Safe Refuge

"Agent Reagan, you have a client."

"Five minutes till quitting time and I have a client?" a miffed Clark Reagan asks Sandy, the receptionist. "And who might that be?"

"Nerissa Bohlen. And she appears quite upset."

Clark can hear crying in the background. "Okay, I'll be right down."

Clark hangs up the phone, then sits at his desk wondering what the hell is going on with Nerissa Bohlen. He had supervised her on probation for receiving stolen goods. But now her one-year probation is over, expired only a few days ago. He already submitted the paperwork for closure and thought that was that. So what's she doing reporting to him now? And what's her problem?

He walks from his glorified cubicle of an office into the hall, then down a flight of steps to the reception area, filled with five rows of benches and a TV. Receptionist Sandy Moser sits at her desk near the entrance and nods when she sees Clark. Nerissa is the only offender—now ex-offender—in the room. She's standing by one of the benches, dabbing at her pretty blue eyes with a tissue. Her fair complexion is red from crying. Worse, she's got dried blood caked around her nose. Drops of it even appear on her dark green corduroy slacks and blue sweater. "Nerissa, what the hell happened to you?"

She struggles to talk through her sniffles. "I know I'm off probation. But I had nobody to turn to other than you." She glances at Sandy, then turns back to Clark. "Can we talk privately?"

"Sure." He lets Nerissa follow him upstairs to his office. She hangs her coat over the back of a chair that sits beside his desk, the same chair where she's sat a dozen times during her supervision period.

"Thanks for seeing me at such short notice," she says, still sniffling. He nods and she continues.

"Well, as you know, I've lived with my boyfriend the past six months. We haven't been getting along and just hours ago it came to a head and he assaulted me. He punched me in the face, then banged me over the head, I think with his fist but I'm not sure. He knocked me unconscious, and when I came to, he kicked me out of his house. So now I'm homeless. My folks, as you know, live in California. I'm kind of ashamed to ask for their help because they didn't like Ronny from when they first met him a few months ago." She covers her face and once again begins to cry. "I'm sorry," she whimpers, then breaks down.

Clark knows all too well the possible consequences of even touching an offender on one's caseload. But she's now off probation, and she's in need of comforting. He stands, takes her hand, pulls her up and wraps his arms around her. He slides his hand over the shoulder-length blond hair, letting her cry on his shoulder. "It's okay, it's okay, Nerissa, we'll work this out."

She wipes her eyes and nods. "Thanks for helping me."

When they're once again seated, he wheels his desk chair close to her, leans in and inspects her nose. "I'm no doctor, but it doesn't look broken. But you might have a concussion. Have you reported this to police?"

"Not yet." She puts her head down. "I'm still really dizzy. My head's killing me, I'm nauseous and my memory of the last few hours is fuzzy. The Uber driver almost freaked when he saw me retch, close to throwing up."

Clark knows she needs medical attention and also knows she needs to swear out a warrant for her boyfriend's arrest. Nerissa complied with her probation, but he doesn't fully trust her or any of his offenders. For all he knows, she might tell some doctor that HE'S the one that assaulted her. One couldn't be too careful. It takes some prodding, but she finally agrees to the warrant. The police arrive close to twenty minutes after he calls them. The young male and female cops take down her information and also take pictures of her bloody face. They'll hand over the warrant to a judge, they inform her, but they can't accompany her back to the house to retrieve her stuff. "See if you can reason with him," the female cop suggests.

Nerissa grunts out a bitter laugh. "No way. He's vindictive as hell." The cops merely shrug.

"Now for the next thing," Clark says after the cops leave. "You'll need a place to stay for a while, until you find a place of your own."

She gets her back up. "No way I'm staying at one of those smelly missions with druggies and winos."

"I wouldn't expect you to," he says. "There's a group home for battered women called Safe Refuge. It's located out in the country staffed by people who care. I've referred quite a few of my female offenders there through the years. You stay for a few days, weeks if needed, until you can find permanent housing. The staff helps, tracks down leads for you, even drives you around to check out places. It's been called the gold standard for female victims of domestic violence seeking that kind of service." She voices her concerns about whether the commission she earns as a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company is enough to pay the required room and board. "Not to worry," he assures her. "Safe Refuge is State funded. Want me to call to see if they have bed space?"

