"Brenda," I say, voice barely more than a whisper. "I... uh...I didn't know you were here."
She bares her teeth in a smile. They're slightly yellowing from her long years of smoking.
"That was the idea."
It's all the warning I get before she lunges for me. Her long fingers have to really reach to find the French twist and yank it loose, but she manages it. The pressure at the base of my skull is unbearable and I cry out as at least a dozen bobby pins fly out of my hair and skitter across the floor. It's easier for her to get a grip on my long hair once it's loose, and she uses the leverage to slam my face into the white tile of the bathroom wall. My teeth rattle from the impact and a burning pain spreads across my right cheek as she scrapes my face against the edges of the tile. More tears escape my eyes.
Oh God. Trent set up an ambush for me. I try to peek beneath the other stalls, wondering just how many Spade women he recruited for this little ploy. I can't see any other pairs of feet, and that gives me the barest hint of hope that I might escape this place alive. I just have to get away from Brenda. Easier said than done. She's got a reputation as the queen of the catfight. Many a spade woman had lost hair or skin to her long manicured nails. Most gave her a wide berth, because of her penchant for starting fights. The only person I'd seen come away from a fight with her unscathed was Penny, and she's in a league all her own. The woman carries brass knuckles on her person at all times, for God's sake.
I throw my elbow back with all my might. It's not as effective as it should be at these close quarters. I'd really need room to swing to make it hurt. She's pressed to my back, as close as she can get. The blow impacts, and it's enough to loosen her grip on my hair at least. I twist out from beneath her arm and stagger back, unsteady on my heels. I kick them off as quickly as possible. It will be hard to escape in these death traps. One slides beneath one of the sinks, and the other has the good fortune to stop just before Brenda, tripping her up. She pinwheels forward, catching herself on a stall.
I use the opportunity to make a break for the door. I pray that no one else barges in. It would be just my luck that some unlucky woman clocks me right in the face and leaves me reeling on the floor. It would give Brenda plenty of time to slit my throat. I realize what this must be.
Trent's first case against me starts tomorrow. He must have sent Brenda to make sure I'm in no condition to go, thus lending credence to his claims I'm unfit as a parent. The absolute gall of it gives me enough strength to draw my fist back and send it rocketing toward Brenda's face.
The impact is as satisfying as it is painful. I have an instant to feel Brenda's soft, vulnerable eye beneath one knuckle. Then she's rocking back, blinking in shock. She seems shocked I've punched her. I ready myself to do it again, confidence surging through me. Holy crap, I blacked Brenda's eye.
Her lips pull back from her yellowing teeth in a half-snarl. "You're going to regret that you little bitch."
She reaches into her back pocket and withdraws a switchblade. She flicks it open with a soft snick of sound and that brief surge of happiness dims. I suspect this is the blade that Trent threatened me with weeks ago. The edge is sharp and I dive for the door with little thought. I'm not fast enough.
The blade arcs down, slicing through the air near me. It misses my stomach and instead jabs into the skin of my thigh, sinking in deep. I can't help the scream that wrenches its way from me. It's a spike of white-hot agony burning into my flesh. I don't know how Holly and Cruz survived the pain of being shot. It has to be a million times more intense than this, and already I feel like I want to die.
Brenda drags the blade further down my leg, slicing me open. This is bad. So, so bad. I didn't need to be a genius to know there are veins and arteries down there that Brenda is trying to sever. One wrong cut and I die, bleeding out onto the bathroom tile. Like hell am I going to let that happen. I throw my elbow back again, and this time it connects with Brenda's nose. There's a crunching sound, like I've just ground a twig beneath my foot. I don't look back to assess the damage I've done. Instead, I yank the door open as quickly as I can, yelping as the blade slides out of me.
Warm, thick liquid seeps from the wound and trickles down my thigh. I limp as quickly as I can toward the square of light that leads back into the Black Spade's main room. If I can get into the common area, Brenda can't finish what she started. There's no way Trent would allow something so public. It's one thing to have me killed in a bathroom, away from prying eyes. It's another to have a woman associated with him stick me in a public place.
Ryker is standing at the end of the hall, head bowed and eyes closed as he lounges against the wall. They snap open when I limp toward him, barefoot and panting. His eyes go wide in alarm as he takes me in.
"God, Cleo, what happened?"
I collapse into his arms, seizing the front of his shirt in white-knuckled hands. His strong arms gather me up at once, pressing me to the chiseled torso I've been dreaming about for ages.
"We need to go," I beg. "Please. Right now."
His eyes rove over me once more and this time he spots the streaks of blood that have pooled in the creases between my toes. His eyes go even wider, if it's possible.
"What happened?" he demands, and his voice rumbles through me. It's a dangerous sound, and as happy as I'd be to let him take this out on Trent's hide, I can't risk it right now.
"Please," I say, pulling myself closer. "Please, just take me away."
Ryker doesn't argue. He bends and sweeps my legs out from beneath me in one fluid movement, cradling me to his chest. We get a few odd looks as we head for the door, but the bloody wound is pressed tight to Ryker's shirt, and not visible to the average passersby. I feel a momentary pang of guilt for ruining his shirt. It had looked nice on him. Bloodstains so rarely wash out, as I have cause to know.
He barely pauses to retrieve our jackets when we reach the front doors.
"We need to get you to the hospital," he says. "I'll call an ambulance."
"No. Trent is probably waiting for that. We can't go."
"Cleo, there could be serious damage--"
"No."
"You shouldn't ride like this. At least let me call a cab--"
And let Brenda recover herself enough to call Trent and tell him she failed? Not likely.
"I'm fine. Please just take me home. You can treat this, can't you?"
