FOR THE STORY

SEVEN: Chase

Placated, Savannah goes with me to the car willingly enough. Thankfully, my Land Rover is right where I left it, though completely surrounded by ice. And thankfully, I have four-wheel drive.

As we drive towards midtown, Savannah rests her head against the side of the door. I snap my fingers in her direction.

"You have to stay awake," I order.

"12th street," she says weakly.

I frown. Is she delirious too? "What's 12th street?"

"Where I live," says Savannah drawing out the words like I didn't comprehend them.

"Cool," I know what she means, but there's no way I'm dropping her at home. Either her roommate doesn't exist, or she's not such a great friend because Savannah has said nothing about her other than the fact that she's probably home.

"You're coming with me," I add after a minute. I brace myself for an argument, but surprisingly Savannah doesn't argue.

"Okay," she says, closing her eyes again.

Savannah perks up keys numbers into a pad that unlocks the gate. "Um, this is your house?" Her words slur.

"No."

I'm worried that I've gotten into more than I can handle. Not by picking up Savannah but by taking her into my care instead of sending her to the ER.

She's still looking at me. Confused about my 5000 square foot house in the suburbs, no doubt. "I have a condo in the city, but this place was left to me," Chase says after a few minutes. He hesitates. "I thought you'd be more comfortable here."

We park, and Chase comes over to my side of the car and reaches in to unbuckle my seatbelt like I'm a little kid. The adrenaline from the fight has long worn off, and I'm so weak, I don't even argue. I feel him slide his arm under my bare legs and behind my back, lifting me out of the car like I'm a featherweight. Then he kicks the door shut.

As I carry her inside, I lay her down gently on the bed in the master bedroom. I'll stay on this floor too, on the couch, of course, so that I can keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't need an actual doctor; one who made it all the way through med school.

I peel off her coat and see that she's still got blood on her arms and legs, too. I hesitate. I'm not really sure what to do. I mean, I can't exactly bathe her, but I don't think she wants to lay here all night in a mix of her and Elektra's bodily fluids. Plus, she's spent some time on the ring floor, which is a whole other level of germy. She sees my hesitation and perks up a bit.

"I need to take a bath," she says. "It will help me stay awake."

I nod. "Okay," I'm glad that she's up to it. "You stay here, and I'll run it for you. Then I'll come back and get you, and I'll wait outside the door."

Savannah nods.

I get the bath ready and try to make it quick. I'm prepared to carry her again, but Savannah seems to be doing better. She walks to the bathroom solo, only leaning on me for support. She goes into the bathroom and closes the door, starting to lock it.

"Don't," I say from the other side of the door. "Keep it unlocked, in case you pass out again. I promise I won't come in unless you do."

The door unlocks again in answer.

"I'll go find you some clothes," I call through the door. Proper ones this time. I manage to find something suitable among my mom's old things, 90's era jeans and sweatshirts. Maybe a little old fashioned. Since my parents died ten years ago, I haven't moved or touched any of their things. The house and everything were left to me. And everything ended up being a good amount of stuff I don't know how to deal with. So I just do nothing with it.

Wanting to make my own way, I keep this house closed up and spend my time in the city. No one really knows my story, or the extent of my wealth. I don't have to work at all if I don't want to. But the fight club is everything to me.

Savannah seems out of the danger zone, but I'm still concerned. The whole situation is stressful—her injury, leaving the club unattended, and bringing someone to this house. Now Layla is blowing up my phone, first calling, now texting. I don't want to be the type of guy who totally ignores her, so I text her back when I go into the kitchen to scrounge for food.

Chase: Sorry I had to run.

I pause. I'm not sure how to convey what I want to say which is "please move on with your life."

Chase: Hope you have a fun night. See you some other time.

I frown after I hit send. In her eyes am I promising time? That's really not even as cle clear as I'd like to make it, but I don't feel like getting into it with a drunk, hysterical Layla this late. We'd been on a couple of dates, sure, and that's all it took for me to see it would never work. Layla plays it fast and loose, for one and that's not really what I'm looking for at this stage of life. She's also petty, vindictive, obsessive, and has quite the mean streak.

Of course, I hadn't said that when I broke things off with her. I just said that I didn't think we were compatible, and I'd like to stay friends. I probably should have left the "friend" word out completely. Maybe that's what has kept her hanging on, still calling me and inviting me places.

While I'm in the kitchen, I try calling Bryan, too. In truth, I think it was a douche move for him to leave with Savannah so obviously hurt and in need of assistance. But that doesn't mean it's right for me to not let him know what's going on. As before, though his phone goes straight to voicemail and I sigh.

"Bryan, this is Chase. Again. Listen, Savannah's okay, but she got pretty banged up. I brought her with me. I'll text you the address. Sober up and call me tomorrow." I hang up and switch off my phone. That's enough drama for tonight.