Final Destination III (5 page)

She brushed away my tears with her long, still elegant fingers. “Sarah, never forget that you were born wearing combat boots. You are a warrior princess. Don’t let that evil boss of yours scare you. Fight for what you want. And for whom you want. He sounds like a really good man.”

She lifted her sketchbook and flipped through the pages, landing on a portrait of me. The image shocked me. I was actually pretty, and in my big brown wide-set eyes, there was a fiery blend of intelligence, compassion, and determination.

“Do you like it?” my mother asked.

“Oh, Mom! It’s so good!” I studied the sketch. Yes, this is who I was. Sarah, Warrior Princess.

I gave my mother a big hug. Oh, how I loved her.

“Hi, Sarah.”

The voice, a vaguely familiar one, startled me. I spun around. It was my mother’s oncologist, Dr. Chernoff.

“Can I please have a word with you outside?”

My pulse accelerated. I knew what he wanted to talk about.

Outside in the hallway, Dr. Chernoff discussed my mother’s condition. “Yes, Sarah, she’s responding extraordinarily well to her treatment, but I’m afraid her insurance company is no longer going to cover the expenses. Her coverage terminates at the end of next week. Didn’t you receive my letter?”

I pretended like I’d never received it. “Can’t you talk them into it?” I pleaded. “Maybe extend coverage for just one more month? I’m sure I can figure out a way to pay for it.”

Dr. Chernoff planted his large hands on my shoulders. “Sarah, I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. Call me on Monday, and we’ll figure out an alternative course of action.”

My heart sunk. With my precarious situation at work, I did not know what I was going to do. A tear escaped my eye. I could not lose my mother!

Pulling myself together, I returned to my mother’s room. She was back to sketching but now looked weary. “What did Dr. Chernoff want?” she asked.

“Oh, he just wanted to tell me you’re doing great and will be out of here very soon.” I could not bring myself to tell her about the insurance situation.

A smile danced on my mother’s lips, but her eyes seemed to be in a faraway place. “My darling, unlike love, cancer has a cure.”

Her bittersweet words moved me. I wondered if she was thinking about my father whom I knew she had never stopped loving, no matter how much he’d hurt her.

I hugged her for the third time. “Bye, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Good-bye, my sweet girl. Remember what I said.”

I loved my mom.

“And, darling, one last thing, I want to meet him.”

I really loved my mom.
Oh please, God, make her better.

Exiting the hospital, I had a lot on my mind. How was I going to pay for my mother’s cancer treatments? How was I going to fend off Catherine and keep my job? And how was I going to win back Ari? I had no answers. My mind was spinning out of control.

As I headed back to 30th Street Station, I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being followed. I looked over my shoulder, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and decided I was being paranoid. My misery and sleeplessness were messing with my mind. Rounding the corner to Market Street, I suddenly felt myself being shoved from behind and found myself tumbling to the pavement. Roaring pain ripped through my palms and my knees as I hit the ground. It all happened so fast.

Someone gripped me by the neck and pinned me to the ground. Dazed, I gazed up at my assailant. He was a greasy, pimply-faced thug with bad teeth. “Bitch!” he shouted, pulling out a pocket knife. My eyes grew wide as he flicked open the blade and pointed it at my chest.

“What do you want?” My voice shook.

“Back off, you little cunt.”

He lowered the knife closer to my heart. I wanted to scream, but my vocal chords were frozen.

Still holding the blade two inches above me, he grabbed my messenger bag and dumped the contents onto the pavement. He snatched my wallet and my cell phone, and with a bang of my head to the pavement, he ran off.

I lay there stunned, my head ringing.

“Honey, are you okay?” The words whirled around in my head. After blinking my eyes several times, things came back into focus. A buxom African American woman was crouching over me. I sat up slowly and rubbed my sore head with one hand. My other hand was a bloody mess; my skirt was torn, and I ached all over. I looked down at my stinging knee. There was a huge gash on it, and blood was dripping down to my ankle.

The kindly woman helped me gather the contents of my messenger bag. My sketchpad… little book of sayings… keys… and some pens and pencils. Tears stung my eyes.

“Do you want me to take you to the emergency room?” asked the woman.

