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Dorian came flying into view, lowering his shoulder and slamming into the man’s side. Both of them stumbled. The crowd of pedestrians quickly gave them room as Dorian put himself between the angry street performer and me.
I couldn’t see Dorian’s face, but his tone was deathly serious for the normally lighthearted actor. “Touch her again and I’ll fucking end you.”
The street performer got to his feet and looked over his shoulder. To prepare to run, I thought.
I was wrong.
Two other performers came around the corner, wearing matching magician’s tuxedos. Dorian was pound-for-pound a match for the first guy, but both of the newcomers had several inches on him, and at least 50 pounds. A dark look fell over their faces.
Are we seriously about to get our asses kicked by a gang of street magicians? I wondered, not really believing what was happening.
Dorian suddenly whirled around and grabbed my arm. “Run!”
Everything happened very fast. The street performers cursed at us, and a few pedestrians shouted. Dorian and I sprinted up Times Square and then down the next cross street, heading east. I didn’t dare look back as we ran as fast as we could while holding hands, weaving in and out of the people on the sidewalk. We ran for a full block before Dorian finally slowed. I glanced behind me. Nobody was following.
“Sorry,” he said, panting. “I thought for sure they were—”
Three shapes flew around the building at the end of the block, running in our direction. Even from this distance I could see the anger on the street performers’ faces.
One of them pointed. They ran faster.
“Shit!”
We ran across the street with the other crossing pedestrians, weaving and shouting for them to get out of the way. Traffic was at a stand-still next to us, and Dorian pulled me into the street as we ran around the cars. A taxi blared its horn at us as we slid across his hood, which scared me so bad I almost peed myself. Just as we reached the other side of the road, the traffic started moving again.
“Don’t run, pussies!” one of the performers shouted from the other side of the street. They were shadowing us from the other side, still heading east and running faster. Trying to get to the next crosswalk before us.
Without warning, Dorian slid to a stop and changed directions. “Back this way!”
We backtracked half a block and then Dorian turned south. He was sprinting faster now, pulling me along at the edge of what I could maintain. Fortunately he stopped at the first door we came to. A bar called Phil’s with a chalkboard on the sidewalk that said, Soup of the day: beer.
Dorian yanked open the door and we ducked inside.
It was dark and empty. There wasn’t even someone behind the bar. I was afraid that they hadn’t opened yet, but Dorian wasn’t dissuaded. He led me deeper into the bar and into a tall booth, pulling me down into the seat so that the back would conceal us from the door.
We hunched down and tried to catch our breath. “I don’t think they saw us come in here,” he said. “But I also wasn’t looking.”
“So it’s just wishful thinking?”
“I guess so,” he said with a nervous smile. He leaned over me to peer around the edge of the booth, his body pressed against mine. The image of his beautiful face wedged between my legs returned, tongue moving in a slow circle around my clit while two fingers wedged into my pussy, twisting to touch every inner wall…
“Fuck!” Dorian said, and there was nothing erotic about it. He yanked himself back into the booth and whispered, “One of them is outside the door.”
I didn’t hear the door open, but the silence of the bar was abruptly interrupted by the cars and street noise outside. It dimmed and disappeared, returning the room to silence. Dorian and I held our breath.
A footstep by the door, soft and careful on the old wood. Then another step. One of them had come inside. Hopefully just one. We would have a chance of fighting back if we weren’t outnumbered.
Dorian must have had the same thought. On the booth table were four wrapped napkins. Silently, he reached out to the closest one and broke the paper seal, then unwrapped the napkin one careful inch at a time, revealing the steel utensils inside. His fingers curled around the wooden handle of the serrated steak knife.
He held it there, knuckles white and eyes wide as we waited. Not trusting myself to silently open another napkin, I grabbed the fork from his and held it in my lap. Better than nothing, I thought.
The wood floor of the bar was old and creaky, allowing us to hear our pursuer’s movement. He walked down the aisle on the other side of our booth, keeping us hidden. But if he reached the end and rounded the corner down our aisle…
The street noise returned—the door was opening. “Anything?” someone asked.
“Dunno,” said the man inside the bar, behind us now. We were surrounded.
Suddenly the door from the back room opened and a new voice called out with authority. “We don’t open for another hour.”
