The Cost of Saving Him

- Mina -

It was a long night with the usual crowd of drunken idiots on a Thursday. “Hey Mina, I cleaned the grill and shut it down. Are you okay if I leave?” Corey always had a knack for sneaking up at the worst moments. 

“Yeah, I’m good, Corey. You should head home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sometimes, it still feels unreal. Owning this bar. Larry, that gentle giant. Man, I miss him so much. I can’t think about that day without recalling them taking him out in that hideous bag. 

The same ones they used to carry Mom and Dad. That memory sticks to me like glue. It’s about 1:25 in the morning, and a clean bar doesn’t happen on its own. I turned the music up and danced my way to the bar, picking up glasses on my way to clean them just as I finished the last glass and went to set it down, BANG, more of a loud pop, immediately followed by another. 

Was that a gunshot? 

I try to brush it off, reminding myself this is New York. Turning up the music, I approached the door to lock up. Just as I reached for the latch, a tall, blood-soaked man pushed it open, shoving me back and locking it behind him. 

Why was he barging into my bar at this hour? 

“What the hell, dude!? We are closed. Can’t you read that?” I was about to open the door again when I froze at the sight of so much blood running down his side and soaking his shirt.

Panicking, I rushed for the phone. “I’ll call an ambulance for you. Just sit down,” I said, but when I looked up, he had a gun pointed directly at me. 

He winced from the pain and mumbled in a cold, dark tone, “Put the damn phone down. Now.” 

What was he even doing? My phone slipped from my fingers. I looked down to see the revolver Larry had left me for one of those ‘just in case’ moments. 

I reached out cautiously, but stopped when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking touch it.” Suddenly, the loud music faded to a faint hum, a whisper in a nightmare. 

“What do you want?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. I fought to stay calm, but then the past flashed again. My dad’s face. The screams. The gunshots, one after another. I swallowed hard, hoping to push the panic down.

I glanced at his shirt and asked, “What can I do?” hoping for a response. The silence was overwhelming. After a few moments, he finally reacted—more like swayed—placing the gun on the counter. All I could think in that moment was: finally!

He winced in pain. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

I nodded, then ran to the back. I grabbed the first-aid kit. When I returned, I leaned the man against the wall. He looked like he was about to pass out. This time, welcoming the painful memory, I hoped to remember what the doctors did when they removed the bullets from Dad. 

I realized I needed to remove his shirt, so I gently lifted the bottom, but his firm, steady hand on my arm stopped me. “I don’t remember giving you permission to fucking touch me.” 

For a moment, I thought he was going to kill me, until he said, “You’re lucky this is different.” Whatever that meant couldn’t be good, right? I grabbed the shirt and pulled harder. “Ah-Damnit-What the fuck?” I smiled, satisfied by his reaction. 

You entered my bar and threatened me with a gun, all while I tried to help. You became deviant and aggressive. I pushed the thoughts away once I got his shirt off, but then I couldn’t look away. My breath caught in my throat. He was injured, yet also incredibly beautiful. What the hell? Did I really just call a grown man beautiful? That’s a new way for me to think. 

I marveled at his raw strength and well-defined physique. His chest is beautifully sculpted, almost as if the gods took their time crafting him. There you go again, Mina. Calling him beautiful. I was distracted by the lines of his chest when he cleared his throat to get my attention. 

“Is there a problem?” He winced again as he shifted slightly.

Shit, I must have been obvious and staring too much or something. “No. Just shut up and don’t move, asshole.” As soon as I said it, I noticed a change in his eyes again. Whatever it was, I don’t care if he needs to go. Silently. First, I applied pressure to stop the bleeding. When it slowed, I poured alcohol on the wound. 

He winced and asked, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” His words interrupted the silence I was enjoying.

 I wasn’t intending to share this with a stranger, but I did anyway. “Just once.” Mina, should I really tell him? I could feel his eyes on me. After wiping away the blood, I saw that the bullet wound was just a graze, though it could have been worse since he was bleeding significantly. “You got lucky, I guess,” I said while reaching for a large wound dressing from the kit, but I felt his hands on me again. 

This time, he spoke gently. “Here, I can do that.” I turned to face him, and he was very close, too close. 

“No, you can’t, you won’t be able to see it,” I said, brushing his hand back. I watched as he leaned back again, giving me space to look. This time, I could see more clearly that there was a sizable scar on his stomach, along with several smaller ones just below the fresh wound. I gently traced the scars with my fingertips. “These must have hurt, huh?” I looked him in the face, trying to read his expression, and he had that look again. The one he had when he held the gun, and when I took his shirt off. That look made me uncomfortable. 

Since I didn’t know him or recognize that look, I finished patching him up and told him he had to leave. To my surprise, he listened. “I’m sorry about the mess,” he said as he stood weakly and headed for the door, after putting his shirt back on.

Well, shit, at least he apologized, I thought as I locked the door behind him. Walking back to the office, I pondered this mysterious man. Who was he? Why did he get shot? But most importantly, why the hell did he come to my bar? I shook off the thoughts, grabbed the mop bucket, and returned to work, cleaning up the mess and then the bar. 

Finally, it’s now three in the morning, and I should have been home about two hours ago. Great, another sleepless night. I arrived home, cleaned up, and scrubbed his blood from under my nails. Once finished, I lie in bed, waiting for sleep to come, and when it does, he’s there. 

Not as the blood-soaked stranger who stormed into my bar at 1:30 a.m., but as something different. Maybe worse, maybe better—I wasn’t sure. In the dream, he wasn’t injured. Standing in my bar as if he owned it, smirking, shirtless. The blood had vanished, but the scars stayed. His eyes locked onto mine, and I was unable to look away or breathe. 

He approached me slowly and purposefully, a raw intensity emanating from him like summer heat off the pavement. My feet remained frozen, and my voice betrayed me. When he finally reached me, he whispered something unintelligible, his breath warm against my ear. Then, his hands settled on my waist, firm and possessive. Neither gentle nor rough, just confident, as if he knew I belonged there. For a long, frightening moment, I didn’t resist.

I woke up with my heart pounding, sheets wrapped around my legs, and his name still on my lips, still unknown.