Bart just smiled. “Knew it. Knew you were trouble.”
He lunged, arms wide, trying to grab me by the neck. I ducked again, this time rolling over the back of the Santa throne. The chair toppled, smashing into a stack of folding tables. The women at the crafts station screamed and ran for the doors, clutching their purses and Bible covers like riot shields.
Bart came at me, slower now, eyes narrowed.
“Stop!” Darla yelled, her voice cutting through the chaos.
But nobody stopped.
Bart swung, a wide haymaker meant to decapitate. I caught him on the chin with a jab, but it was like punching a sandbag. He grinned, wiped a fleck of blood from his lip, and grabbed me by the throat.
He lifted me off the ground, one-handed, my boots scraping at the air.
“I don’t care who you are,” he hissed. “You don’t fuck with this church.”
He squeezed. My vision went gray at the edges, the world shrinking to a tunnel with his face at the end.
Then, out of nowhere, Darla hit him across the head with a folding chair. The sound was thunder, metal on bone, and Bart staggered, dropping me to the floor.
I landed hard, sucked in air, and saw stars.
Darla was shouting, “Run! Go! Now!”
I tried, but my legs wouldn’t listen. Bart shook off the chair shot and turned on her, rage twisting his face into something less than human.
He raised his hand, the ring glinting, and for a split second, I thought he was going to hit her.
That was all I needed. I launched myself at his knees, tackling him from behind. He went down, taking me with him, and we rolled in the fake snow, fists and feet and curses flying.
He was stronger, but I was meaner. I bit, I clawed, I gouged at his eyes. He roared, tried to shake me loose, but I hung on, digging my fingers into the soft flesh behind his ear.
Finally, he got a hand around my throat and slammed my head into the floor. Lights out, for a second.
When I came to, Bart was above me, breathing hard, blood pouring from a gash on his scalp. Darla was behind him, fists balled, face white with terror.
He leaned in close, the stink of cigarettes and breath mints filling my nostrils.
“You ever come near her again,” he whispered, “I’ll tear your heart out and feed it to the dogs.”
I spat blood at him, hit him right on the cheek. “Get in line.”
He grinned, wiped it away, then stood up and hauled me to my feet.
“Out,” he said, shoving me toward the exit. “And don’t come back.”
I staggered, barely upright, and headed for the door. The women had already called the cops, and I could hear sirensgetting closer. The cold outside hit me like a slap, but it felt better than Bart’s hands.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t have to.
But as I limped down the church steps, I saw Darla in the window, staring after me.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then let them fall.
It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a promise.
I smiled, wiped the blood from my chin, and made my way toward the bike.
***
