Got A Hold On Me

“Can I just get a coffee for now?” I asked, looking up at the waitress who was serving me in this retro diner on the side of a desert highway. I had just arrived in Dawson.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Oat milk, if you have it,” I shrugged.

“Honey, do you know where you are?” she chuckled.

“Not really,” I sighed. “Mentioning of which, can you point me to the nearest gas station?” She gave me a slight nod, gesturing to the opposite side of the empty road. I hadn’t previously noticed that there was a gas station directly across from the diner. “Thanks.” She returned moments later with a pot of coffee, flipping the mug on the table and filling it to the top. She reached across the surface of the tabletop, pulling a basket to the middle. It contained various types of sweeteners and creamers.

“Sorry about the oak milk,” she said.

“It’s no problem.”

I felt her watching me like a hawk when she walked away, observing me carefully and clearly noticing that I wasn’t putting anything in the cup. I blew on it meticulously, struggling to cool it down before taking a cautious sip. She returned to my table once more, this time bringing me a small slice of cake.

“Oh, I didn’t order—”

“—I know, but if you’re not putting anything in your coffee, you have to have something sweet,” she said, giving me an innocent smile.

“Thanks.”

Brooklyn Bishop. Over thirty. Lost. A traveler. In the desert. Sitting in a retro diner. Eating cake for breakfast. Watching the gas station across the street. Making sure it looked safe. Making sure I wouldn’t get ripped off.

I finished my cake and coffee, feeling grateful that I hadn’t put any sweetener in the coffee given how sweet the cake was. Without seeing the bill, I put enough cash on the table to cover both. The waitress approached with the bill, and I handed her the cash.

“Oh, dessert is on the house,” she offered.

“That’s okay. Keep the change,” I said, grabbing my bag and sliding out of the booth. “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles was playing on the sparkly, red jukebox when I left. I walked outside, got in my car, and drove across the street to fill up on gas, eventually parking next to the convenience store that was attached to the gas station.

I gave a friendly nod to the clerk when I walked in, and I was sure that he noticed me before I noticed him, given the loud ding as I entered the store. I made one full round, winding up at the back of the shop and studying the refrigerated case of diet sodas. I was in the middle of deciding what I wanted for a long journey when I heard another ding. Looking over my shoulder, I noticed a guy walking in; maybe he was a little older than me. He asked for a pack of Black and Milds, then came to the back corner of the store where I was standing and started perusing the 40-ounce beers. It was nearly noon; I didn’t think anything of it. I also didn’t look directly at him. I’d been on the road by myself for almost a week, and I was still hesitant to approach strangers. I heard another ding, and he heard it, too. I saw from my peripheral vision that he looked over his shoulder, and he immediately seemed to recognize the man entering the store. Instead of calling attention to himself, instead of saying hello or giving him a wave, he ducked down, grabbed my wrist tightly, and pulled me into the back hallway. There was a small bathroom on the left side of the hallway, and he dragged me into it, locking the door behind us.

“What the fuck are you—”

“—Shh,” he whispered, placing his hand over my mouth. I blinked repeatedly, totally stunned that it felt like I was suddenly being abducted by a stranger. His fingertips were warm against my lips, smelling faintly of tobacco and gasoline: two scents that I actually enjoyed. I peered up at him, his piercing blue eyes bringing me some sense of calm. Here, in the dark public bathroom, I observed him carefully for the first time. He had short, dark hair and a clean, defined jaw. He was wearing a white v-neck and dark jeans. Tattoos covered most of his exposed skin, stopping at his neckline and his hands. They were free of ink: just beautiful, toned skin crawling with veins. I swallowed nervously as I watched him pull his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. I watched as he composed a blank text and began typing.

Stay quiet. Don’t make a fucking sound. I’m serious.

