Like Fire & Gasoline

“Bridgette, we’re closing up for the night. I’ve already kept this place open way too late, just for you.” A girl with long, golden ringlets turned, the computer screen illuminating her features, casting shadows across her face in the dark library. She rubbed her cerulean eyes before looking up at the tall, raven-haired girl.

“I know, I’m so sorry. I’m done, I swear, but can I just print off my paper? I’ll be really really fast, I promise,” the blond pleaded, giving a sheepish half smile. Olivia rolled her almond shaped eyes, and Bridgette sighed in relief, knowing her best friend all too well.

“You have two minutes. I need to get out of here, I have a date,” Olivia stated, her tawny eyes glittering. It was Bridgette’s turn to roll her eyes as the creaking sound of the printer filled the old building.

“It’s past eleven. Is it the one from the bar?” she asked curiously, standing from the black, plastic, rolling chair. She stretched, then readjusted her flowing floral shirt, waiting for the printer to finish its job.

“Yes ma’am. When your birthday comes in April, I’ll bring you with and find you a real nice guy.” Olivia followed Bridgette as she wove through book carts to the table a few feet away where all of the copiers, fax machines, and printers sat.

“Cause that’s where all the nice guys hang out. The bar,” Bridgette retorted, grabbing the still-warm paper from the gray machine.

“Don’t judge. One of these days, you’ll see,” Olivia laughed, watching Bridgette grab her bag. Olivia made her way behind the checkout counter, digging her own things out from the shelves it contained.

“I swear, you’ve been twenty-one for a month, and already you think you own the pubs.” Olivia poked her head above the counter, sticking her tongue out.

“You only live once, Bridge. So live a little.” Bridgette rolled her eyes at the advice, making her way to the double glass doors, sliding the starch white sheets into her slate gray purse.

“See you tomorrow, Liv,” she called, raising a hand in goodbye.

“Bye, Bridge!”

The cool, September air grazed her face as she walked down the concrete staircase. It was a lot later than she’d expected; but with a paper due tomorrow, she had no choice. It had only been a week since classes started, and already she was up to her ears in work. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the goose bumps that had appeared on her pale arms.

“Hey beautiful, where you running off to?” Bridgette turned suddenly, seeing a man in his thirties stumbling towards her. By the way he slurred his speech, she could tell he was drunk. It figured; she was walking past the local bars. She turned on the heel of her black flats, beginning to walk faster, the wind whipping her curls in all directions. She was nearing a busier street when his grimy fingers encircled her thin wrist.

“Please, let go,” she demanded, doing her best to remain calm. Her thoughts went to the whistle that her mother insisted she carried, but groaned internally. She instantly regretted having such a big purse; she’d never be able to find the whistle or her phone for that matter.

“Well aren’t you just darling,” he slurred, his breath reeking of liquor. She tried jerking her arm away, but it was useless. For a man who was ridiculously drunk, he had an ironclad grip. She could feel her heart beating against her chest, thudding erratically. Her cyan eyes searched frantically for anyone to help her, but there was no one. She instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, racking her brain for anything her father had taught her about self-defense.

“I think she asked you nicely to get your greasy hands off of her,” a deep, smooth voice said, just as she was getting ready to knee the man in the groin. Her eyes flashed open, revealing a young man about her age. His long, chestnut hair fell in his hazel eyes, setting off his tan skin. One of his hands was on the guy’s shoulder, and forced him off of her.

“Whatever,” the drunk mumbled, wobbling into the nearest building advertising alcohol.

“Thanks,” Bridgette mumbled, trying to even out her breathing. The new stranger shot her a dazzling smile, flipping the hair away from his well-featured face. Her mind was racing, and she couldn’t tell if her heartbeat was speeding up from adrenaline or him.

“Not a problem. I’m James,” he offered, sticking out his hand. Bridgette grabbed it with her own, much smaller hand, giving a weak smile.

“Thank you James. I’m Bridgette.” They stood there for a moment, shaking hands, neither letting go. Finally, Bridgette pursed her lips, looking at the cracked sidewalk, dropping her hand.

“What’s a girl like you doing walking alone, anyway?” James asked, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“I was at the library, writing a paper. I guess I lost track of time. What about you? I mean, not implying you’re a girl or anything…” The two started walking, the old streetlights guiding their way down the quiet streets.

“I was grabbing a bite to eat, and happened to see someone who could use some help.”

“Well, I’m glad. I mean, you’ve got nothing on, say, Superman or Batman, but you were pretty heroic to me.”

“Well thank you…I think. That was a compliment, right?” He looked at her, and she smiled up at him, a bubbly giggle escaping her full lips.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she teased, and he couldn’t help but chuckle himself. He got a few steps ahead, walking backwards so they were face-to-face.

“I’m just going to take it as a compliment.”

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“Well, this way I get to brag to my friends about how I saved a pretty girl.” Bridgette felt her porcelain cheeks turn a rose color, and James stopped in his tracks. Bridgette crashed right into his chest. Even though she was 5’6, he still had a good bit of height on her.

Her cheeks blushed a deeper red, and she avoided his eyes. He made no attempt to move, but looked down at her with those damn hazel eyes. She finally worked up the bravery to glance up through her eyelashes. Both of them stopped breathing for a moment, however, Bridgette began walking again, leaving James standing in the street.

“Bridgette, wait,” he called, turning quickly around to see her figure retreating, hands in the pockets of her dark jeans. She looked over her shoulder, waiting for him to say something. She tried her best to hide the smile on her lips, and the crimson of her cheeks. The breeze picked up strands of her hair, and she did her best to hold it aside and watch James.

“Will I get to see you again?” he called, and she bit down on her lips. She turned to face him, but continued to walk in the direction she’d been going, being careful not to trip.

“Who knows? Maybe, Maybe not.” With that she turned, leaving James all alone under the orange-ish tint of the streetlights.