I shook my head. “Do you have a cell phone I can borrow?” I asked, my voice shaky and desperate. She whipped out an iPhone from her large purse and handed it to me. I googled two words and gave her back the phone. Tears were streaming down my face.

“Honey, are you sure you’re okay?” The expression on her face was one of genuine concern. After my vicious assault, it was reassuring there were still good Samaritans in this world. Philadelphia was still after all the “City of Brotherly Love.”

I nodded. “Could you tell me how to get to Center City?”

“That’s a couple of miles downtown,” she replied. “My car’s parked across the street, and I’m headed that way. Can I give you a ride?”

I was touched by this stranger’s kindness. With my head throbbing and body aching. I accepted her offer. She also gave me a tissue so that I could clean up my bloody hand and knee. The wounds bled right through it.

The woman dropped me off in front of an imposing, futuristic glass-and-steel tower. I thanked her for the lift and let myself out of her SUV.

I dragged myself into the building, barely able to push the revolving doors. I was vaguely aware of people staring at me. Some gaped while others cupped a hand to their mouths. I must have looked beyond terrible… frightening. A bloody, disheveled, torn-up mess. I staggered up to the alphabetically listed tenant information
board. My eyes roamed down the listings until they landed on the “G” section. Golden Industries—36th floor
.

The elevator ride to his office seemed like eternity. Why did have to be the last stop? I tried to hide in a corner, but couldn’t avoid the horrified faces of people who boarded along the way. I felt faint.

At last, the elevator reached my destination. The doors slid open, and I stumbled into a sky-high palace of glass, shiny marble, and sleek black leather. Several suits were seated in the lobby, but were too engrossed in magazines or their digital devices to notice me. I staggered up the receptionist’s desk, a sleek jet-age console behind which “Golden Industries” blazed on the stark white wall.

The receptionist, an attractive blonde in her late twenties, wearing earphones, took one look at me and gasped. I thought she would call security had I not managed the words, “I need to see Mr. Golden.”

“Do you have an appointment with him?” she asked suspiciously, her fingers reaching for the phone.

I wiped my tears with my bleeding, dirty palm. “Please tell him that Sarah Greene is here,” I begged.
Please.

She pressed three buttons on the phone. I prayed it was the extension of Ari’s assistant and not security.

“There’s a Ms. Greene to see Mr. Golden,” she said. “He may wish to bring security with him.”

I cringed. Never in my whole life had I felt so mortified and demoralized. My hip roared with pain, and the scrapes on my limbs stung like fire. I glanced down at my scraped knee; it was still bleeding like crazy. My entire lower leg was now a bloody mess.

Two familiar long legs marched into the lobby. He was perfectly groomed as always in an expensive, pale gray suit, crisp white shirt, and silver tie. My tired, teary eyes met his.

“Jesus Christ.” He sprinted over to me.

My body convulsed with sobs. Anguish, raw and ruthless, shook me.

Just as I thought I might collapse, he swept me into his arms and carried me away, holding me tight like a child.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, and buried my tear-soaked face on his shoulder. My body heaved against his taut chest. His intoxicating manly scent rushed into my nose, assuring me that I was safe again in his strong arms.

I had no idea where he was taking me until his voice, firm and authoritative, said, “Miss Thatcher, no phone calls please.” His office.

Gently, he laid me down on a white leather couch, placing a pillow under my head. My bleary eyes were not yet ready to take in my surroundings. Sobs kept rocking my body.

He sat down beside me on the edge, cradling my head in one arm and caressing my tumbled hair with the other. Alarm flickered in his beautiful blue eyes.

“Baby, tell me what happened?”

Words stayed trapped in my throat. I noticed that I had gotten blood all over his lapels and collar.

“I ruined your suit,” I spluttered.

“Stop it. I have a dozen more just like it. Just tell me what happened.”

“Someone attacked me,” I sobbed.

“Did he—?” Rage filled Ari’s eyes. I knew where he was going and cut him off.

“No, he was after my wallet and cell phone. He took them both.”

The memory of the vicious assault swarmed me. The wild look in my assailant’s eyes as he pointed his weapon at me. The terror that filled every crevice of my body.

“He had a knife.”

“Oh, baby!” He took me in his arms and cuddled me. He let me cry until the pain I felt everywhere melted.

Brushing loose strands of hair off my forehead, he said, “We should file a police report. Do you remember what he looked like?”