He showed it to me, and I nodded in silence, taking a deep, shaky breath. The reality was this: I’d been traveling alone, no one knew where I was, I doubted that anyone cared where I was, and this could very well have been my last day on earth. I watched him erase that message, and he began composing a new one. This time, however, he didn’t share it with me. He finished typing and hit send. Within moments, I heard a gunshot. Tears filled my eyes and panic filled my lungs, but I refused to make any noise per his instructions. For all I knew, he was part of this convenience store heist. For all I knew, I was in danger with him. I watched his blue eyes so cautiously as they searched mine, and it was obvious that he could see how terrified I was. Then, something happened.

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly like I was some long-lost lover that he’d been dying to see. His hand, still scented with tobacco and gasoline, brushed my hair aside as he guided my face into his chest. I closed my eyes, trusting him for some reason, and I took another nervous, shaky breath, inhaling a new scent: this spicy blend of suede, leather, and woods. He smelled so good, and as another shot rang out, I shuddered, continuing to keep my eyes closed as he held me. I was sure that my unmeasured breathing was so loud to him, and I wondered if it constituted making a fucking sound. He didn’t say anything and didn’t try to silence me, so I assumed it was okay. I heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and I was suddenly wide-eyed with fear as I pulled away from his chest and looked up at him. Bringing his index finger up to my lips, he encouraged me to stay silent once more, and I just looked back at him as he shook his head at me: a clear warning, maybe even a threat. I nodded, agreeing to stay quiet, and when the footsteps disappeared, the next thing I heard was sirens.

It felt like an eternity: standing in this bathroom, wrapped up in a stranger’s tattooed arms, inhaling the way he smelled as a robbery went down just outside. He didn’t let me go until there was a knock on the door. I watched him unlock it and open it carefully, and when he did, there was an officer standing on the other side in his dark blues.

“Grant,” he said.

“Officer,” he chuckled. I didn’t understand who this stranger was or how he could be so calm.

“How is it that the calls always come from you?” the officer asked.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” he guessed, giving him a casual shrug.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” I stared at the cop for what felt like a long time before I could find my words. “Ma’am?”

“I’m fine,” I whispered.

“What’s your name?”

“Brooklyn. Brooklyn Bishop,” I uttered softly.

“Is that your car out on the side lot?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to have you come outside and make a statement when you’re ready,” he said.

“I don’t know—I don’t know anything. I don’t know how to do that,” I stammered in a panic.

“It’s fine,” Grant said. I assumed that was his name. “She was with me the whole time. I’ll give you a statement.” The officer ignored him.

“Ma’am,” he insisted, “if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” I whispered shyly. I followed him outside through a back door, and when we exited the building and rounded the corner, I noticed an ambulance. “Is he—I can’t—I don’t know if I can—”

“He’s fine,” he soothed. “Just a graze.” I nodded, following him to his patrol car. “Tell me what happened.”

“Um, I was across the street at the diner, and I came over here to get gas,” I began.

“And what time was that?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention,” I admitted. “I filled up my tank and then pulled around to the side lot. I was inside for a few minutes. I remember seeing the clerk, and I walked around the store a few times. Then, I heard that guy come in.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“The guy in the restroom,” I said hesitantly.

“Grant?”

“Yes, if that’s his name,” I shrugged. “He came into the store, asked for a pack of cigarettes—”

“—He doesn’t smoke, not that I know of,” the officer added abruptly.

“Black and Milds,” I said confidently. “While the clerk was getting them from the shelf, he came to the back of the store where I was standing, and he—oh, it was probably around noon,” I continued, interrupting myself. “I remember he was looking at the forties, and that was when I noticed the time. It was right at that moment that someone else came in. We both heard the door, and he looked up, and I guess he noticed the guy coming in; maybe he recognized him.”

“Did he communicate with him in any way?” he asked.

“No, he didn’t. He didn’t even acknowledge him, really. It was like he saw him, and he immediately knew what was going on,” I said. I wondered if I shouldn’t have said it. But of course, I was only detailing to him exactly what happened. I was lucky that I was always so observant.

“What happened next?”