She sighs. "I guess I have little choice. Sure, go ahead."

He calls on the landline, explaining the situation. When a staffer confirms they have bed space, he explains that she might be getting there later tonight, after her visit to the ER.

"You're taking me to the ER?" she says after he hangs up. "I could be there forever."

"You need to be checked out."

"What about you? I'm sure you have better things to do than to sit in the waiting room of a hospital for lord knows how long."

"The wait might not be as long as you think. After all, it's a weekday, a cold winter weekday."

She washes her face in the bathroom, then follows Clark out the door.

*****

It's now dark and getting colder as Clark and Nerissa walk to the parking garage. The streets still show the remnants of last week's snow storm. Plows cleared most of it, depositing what they cleared on the shoulders. High daytime temps remain in the thirties, a few degrees colder than average for February. She carries a backpack with the few items she was able to gather up. So far, Clark's been able to keep up his professional façade. The hug he gave her could have easily slipped into something more intimate, at least on his part. He thinks Nerissa is adorable, thought so from the first time she reported. Would he be doing this, going out of his way for a chick who he wasn't so attracted to? Perhaps not. He'd have called Safe Refuge; then, most likely, left the office for home. His mind trots out the fantasies, fantasies he's harbored since Nerissa came on his caseload: kissing her on her adorable mouth, cuddling and making love in a warm bed in the darkness of a snowy evening. He shakes his head. "Fat chance," he mumbles.

She turns her head. "What's that?"

"Nothing, just talking to myself," he says, before they enter his car.

It takes him only minutes of driving in his green Honda Accord coupe to reach Saint Joseph's Hospital. The ER parking lot shows plenty of empty spaces. "See, I told you it might not be that bad," he says, surveying a waiting room with only two other people. He takes a seat while Nerissa checks in at the desk. She shows the clerk her medical care card (at age nineteen, she's still on her parents' medical plan) and a copy of the police report. She grabs an old People Magazine and sits next to Clark, then puts it down. "My head hurts too much to read," she says.

Less than thirty minutes later, a nurse comes out to take her back to be examined. "Your friend can come too if he'd like," she says.

Clark sits in a chair next to Nerissa who reclines on an exam table in this small bare room. She's holding her stomach and grimacing. "I feel like I might throw up any second," she says.

Clark thinks about getting a nurse when a young male Asian doctor comes in. He's got short dark hair and a warm smile. He nods as he listens to Nerissa talk about her symptoms and how she got them. "It does sound as if you might have a concussion," he says. He checks her breathing, looks into her eyes. Then, as a "precaution," he recommends that she stay overnight.

"Then what?" she snaps, her tone on the edge of hostile. "I've got maybe twenty dollars in my wallet, no clean clothes and no transportation out of here." She wipes her eyes.

"I'll pick you up when you're released," Clark says, "and then take you to Safe Refuge. Which reminds me—I'd better call to inform them of your overnight."

"I'll give you a few minutes to work out arrangements," the Asian doctor says, then leaves the room.

Nerissa swings her legs over the side of the table. "I could hug you for this," she says, and reaches out to him.

He stands up, then lowers his just under six-foot frame to where she can wrap her arms around him. He breaths in a whiff of her hair, then steps back and says, "You must have shampooed before Ronny assaulted you. You smell great."

She smiles. "It's the Aveeno. Like it?"

"I do." It makes her look sexier in his eyes, too.

Her cell goes off. A glance at the number tells her it's Ronny. She asks Clark if she should answer it. He nods. "Let him incriminate himself."

"Yes? What the hell do you want?"

He pleads with her to come back, and when she refuses, he threatens to throw out the rest of her belongings. "You'll find them in the nearest trash dumpster," he growls.

"Look, when I leave here," Clark says after she clicks off, "I'll take a run over there to see if I can retrieve your stuff. Hopefully, the cops will serve the warrant within the next forty-eight hours."

She shakes her head. "Clark, in Ron's angry state, that might be a dangerous thing to do. You're bigger and stronger—″

"And a black belt in karate. Don't forget that." He moves into a fighting stance, one arm cocked back, the other outstretched, both balled into a fist.

"I didn't know that. But either way, it's still risky business. I can always break down and call my parents to wire me money to buy new clothes."

