Alex Kava - Black Friday

"Keep her still. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Patrick told the large, black woman in the too-tight blue uniform.

He couldn't take his eyes off her purple latex-gloved hands, quick and expert fingers working on the wound in Rebecca's arm.

The wound looked deep. Really deep.

No, he didn't think keeping Rebecca still would be a problem. If anything he thought Rebecca looked too still. He wished she would say something, anything. Open her eyes for longer than a series of unfocused blinks.

"We're gonna need some plasma over here," the woman yelled over her shoulder, making Patrick jump. She noticed him jump, but pretended not to. He appreciated that small gesture. Instead she continued to give him instructions. "And warm. You need to keep her warm," she told him as she pointed with her chin at the blanket.

He immediately pulled it up and started tucking it in along the sides of Rebecca.

"You're doing good," the woman told him. "Real good."

He knew she was giving him things to do to keep him from going into shock, too. He wanted to tell her he was a volunteer with a fire department back home in Connecticut and had some experience with this kind of thing but just as he thought of it, he quickly dismissed it. He realized he didn't have experience with anything at all like this. Not bombs going off. Not friends hurt and unconscious. It was different with Rebecca lying here.

He had barely caught up with her, squeezing and shoving his way through a swarm of people trying to exit the mall. Rebecca had been tapping frantically at Dixon's iPhone while being jostled about. One minute she was trying to tell him something, drowned out by the noise engulfing them and the next minute she was slipping down into the mob, like a swimmer being sucked up under a wave.

He had to pull her up. She was faint and feverish, her eyes rolling back into her head. She grabbed onto his arm and her hand was filled with blood. He had already noticed the wound in her arm. Glass impaled the skin, too deep for him to pluck it out. He knew it would bleed even more if he did that. Somehow he had managed to separate her from the mob and get her to sit down before she collapsed completely.

"You got that plasma?" the woman yelled again, startling Patrick again, but this time, at least, he didn't jump.

He watched her finish the last sutures.

"Is she gonna be okay?" He knew it was a lame question but he needed to ask it anyway.

"Of course she is." But she didn't look up at him, concentrating instead on the rhythm of her fingers. Her right hand sutured while her left hand dabbed at the blood. "Your girlfriend's gonna be just fine."

Patrick opened his mouth to correct her but stopped himself. Rebecca wasn't his girlfriend. She would have been the first one to protest if she could. Not because they didn't like each other. It was an independence thing. At least that's what she called it. She connected independence with being totally on her own. He actually got that. Understood it completely. Or maybe recognized it since it was close to his own philosophy, his own creed.

That fierce independence was probably what connected them in the first place. Although Patrick didn't refer to it as independence so much as a lack of trust. When you grew up without anyone to count on you learned quickly to count on yourself. His mom had done her best but as a single mom she was gone a lot, working long hours. Patrick didn't blame her. It was what it was. Besides, he turned out just fine. Maybe grew up a bit sooner than his classmates. Nothing wrong with that.

He had never felt like he belonged with kids his own age anyway. They were always too immature. Like Dixon Lee, full of unrealistic ideals. Patrick didn't have the time or luxury to worry about and protest things like immigration when it took all his energy just to keep his own job and work full-time so he could pay for his rent and tuition. He didn't make time for guys like Dixon Lee. Didn't let them in. Didn't trust them. Or anyone, for that matter. It was part of the creed. You can only trust yourself. But then came Rebecca messing up his resolve.

She was witty—that dry humor that takes you by surprise—and smart. Not just book smart but capable of debating an issue, reasoning, quipping with a polite sarcasm he found totally charming. Most importantly, she knew how to listen. He'd throw out bits and pieces of himself—the safe stuff, not anything that would reveal his true secrets—expecting her to bat them aside. Only Rebecca absorbed it all. Not just absorbed, but sorted and sifted and tried to put the bits and pieces together. Patrick had never met anyone quite like her.

And oh, by the way, did he mention she was pretty easy on the eyes? Small with an athletic build and enough curves to offset her tomboy attitude. Big brown eyes and creamy skin, although right now, she looked too pale. Her shoulder-length hair was wet with perspiration, the feathery bangs stuck to her forehead. Her normally full lips were now thin and tight from fighting the pain.

Her eyes fluttered open and he reached for her hand underneath the blanket. He decided he liked the sound of her being his girlfriend though he wouldn't admit it out loud. If you let someone in they usually expected to know everything, including all your secrets. Patrick wasn't ready for that.

The plasma arrived and the woman in the blue uniform started preparing the lines and checking Rebecca's other arm for an entry vein. She didn't ask Patrick to let go of Rebecca's hand as she positioned the arm to her liking.

"You're gonna be just fine," she said and Patrick nodded before he realized she was talking to Rebecca now.

Her eyes focused on him and stayed there. She squeezed his hand and he smiled at her. Had he ever told her she had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen? Of course he hadn't.

He wanted to tell her she could count on him. Right now. For as long as she wanted or needed. She could set aside that fierce independence and lean on him. And it didn't have to mean anything. But instead, he didn't say anything and he knew he would regret it.

Asante lost the GPS signal halfway to the airport. That happened sometimes with control towers and radar from incoming and outgoing airlines. It didn't matter. He needed to let Danko handle the loose ends while he moved on to the next phase. There could be nothing that got in the way.

The snow tapered off. Trucks with blades and sand were already out on the streets. Asante had to slow for them. As soon as he'd speed up again he'd have to hit the brakes and skid around nervous drivers. The first snow of the season and everyone seemed to have forgotten how to drive. He had counted on that fact as being an advantage. Now it was simply annoying.

He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. The adrenaline had been replaced by anxiety. He told those simmering blue eyes to stay calm, to be patient. Then he took several deep breaths, holding each one before letting it out slow and easy.

He told himself that no project ran completely without flaws. The brilliance of a project manager like himself relied on his ability to react and readjust. And at the same time he had to make it look effortless, to cast the illusion of calm, to let his crew see only confidence, nothing less.

Though handpicked they were followers at heart when you peeled away their individual layers of talent, whether those talents included technosavvy intelligence or physical strength. Asante believed he possessed a gift in reading other people, seeing potential where others saw mediocrity. But he could also detect weakness. Everyone had some vulnerability no matter how well hidden. Asante could find it and, if necessary, exploit it.

From his inner circle, he insisted on perfection. He expected nothing less. Anyone chosen for his crew knew this. Being selected was a commendation as well as a burden. Glitches were unacceptable. A weak link could be quickly removed and the removal was permanent. This is what made him a great project manager.