side, grab his hand, and press his thumb against the screen.
“Please, God. Let this work.”
When the phone unlocks, I breathe a sigh of relief, and I immediately dial 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“My friend has been attacked, and he needs an ambulance right away.”
“What’s the address, ma’am?”
“I don’t know. Can’t you just ping the location of this phone?”
“I can. Please tell me, what’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know that, but his name is Emmanuel Tennison.”
I wipe the phone clean of my fingerprints with the hem of my sundress and then toss it on the bed beside him. Leaning closer to Emmanuel, I whisper, “It’s going to be okay, honey. Someone’s on the way now. I can’t stay. I must leave. Take care, sweet guy.”
I press a kiss to my fingertips and then touch them to his forehead before I move to search the room to make sure that I have all my belongings. Racing into the bathroom, I find some alcohol wipes, and I use them to wipe his phone again, the doorknob, and every other surface I can see myself reasonably touching on my way out the door.
My heart thunders in my chest as I run down the steps of his apartment building and out onto the street. A quick scan of the street proves that my car is not here. So, I didn’t drive myself here, but where is my car?
I need to order an Uber, and I need to trace my last steps in hopes that I can find out what happened to me. It’s too late in the evening, and most of the businesses on this street are closed. There is a restaurant across the street and down a couple of blocks, but there’s a bar across the street and two buildings over.
