Fifty Cent Roses

Fifty Cent Roses 

Jemima was having a bad day.  

First, her two-week-old boyfriend had broken up with her. That didn't bother her as much as the fact that he stole her microwave right before he left her apartment.

She hadn't noticed until she wanted to make breakfast and there was a huge space on the counter where the microwave used to be.  

It was her fault anyways, for trusting that a homeless man loved her. More like he loved that she had a roof over her head. She hadn't seen a much more foolish person than herself.  

Her day progressively got worse. Her coffee maker broke, the rain made the day even gloomier and just when she walked into a cafe, ordered herself a nice cup of latte with extra cream, someone got shot.  

It happened in slow motion. She had taken a sip of her latte and was barely seated, when a bullet whizzed between her lips and her cup and lodged itself in the chest of the man behind her.  

She thought she had imagined it. She looked forward, past the glass walls of the cafe to see the assassin running down the street, then back at the bleeding man, crouched on the floor.  

Screams filled the air as people trooped out of the cafe, stepping over themselves to get out. Jemima remained seated, still in shock and listening as everyone raced out. Soon the cafe was empty except for her, a little girl whose mother had obviously abandoned and the dying man.  

"It's just us now, isn't it?" She asked the little girl whose eyes were fixed on the man who wheezed, struggling to sit upright.  

He was tall and quite handsome. His eyes were a startling blue that slowly dimmed with each passing second.  

"Can you help him?" The little girl asked.  

Jemima pursed her lips and shook her head. She wasn't sure how exactly she could help. All she had wanted was coffee and—

"Oh crap!" She cursed, the caffeine finally kicking in. "I almost got shot!" 

Her mind replayed the bullet floating between her cup and lips. If she had leaned just a millimeter too close, her face would have a bullet hole.  

And she would be right on the floor, begging for her life.  

Lunging to her feet, she dialed 911, walking over to the man who somehow managed to hang on for his dear life and was more composed than she was.  

"911, what is your emergency?" 

"A man! A man got shot. I almost got shot. Wait, that's not right. I almost got shot, then he got shot. That should be the proper order of things but it isn't particularly relevant at the moment, is it?" 

"What?" The service operator sounded confused.  

"Remove the bullet," the little girl yelled, running towards the injured man.  

"No kid," the man said gruffly. 

"I saw it in a movie," the little girl defended.  

"Exactly why we shouldn't try it, sweet heart," 

"Aww," Jemima gushed, earning a glare from both of them. "What?" 

"I'm dying!" He bit out as if that explained everything.  

And it did. Jemima blinked, trying to focus on the phone call rather than on the handsome bloke before her. She managed to give her address and a few details on what had happened. 

The little girl moved closer to the man playing with his black hair as they fell over his face. 

"They'll be here with help any minute now," She tried to assure him.  

He nodded weakly, breathing heavily and she hated to admit that his skin was looking kind of pale.  

"Why would anyone want to kill you?" She murmured, moving against her own will towards him. She ought to leave. She had done her part- she had called 911. The police and the paramedics would handle the rest.  

But there was something vulnerable about those eyes as life slowly slipped out of them. A tall handsome man looking vulnerable? That was her kryptonite.  

"I can think of a few reasons," He slurred, shifting so he could adjust his aching shoulder.   

It was then she noticed the bullet wound wasn't in his chest. It was his shoulder. The little girl poked at his arm and he yelled in pain.  

"Stop that!" Jemima yelled at the little girl, glaring at her. "He's already in so much pain," 

"But you can remove the bullet! Commando does!" The girl yelled as well.  

"This isn't a movie!" Jemima snapped, "If it was, I'm supposed to be a doctor who knows how to remove bullets. Or I could be his partner and chase after whoever just shot him." 

"Or an angel," He chuckled faintly. "Ready to accept me into heaven." 

"And who says a man like you will be going to heaven?" Jemima scoffed.  

"What does that mean?" He had the nerve to sound and look offended. 

"I don't know. You got yourself shot right in the middle of the city, in broad daylight. Who knows what bad things you did?" 

Even as she spoke she noted the Armani he wore. He looked rich. He was handsome. And with the way he laughed at her, he was quite humorous.  

"Who knows? Perhaps you're one of those who want me dead." He added. 

"Uh excuse me? If I had so much as delayed sitting down for a second, it would be my dead body on the floor," She snapped. Sirens wailed loud in the distance alerting her that help was on the way.  

The man was no longer responding and that terrified her. Taking a deep breath, she poked at his injured shoulder like the little girl had. The wounded man groaned, opening his eyes.  

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "It was the only way I could make sure you stay awake." 

The man looked like he would curse her out with the agony in his eyes. She proceeded to talk his ears off on how nervous she was, how her boyfriend had been more of a boy than a friend who never even got her a fifty cent rose.  

Thankfully, the police and the paramedics arrived just in time, saving him from her stories. Paramedics placed the man on a bed and tried to wheel him away. His hands brushed past hers and instinctively, she grabbed onto it, squeezed it then let it go.   

The police questioned her and the little girl about what had happened but Jemima was sure she didn't offer much help.  

Later at night, she saw on the news that the man who got shot was Liam Colonel, a candidate for the mayor elections coming up. It was announced that he was stable.  

Jemima remembered the way his hands, large and calloused, had felt in her slim ones. She shook off the giddy feeling that enveloped her and tried to go to sleep.  

A month later, another bad day, her doorbell rang. She yanked the door open to see a bouquet of fifty cent roses. On the note attached to it, there was the most awful handwriting she had ever seen and she grinned. 

'Dinner? I cannot promise there will be no shootings- Liam.'