Stacy Vs. SEAL

I'm sure it has to do with me.

Just then, our waiter reappears. "Another round of drinks, ladies?"

"No, I'm fine," I reply, waving my hand over my empty drink and pushing the glass away.

"Oh come on," Kim goads. "The night's young. Have just one more."

"No, thanks, I really shouldn't," I say, and I'm proud of myself for resisting the urge to jump into another round of drinks. I know from experience that it's never just 'one more.'

"But you two go ahead," I say, reassuring them that if they stay I won't feel left out of something.

"Have it your way, but you're missing out," Erica smiles. "Just think, with a couple more shots of tequila, you won't even care what Sanders is up to."

The mention of his name makes my heart leap, and the sinking feeling in my chest returns.

I force a smile, and decline again. I step away from the table and walk over to each one of my friends, giving them big hugs.

"Thanks for letting me vent," I say, giving them one last squeeze. They both nod.

"Anytime," Kim smiles. "We're here for you girl."

As I leave the bar, I think about how I'm going to spend the rest of my night. I have to try and get Sanders out of my mind. And then it hits me… I know exactly what to do to clear my head of the man who left me in the middle of the night.

I'm going to slide in between my warm blankets and read my Kindle.

At least that's a place where men don't leave.

9

Sanders

I'm walking around Midtown when I see her from across the street. It's Stacy.

What are the chances? Here I am, trying to forget about this woman and I can't. Everywhere I turn, I'm reminded of her, and now here she is.

She's dressed in a short, black skirt and blouse, and she looks fantastic. Really fucking fantastic. And as I look around, I see I'm not the only man who thinks she looks good either.

She quickly walks underground, into the subway station, her heels tapping the ground at a quick clip.

I feel the protective urge

to follow her, and then I stop myself. Why do I always feel the need to act as this woman's bodyguard? But once she disappears down the subway steps, I can't contain myself. I'm compelled to follow on a hunch. After all, this is Midtown, near 8th Avenue on the West Side in Far Chelsea. It's not the safest part of town.

Quickly looking both ways for oncoming traffic, I seize the opportunity to run across the street. I don't necessarily want her to see me, so I'm careful to keep my distance and slowly descend the steps.

Once downstairs, I scan the subway station. At first, I don't see Stacy. My eyes are darting back and forth. I see a stream of people hustling about and on their way to various locations—old, young, and everything in between. Then, the stream of people fades, and the platform grows quiet.

The musty underground air is thick and humid. At first, it's a sound. I hear a scream that causes my pulse to race. And then something catches my eye—a scuffle—the flash of black, and silver, and shadow.

My hunch was right.

Standing slightly off in the distance, I see Stacy and another man. He's big and wearing a black, hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head, so it's hard for me to get a good look at his face. It's shrouded in shadow and obscured from my angle.

"Stay away from me!" Stacy yells, swinging wildly. I can hear the panic bubbling up in her voice.

The man firmly grips one of Stacy's arms. With her free arm, she's frantically digging into her purse. She's putting up a good fight, but she's still no match for this man. He's taller and bigger—I'm guessing he outweighs her by about a hundred pounds.

Then I see him push her against the wall.