I laugh and push my bag over my head, tossing it to the side. “Aw, this is cute,” I say before setting up and whipping the rope a few times. “Who’s first?”
They run at me at the same time. I throw one end of the rope out toward the one on my right. It strikes his stomach, forcing him to double-over as I wrap the other end around my hand to create a loop. The guy on my left swings at my face. I duck. He’s a big guy—slow, I realize. Much slower than Liam. I punch him twice in the gut, and when he howls, I circle the rope around his neck, pull him toward me, and my forehead smashes into his nose.
A cry sings through the air. The other’s arm wraps across my throat, squeezing hard enough that I’m forced to gasp. I kick, trying to throw him backward. Still, he’s steady. Guy Left is straightening. I grab Guy Right’s forearm and set my feet. Every muscle in me groans as I whip him over my shoulder. He’s in the air, feet flailing. He accidentally kicks his friend in the face before landing on his back with a scream.
Free of his grasp, I blow out a breath and pause. Blood sputters from Guy Left’s nose. Guy Right groans, writhes, and fails to get up. I swallow and pace a few steps as I look between them.
“Aw, boys… Not giving up so easily, are you? That was child’s play,” I taunt.
Guy Left glares and spits blood onto the ground. He reaches into his pocket, revealing a small knife in his hand when he sets his feet.
“Men and their little toys,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s okay to use them in a fight, right? In the bedroom, they’re your enemy, though, aren’t they? So sad. Sounds like a fragile ego problem.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he grunts.
“Ooo. Sotough. Let’s go, big guy.”
He lunges. I block his throws. Left. Right. Shoving back and forth. It’s a scramble of strength. Pushing and grabbing. My back eventually catches the wall. The jagged building scratches my arm, discombobulating me enough that his next swing gets too close. The blade slashes my forehead. I cry out at the sting, the blood dripping down my face, and the feeling of it renews my spite.
I take a chance as gravity drags his hand down with the force of his swing. It’s enough time to lift my foot and strike him in the dick with my chunky heeled boot. He cries out in anguish. The blade drops onto the ground. I grab it before he has a chance to,and as he starts to gather his wits, I grip him by his hair, yank his head back, and thrust the knife into his side.
His eyes widen and stare up at me, hands latched onto my forearms so tightly that my bones feel as if they’re being crushed.
“You should choose your friends better,” I say before slamming his head into the wall beside us.
I hear his bones crack, and as he slumps onto the ground, I notice his friend pushing up to his hands and knees.
I cross the space between us. My heel plows onto his fingers, shattering his joints. He grabs my foot as he screams and attempts to peel my shoe away. Even so, I’m only focused on the sound of his pleas, the mind-numbing noise of his gargled cry…
“Stupidbitch—”
“Count your favors that you’re not the one I want tonight,” I say.
“Whore—”
My other boot collides with his face, and with the strength of the blow, it cracks his face, and he flattens onto the ground without another peep.
Fucking idiots.
Another car pulls up—a beat-up sedan—and pops the trunk open. I realize in that second that the trunk was meant for me, the rope they had was supposed to have tied me up already. I don’t know who they are or why they’re helping Rad and his friends, but I’m going to find out.
Right now.
The person in the driver’s seat of the getaway car catches my eye, and my stomach drops to my knees.
Fuck yes.
I try not to look like I’m scrambling too hard. I walk over the last attacker’s back—making sure to put all of my weight onto his spine as a final jab—then grab my phone from the ground and my gun out of my open bag. I see the driver’s eyes widen whenhe realizes both of his friends are on the ground. He puts the car into drive, hands shaking, and I launch into the passenger seat before he can hit the gas. The moment I close the door, he slams on the brakes. I press my gun to his forehead, and the sniveling squeal that leaves his throat sends the most perfect chill down my spine.
“Hello, Lance,” I say, recognizing the blubbering miscreant immediately.
He’s just as pitiful as he was that night.
I can still see him crawling across the tile floor, his nose bleeding from my fist, pleading and whimpering as he makes for the door—
“Please! I didn’t touch her—I didn’t— Let me out—”
I’d been so focused on Bonnie vomiting at my feet that he’d escaped my grasp.
