“I have pepper spray.” I hold it up. I can defend myself, but I’m hoping he’ll realize his easy target isn’t worth it.
Someone slams into me from behind. I go down, hard, but my self-defense training kicks in, and I use my body as a fulcrum, launching my attacker off of me.
He goes flying into his friend. They flail in a tangle of limbs, fighting to find their feet. The driver rounds the corner, cussing up a storm. The second attacker—the one with the lip ring—sees the driver and takes off, while the first one pauses to pull his hoodie up over his shaved head. “Bitch,” he snarls at me. Then he races off, disappearing into the shadows with his friend.
The lady is still screaming. The driver hovers between me and the curb, looking like he wants to run after the assailants. After a moment, he returns to my side to help me up. “Fucking tweakers. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Check her.” I nod to the lady. If she wants to press charges, she can talk to the cops. I just want to go home and sleep for a week.
If word gets around the police force that I was blindsided by a couple of drugged-up thugs, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Hopefully, I can keep my name out of things, and no one will be wiser.
The shopkeeper rushes out. “I called the cops!” he shouts as two units round the corner and squeal to a stop, bathing us in red and blue flashing lights.
* * *
In the fluorescentlights of the police station, my eyes ache with exhaustion.
I feel tired and grimy, tainted from the attacker touching me. His dank stench clings to my coat and hair.
Only the sore points under my clothes and on the soles of my feet hold me together.
“Is that it?” the officer working the desk asks, and I bob my head.
“All right. We’ll do our best to catch these fuckers.”
Sure. “Thanks.” I stand up, ready to disappear.
“You’re working the Martin case, right?”
Crap. So much for escaping attention. Everybody’s going to know about this by morning. Burgess and Cuccinelli will love it. Worse will be Bonds, studying me, silently evaluating whether or not I’m okay. Treating me like I’m fragile.
“Yeah,” I say.
He nods. “Sarge says go home, get some rest. You’re off duty tomorrow.”
“Fine.” I can’t argue with Sarge. Maybe I can go home, get some sleep, and be up in time to do some door-knocking in the afternoon. I don’t want to show my face at the station again until I have more evidence for my case. I made strides getting that tape of the UNSUB, but this will set me back.
“I’ll get a unit to take you home.”
I want to tell him not to bother, but I’m too tired.
The day is dawning by the time I’m back at my place. I do my routine of checking all the locks on the doors and windows. My gun is still on the bedside table where I left it, thinking I didn’t need to take it to the club. A mistake I won’t make again. I pull out my pepper spray and Taser, too, and place them by the gun.
Finally, I strip and step into the shower.
With the water pounding on my head, I examine my marks. The ones on my arms have faded, but my hip bears a giant bruise. A bluish-purple watercolor. Beautiful.
I stroke it, letting the pain bleed through me. It calms me enough that I can stagger out of the shower and straight to bed without doing my lock-checking routine a second time. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m out.
* * *
Him
She sleepslike a child curled in on herself. Tuesday night, she’d been too restless for me to visit. I stood in the empty townhouse next to hers, straining as if I could hear her soft breathing.
The cameras I installed aren’t enough. I need more of her. I need to be closer.