"And how long will that take? Look, I'll take a run over there, see what's what."

There's a knock on the door and then the doctor comes in. "Are we ready?"

"We'll talk tomorrow morning," Clark says, then grabs his coat.

*****

Clark calls Safe Refuge the moment he buckles his seatbelt. No problem, a staffer tells him. There still should be bed space when Nerissa arrives tomorrow. Then, by the time he pulls out of the parking lot onto a main road, he says out loud, "What the hell am I getting myself into?"

Ordinarily, Clark's a rational guy, a guy who just turned thirty, cautious about with whom he becomes involved. He's not one to make rash, impulsive decisions. Yet that's exactly what he seems to be doing. And why? Is it because he finds Nerissa Bohlen so irresistible? He always was a sucker for damsels in distress, though he never acted on it. Hell, half the women on his caseload are damsels in distress. But they don't look like Nerissa, irresistibly cute coupled with a sweet disposition, unlike many of the hard-edged, drugged-out damsels he supervises. She received hot video equipment from a friend of a friend not fully knowing it had been stolen. However, she suspected it, took the stuff anyway and got caught when the source confessed and named names.

Now he's "involved," on his way over to the suburban apartment complex where Nerissa's ex-boyfriend lives. He's wearing what he normally wears to work, semi-dress pants, a button-down dress shirt and hard-soled shoes, hardly battle dress. But then Ronny might not be home, or if he is, he might listen to reason coming from someone in law enforcement.

The vestibule he enters of the garden style complex features a row of mail slots with doorbells next to them. He's been here before to verify Nerissa's address. Her last name still appears hyphenated next to Ronny's, he notices. A hostile "Yeah?" comes the reply over the speaker after he pushes the buzzer a couple times.

"It's Clark Reagan, parole and probation."

"Nerissa doesn't live here anymore. She's gone, man."

"I know. I've come to pick up some of her clothes."

Clark hears nothing further until moments later when Ronny stomps down a flight of steps and stands at the landing, barefoot and wearing blue sweats. He's slender and pale, and his dark brown hair is slicked back. "You know where she is?"

He attempts an end run around his question. "Look, I'm just here to retrieve some of her clothes. I don't need to come in, just throw them in a bag and I'll be on my way."

Warily, suspiciously, Ronny stares at him. "You know where she is, don't you?" When Clark doesn't respond, Ronny says, "Yeah, you know. Tell me and you'll get the clothes."

"Can't do that, guy. I can tell you that I know you assaulted her, and that you might be in serious trouble. Don't make two mistakes, Ron."

He scowls. "Possession's nine-tenths the law, dude. You should know that as well as me. I don't have to give you or her shit."

Clark debates giving up or appealing to this guy's better nature—if in fact he has one. "Ron, haven't you done enough, giving her a bloody nose, knocking her out, giving her a concussion? Not to mention kicking her out of your place. The least you can do—″

"She's got a concussion? How do you know that?"

"How do you think? She told me. Now, do I get the clothes or do you want to dig the hole you've already dug for yourself even deeper?"

He rubs the back of his slim neck, pondering. "She made me mad and I snapped. Fuck, I shouldn't have done that."

Clark senses an opening. "So at least make it up to her. You can't take back what you did but you can at least play nice from now on and it won't cost you a thing but a few minutes to throw her clothes in a bag. And while you're at it, throw in her toothbrush and perhaps a tube of toothpaste—if you can spare it. It's the right thing to do and you know it."

Ronny knows it too, because Clark drives away with a bag of clothes on the backset, including toothbrush and toothpaste. Now he wonders how Nerissa's doing, thinking about where he might take this—if anywhere—after he drops her off at Safe Refuge. Date her after she gets settled? He's never dated an ex-probationer. On the other hand, he's between relationships—Nerissa came along at a "convenient" time.

*****

Nerissa's headache persists but she's no longer dizzy and that fuzzy, foggy feeling she had yesterday has lifted. The doctor feels she's well enough to be released. She gets a bite to eat in the hospital café, then stands inside the glass doors of Saint Joseph's lobby waiting for Clark to pick her up. She almost can't believe that he was able to retrieve most of her clothes. What a guy, the kind of self-assured, take-charge guy she once imagined herself meeting and maybe falling in love. A blackbelt in karate? Impressive. She knew he was in shape, knew it just by looking at his athletic build. Handsome dude on top of it. Kind of reminds her of Scott Eastwood, with those chiseled features. She now feels a bit silly warning him of the danger in confronting Ronny, who wouldn't have stood a chance against Clark if things had gotten physical. She thinks of Clark as a macho guy who doesn't act like a macho guy.

