Trained (Completed)

Chapter 2: Stangers in The Night

Woken by frigid water, as it carelessly gusts into the opened window. Mouth opened wide, heavy intakes of breath, she gasps from shock. Chest rises and falls, rubbing at her eyes; clearing the water from vision.

When the sun beats it's way into the room, she shields delicate eyes. Like a vampire despising light, she hisses. That is until the blinds suffocate the heated invasion. Once bearings are gained, she looks around. The room's dark, far from luminous. Though it's seen better days, warm toned paint peels from the walls. Black and white photos decorate the stands. Appearing to be weight lifters. Is this a gym?

A soft cushion lays beneath her, harboring the pain from laying on the hard floor. Her legs feel numb as she attempts to explore her whereabouts. Change of plans. Foot steps echo beyond, an unknown part of the so called gym. Or what she assumes to be a gym. The paces deepen, somehow not drilling into the floor.

Curling legs to her chest, she hides her face in between knees. As though doing that will save her life; from whatever is on the other side of these walls. The door knob is grabbed, twisted. Daring herself to peak over the caps of her knees. In walks a statue. No, really. Whatever it is, it sure is large. 

In these situations, people usually would call for their parents. But her mother already worries about her enough. After the worst breakup of her life, long nights of tears, not eating or sleeping, there's no way she can possibly call her mother. And with what phone? Her's is dead. The events from last night play back in her head, on repeat. Cloaked men surrounded that woman above a fire. The woman! Is she okay?

A door quietly clicks shut. Her eyes immediately bulge and center in on the suspect. Oh god, am I next? Fight Palmer. Rising with what strength she has, Palmer grabs a barbell that lays upon the workout bench. Above her head, ready to swing, the lights turn on and, Wap!

"Motherfucker! Are you crazy?! Holy shit that hurt! Fuck."

"I'm so sorry!" Dropping the bar, she cups her mouth. "Wait a second. Me crazy? What about you?! You kidnapped me!"

A strong finger is pressed onto her lips. "Shh. Quit it with that. I saved your life. I have clients coming in here soon so don't go around saying I kidnapped you."

As if she weren't confused before, she's even more fussed now. "So you weren't one of those cloaked men?" He shakes his head almost furiously. "Then who are you?", she whispers.

A hand reaches out for hers to be shaken. "Clinton Kline." Still outstretched, she's too afraid. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Reluctantly, she takes his hand in hers. The strength in his hold continues to add to the shock. His hands feel so rough but gentle. Safe. "Nice to meet you-."

"Palmer." That's all she gives him. Still working on the struggle to figure out if he's trustworthy. Her first name is all he gets. Snapped back into the room once he takes his hand away.

"Do you need medical attention?"

She gasps. "Are you trying to insult me sir? I'm not crazy I promise. You just scared me."

Embarrassed, Clinton rushes to explain. "No, no. I mean are you hurt? Maybe I should've taken you to the hospital."

"Or called the cops! Who were those guys?"

A breath is dragged quite like that woman was last night. "I've tried many times, but they never come, thinking it's only a prank." As if in distress, Clinton pulls out his phone.

"Well I'm sure it's too late now Mr. Kline. No use calling the cops." His response is to roll his eyes as he lifts the device to his ear.

Walking towards the back, "Mika. I'm sorry, something came up. Take the day off. I'll make it up to you." The man responds, but there's no way to know what was said. "I'll explain later." Before the man can protest, Clinton hangs up. "We're going to the hospital."