“I just want to move on.”

“But he could do it again to someone else.”

“Please, Ari, I want to forget about him.”

His face hardened. “Fine.” Blinded by my tears, I was not sure if he was mad at me or sorry for me.

Slowly, his face softened; tenderness filled his eyes. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Gently lowering my head back on the pillow, he rose to his feet. My eyes followed him as he crossed the room and disappeared behind a closed door.

My sobbing reduced to erratic heaves, and I mustered the strength to sit up. My eyes took in my surroundings. I was in his corner office—a bigger, even more elegant version of the lobby, with floor-to-ceiling windows on every side. Everything was sleek, state-of-the art, expensive. A modern, high-tech version of his Park Avenue penthouse. Unusual pieces of abstract art lined the walls along with various degrees and awards. What most stood out, however, was his massive desk. The one antique among all the contemporary treasures—a highly polished blond art deco console that looked like it might have come off the Titanic. For a busy CEO, there were few things on it. A large, state-of-the-art computer, a black leather folder, and several framed photos.

Ari returned carrying a silver tray, with a glass of water and an assortment of first aid items. Placing it on the glass coffee table in front of the couch, he sat down next to me.

“Drink,” he ordered. He held the glass to my lips.

Not having the energy to fight him, I gulped down the cold, refreshing liquid, surprised how thirsty I was. He placed the glass on the table, next to the first aid stuff.

“Let me see your hand,” he ordered, his tone now gentle.

Slowly, I flipped over my right hand so that my scraped palm was in full view. The blood was already caking.

“Nasty.” He opened the peroxide and grabbed a square piece of gauze. “This is going to hurt.”

After soaking the gauze with the peroxide, he dabbed it on my wound. I wasn’t prepared for the brutal sting and yelped.

He quirked a smile. “I told you it would hurt.”

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss the boo-boo?” I asked, pleased that my sense of humor was coming back to me.

“You’re right.” Without missing a beat, he gently pressed his warm, velvety lips against the wound. They were more soothing than any balm. I half-expected his expert tongue to roll along it, but instead he began to roll gauze around my hand.

“You’re good at this,” I said as he finished off the dressing with a piece of adhesive tape. “You should have been a doctor.”

“I almost was,” he retorted. “I spent a year at Harvard Med, but switched over to the Business School when my dad got sick.”

No wonder he knew how to handle Lauren’s suicide attempt. What else didn’t I know about my amazing Trainman?

Ari’s eyes roamed down my body, lingering on my crotch before stopping at my left knee. “That’s a fine mess.”

It was. The scrape, about two inches in diameter, was red-raw, and there were streaks of caked up blood all over my calf.

I winced as he cleaned it up and covered it with a patch of gauze.

“Thanks, Doctor.” I knew I was recovering because that tingling all over feeling that I got whenever I saw him had returned to me.

His eyes burned into mine. I glanced down at his crotch and could see a tent between his legs that was not there before.

“Well, I’d better be going.” I stood up, but Ari held me back, two hands anchored firmly on my shoulders.

He furrowed his brows. “Where the hell do you think you’re going, Ms. Greene?”

I thought he might spank me. Again. I cowered under the scrutiny of his intense, steely eyes.

“You can’t go back on the street in those torn up, bloody clothes. You have no money to get home. And for all I know, there’s some mad serial killer on his way to your apartment right now. He knows where you live.”

I bit my lip. He had a point.

Ari strode over to his desk and pressed a button on his phone. “Miss Thatcher, please use my credit card and pick up some appropriate clothes at Neiman’s for Ms. Greene. I trust your taste. She wears a Size 6.”

“Yes, Mr. Golden,” the voice on the other side said.

“She’ll be back in an hour. Neiman’s is not far,” he said, heading toward that other room off his office.

I could hear water running. It went on for a long time.

Ari emerged from the room and strode over to me. Scooping me up in his arms, he said, “Let’s get the rest of you cleaned up.” He carried me across the room.

My eyes grew wide. This was no ordinary bathroom. It was practically a spa, all glimmering white marble and shiny chrome. There was a toilet, bidet, full steam shower, a built-in porcelain bath fit for king, and a floor-to-ceiling window with a view to die for. Ari had drawn me a bath, the sunken tub half filled up.