She's not entirely blind to the reason that Clark is going out of his way. He's nice for sure, but he's also hot for her, something she sensed not long after she first walked into his office. He did a good job in hiding it, but not good enough to fool her. A girlfriend had suggested that she use it to manipulate him. She declined. All she had wanted was to get through her probation. She'd learned her lesson, didn't want any further trouble.

She smiles seeing his car pull up to the entrance. Grabbing her backpack, she moves outside, then slips inside his Accord. "Before you drive off," she says, "there's something I'd like to give you." He doesn't have time to ask what because she's already leaning over, bringing her lips to his. It's cold outside, but he's got the heater going and his lips are warm to the touch. "There," she says, pulling back, "I just had to do that. Hope you don't mind."

He grips her hand. "Mind? I hope there's more where that came from."

"Me too." She turns toward the backseat. "Thanks so much for getting my clothes. You might have saved my life. You know that?" He shrugs. "No, really. Now don't pull away just yet." Seeing no cars behind them in the driveway, she reaches for the ignition and turns the key. "Now kiss me again, longer this time." He doesn't hesitate, and for a full minute, she's locked in his embrace over the center console, showing her appreciation, yes, but more than that, showing him that she too harbors feelings that circumstances prevented her from acting out. That is, until now.

A few miles later, Nerissa is looking out the window at the winter landscape, the snow that still covers the frozen ground and the trees, bare and stark against a lead-gray sky. A group home for battered women is the last place she wants to go right now. Her choice, if she had one, would be to snuggle with Clark Reagan in a warm bed or on a soft rug in front of a crackling fire. She turns to face him just as he stops at a red light. "Clark, will you take me home with you?"

"What?!" He looks at her and chuckles.

She slaps her leg. "Bad idea, I know. Forget it. But please don't laugh, make fun of me."

The light turns green, and he pulls away, momentarily silent. "Nerissa, I'm not making fun of you. You caught me off guard is all."

She nods, then stares out the window once again, and doesn't say another word until Clark pulls into the recently-plowed driveway of Safe Refuge, a big, three-story stone house sitting on several acres of farmland. "So, this is it, huh?"

"Yep, this is it. It used to be a private estate, owned by the same family for generations. Then it was sold to the State. You should be comfortable here."

She isn't so sure. In all of her twenty-three years, she's never lived like this, sharing a house with a group of women. After he cuts the engine, she says, "You won't abandon me, will you?"

"Abandon you?"

"I mean, I'd like to see you once I get settled. And from the way you kissed me, from the way you've looked at me from the time we met, and then extending yourself like this, I'd say you have feelings for me, care about what happens to me." She pauses to think about what she just said, feeling not as confident as she might have sounded. "Don't you?"

He leans over and kisses her while rubbing his thumbs across the smooth skin of her face. "No, I won't abandon you. And yes, you damn right I care about what happens to you."

A forty-something black woman named Thelma Stevens greets them in the lobby, what used to be a living room. Oriental rugs lay scattered throughout and the walls, paneled in cherry wood, lend a warm, cozy atmosphere to the space. "Hi, welcome to Safe Refuge," Thelma says. "You must be Nerissa." She looks at Clark and smiles. "This guy I know."

Thelma's warm, cheery nature allays some of Nerissa's angst. The women shake hands. Then, after filling out information on a laptop, Thelma takes her upstairs to her room while Clark waits in the lobby. The ten by twelve room isn't fancy—double bed, dresser and small desk—but, like the lobby, it's cozy and carpeted and it's two windows let in sunlight and afford views of the surrounding rural landscape. Nerissa puts down her bag of clothes and listens while Thelma explains the rules of the house, when meals are served, kitchen privileges, cleanup detail, etc. She doesn't like the restrictions on visitors, cell phone use or being out beyond nine at night, though she figures her stay here will be relatively short per what Thelma says about staff working hard to get the women settled ASAP.