“He grabbed me, and he led me into that back hallway. He took us into the restroom, and he closed the door and locked it. He typed a message telling me to stay silent. I did. Then he typed another message; I didn’t see that one. We heard a gunshot,” I explained.

“How did he react?”

“Calmly. I was shocked, but he helped keep me calm,” I admitted. “Is he in trouble? Actually, where is he? I’d like to thank him for—”

“—You’re welcome,” Grant sighed, leaning up against the patrol car and lighting a Black and Mild. Its sweet scent filled the air as he exhaled, and I watched him flick a small amount of ash onto the dusty, desert lot. “Want a drag?”

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

“I don’t, either.”

“Sure,” I shrugged, shaking my head and furrowing my brow at him. He handed it to me, and I took it between my fingertips, taking a small inhale and blowing smoke from between my lips. I handed it back to him, then turned back to the officer. “That’s all I know. We heard two gunshots in total, I think.”

“You think?” the officer asked. “The rest of your account was very detailed. You don’t remember the exact timeline once he sent the message?”

“Not really, no,” I uttered nervously.

“And why not?”

“Because I—he was—” I stammered, glancing nervously at Grant.

“I see,” the cop chuckled. “Grant, a word?”

“As many as you want,” he said coolly.

“Why were you here this afternoon?”

“Beer and Black and Milds,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Did you pay for those?” the officer asked curiously.

“I left Jimmy a twenty on the counter.”

“What time did you get here?” he pressed.

“11:55,” Grant said.

“Walk me through it,” the officer demanded, sounding a little impatient despite Grant’s clear answers.

“Walked in. Asked Jimmy for a pack of Black and Milds. Went to the back of the store. Looked at the beer. Noticed the girl,” he began. I was now finding out that he noticed me before there was ever any danger. “Heard the door. Saw Eric Ramirez. They were talking about him on the scanners last week—”

“—Don’t bullshit me, Rift,” the cop interrupted.

“And yeah, I guess he used to run with some of the guys who were in my circle,” he stated casually, almost dismissively. “So, I figured he was up to something, and I grabbed her and got her to safety.”

“What happened in the restroom?”

“I wrote her a message. Told her to keep quiet,” he continued, pausing to take another drag. He handed it back to me without asking if I wanted it. I took another drag, then another two or three. It tasted surprisingly sweet. “Then I texted Mark,” he added, sounding a little irritated. “We heard a gunshot—”

“—She said it was two gunshots.”

“It was, but I’m speaking chronologically,” Grant said, correcting the cop. I liked him. I didn’t know why, but I did. There was something so cool about him, and while he was over there being so cool, he was using words like ‘chronologically’. “I consoled her.”

“I’m not going to ask what that means,” the cop scoffed, trying to avoid smirking.

“Thanks. Anyway, there was a second gunshot, but at that point, I already knew that you were on it,” he announced confidently.

“And you kept her inside because?”

“Ramirez never works alone. Figured he had the place surrounded,” Grant said.

“And you paid for the cigarettes?”

“Black and Milds,” he corrected him. “Yes. I left a twenty. I said that.”

“I know. Just making sure you’ve got your story straight.”

“I didn’t take change. Figured there wasn’t any left in the register. Will that be all, Sam?” Grant asked, addressing the officer by his first name this time. It was clear that they knew each other somehow.

“You’re both free to go.”

I took one last drag of that sweet cigarillo, handing it back to him and watching the way his fingertips looked as he held it. I glanced at the tattoos that climbed up his arms, and he finally stopped leaning against the squad car, walking with me to the side lot until I arrived at my car. Directly next to it, there was a sleek, black motorcycle.

“Can I take you to lunch?” he asked.

“What?” I laughed nervously.

“There’s a diner across the road.”

“If you were listening, then you’d know that I just came from the diner,” I reminded him playfully.

“If you were listening, then you’d know that I just saved your fucking life, and you’d let me buy you lunch.”