said, her voice near hysteria. "Please send the police. Send all the police you can!"
"Go away!" Marta screamed at the protesters through her tears. "Leave us alone!"
Eliot took her in his arms and pushed her toward the back of the salon. Her hair still had glass shards in it, and he tried not to cut her accidentally. The crowd had moved to the front windows, and the pounding shook the walls.
"Is there a back room?" Eliot asked the stylist. The man was staring blankly at the protesters outside, an expression of terror on his face. "Hey! Is there a back room?" Eliot shook the man's shoulder.
"Yes...yes," the man said. "The storage closet."
"Let's go!" Eliot shouted. The receptionist joined them and they made their way to the back, piling into the small storage room. Marta huddled in the corner and the stylist locked the door behind them, his fingers shaking as he turned the key. The pounding on the glass was still audible in the room, the thuds of the crowd reaching their ears through the door only slightly muted. Shelves lined the walls of the storage room, and the vibrations from the pounding made the bottles of dye and shampoo rattle against each other. The air in the small room smelled of hair setting product and bleach, a chemical smell that made Eliot's eyes water with its intensity.
"Why?" Marta cried. Her eyes were wild. "Why ?"
"Hush," Eliot said. "Just stay calm until the police get here." Outside he projected an air of coolness, but secretly he wondered what would happen to them if the police failed to get there in time. A mob, once it turned violent, had no reason behind it. If the glass windows broke, it would not be hard for them to kick down the flimsy interior door. He only hoped that it would slow them enough for the police to arrive.
Marta sank down to the floor, one of her heels hanging off of her foot. Eliot crouched down next to her and began to pick the shards of glass out of her hair.
"Eliot," she said, looking up at him. Her voice was oddly quiet against the pounding and roar of the crowd outside. "Eliot, you'll protect us."
"Yes," he said. His hand was cupped, holding the glass fragments as delicately as if they were diamonds. "Don't worry. I won't let anyone hurt you."
At the end of his sentence Eliot looked up. Something strange had happened. He realized after a second that the pounding had ceased. The crowd still roared, but the walls were not vibrating anymore.
"The police must be here," the receptionist said. Her eyes radiated a panicked relief. "We're safe."
"Should I open the door?" the stylist asked. He seemed uncertain.
"Wait," Eliot said. "I'm not sure—"
A crash from outside the room made the end of his sentence unnecessary. Marta screamed and scrambled backwards against the wall like a cornered animal. Eliot started as he heard the glass windows shatter, his fingers jerking tightly over the glass shards. Feeling the sharp pain, he dropped the handful of glass on the floor.
"Your hand," the stylist said. Eliot looked down to see blood dripping from his palm. The receptionist handed him a towel from one of the shelves, and he pressed the towel against the wound.
The crowd's yells were louder now that they were not muffled by the glass windows, and Eliot tensed, stepping in front of Marta to shield her if need be. Surely the crowd would be inside and through the door at any moment. Surely the wood would splinter and crack inwards. Adrenaline pumped through Eliot's body, and every muscle of his stood at attention.
They waited for the crowd to come storming in. Nothing happened. Eliot heard the faint sound of sirens.
"Oh, thank god," the receptionist said.
Eliot looked down at his hand, still wrapped in the towel. The blood had soaked through the fabric, staining it a bright scarlet. His eyes refocused on the crack under the door, and immediately knew why the crowd had not stormed the salon. Smoke was coming in underneath the door crack.
Marta shrieked as she saw the
"Go away!" Marta screamed at the protesters through her tears. "Leave us alone!"
Eliot took her in his arms and pushed her toward the back of the salon. Her hair still had glass shards in it, and he tried not to cut her accidentally. The crowd had moved to the front windows, and the pounding shook the walls.
"Is there a back room?" Eliot asked the stylist. The man was staring blankly at the protesters outside, an expression of terror on his face. "Hey! Is there a back room?" Eliot shook the man's shoulder.
"Yes...yes," the man said. "The storage closet."
"Let's go!" Eliot shouted. The receptionist joined them and they made their way to the back, piling into the small storage room. Marta huddled in the corner and the stylist locked the door behind them, his fingers shaking as he turned the key. The pounding on the glass was still audible in the room, the thuds of the crowd reaching their ears through the door only slightly muted. Shelves lined the walls of the storage room, and the vibrations from the pounding made the bottles of dye and shampoo rattle against each other. The air in the small room smelled of hair setting product and bleach, a chemical smell that made Eliot's eyes water with its intensity.
"Why?" Marta cried. Her eyes were wild. "Why ?"
"Hush," Eliot said. "Just stay calm until the police get here." Outside he projected an air of coolness, but secretly he wondered what would happen to them if the police failed to get there in time. A mob, once it turned violent, had no reason behind it. If the glass windows broke, it would not be hard for them to kick down the flimsy interior door. He only hoped that it would slow them enough for the police to arrive.
Marta sank down to the floor, one of her heels hanging off of her foot. Eliot crouched down next to her and began to pick the shards of glass out of her hair.
"Eliot," she said, looking up at him. Her voice was oddly quiet against the pounding and roar of the crowd outside. "Eliot, you'll protect us."
"Yes," he said. His hand was cupped, holding the glass fragments as delicately as if they were diamonds. "Don't worry. I won't let anyone hurt you."
At the end of his sentence Eliot looked up. Something strange had happened. He realized after a second that the pounding had ceased. The crowd still roared, but the walls were not vibrating anymore.
"The police must be here," the receptionist said. Her eyes radiated a panicked relief. "We're safe."
"Should I open the door?" the stylist asked. He seemed uncertain.
"Wait," Eliot said. "I'm not sure—"
A crash from outside the room made the end of his sentence unnecessary. Marta screamed and scrambled backwards against the wall like a cornered animal. Eliot started as he heard the glass windows shatter, his fingers jerking tightly over the glass shards. Feeling the sharp pain, he dropped the handful of glass on the floor.
"Your hand," the stylist said. Eliot looked down to see blood dripping from his palm. The receptionist handed him a towel from one of the shelves, and he pressed the towel against the wound.
The crowd's yells were louder now that they were not muffled by the glass windows, and Eliot tensed, stepping in front of Marta to shield her if need be. Surely the crowd would be inside and through the door at any moment. Surely the wood would splinter and crack inwards. Adrenaline pumped through Eliot's body, and every muscle of his stood at attention.
They waited for the crowd to come storming in. Nothing happened. Eliot heard the faint sound of sirens.
"Oh, thank god," the receptionist said.
Eliot looked down at his hand, still wrapped in the towel. The blood had soaked through the fabric, staining it a bright scarlet. His eyes refocused on the crack under the door, and immediately knew why the crowd had not stormed the salon. Smoke was coming in underneath the door crack.
Marta shrieked as she saw the
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