Goon One blanches of all color and looks like he wants to vomit. He stares at the wide-open door and me standing in his way. At that, I can’t help it. I smile. “Oh, fuck no. But I dare you to try.”
With the barest glance at the terrified, but cute-as-fuck new neighbor, I say, “Call 9-1-1, Trix.”
“What?”
I don’t bother repeating myself. I said what I said. And the sheriff’s department being here sooner rather than later would help.
“Police and ambulance. Then go to the moving truck. Get a pic of the plate and any IDs on these two.”
She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. “What?”
“Now.” Turning to the still standing wannabe thief-slash-rapist-slash-whatever, I say, “Well, he lost an eye. That means you lose a testicle.” I smile my most menacing smile as he pisseshimself and tries to run, but trips over passed-out-eyeball goon, and hits his head.
I hate stupid bad guys. The least they could do is be smart about it. This was too easy.
“Trix, I need zip ties. In my kitchen. Top right drawer. Bring the black ones. They’re heavy duty.”
Lorien
Why I blindly followed his orders, I cannot say. We’ll call it autopilot and say that’s that. I’d guess the two men entering my home and holding me at knifepoint was enough, especially on a day that was supposed to be fun. Exhausting and thrilling, but fun too. Throw in the loose eyeball, the smell of urine, and the walking work of art who unmistakably flops in his gray sweats, and we’ll assume I’m beyond thinking.
Did I mention his dick flopping in those sweats? I’m not that girl, but I couldn’tnotnotice. He’s like an online thirst trap striding through my door to save the day.
His front door is wide open; no lights are on except for the one over the kitchen sink. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust from bright Colorado sunshine to the dark interior, but I’m focused and avoid looking around, even if I want to. He said upper right drawer. Flashlights, Bic lighters, spare keys, multiple sizes and colors of zip ties, and an aggressive looking pistol litter the drawer. Litter isn’t the right word. It’s meticulously organized actually.
His phone is on the counter, and I grab it as well, closing his door as I head home.
Home. Yeah, that’s the misnomer of the day.
I closed yesterday. Not even twenty-four hours ago and was all set to move in this morning. The weather is cooperating. Iarrived early. I opened all the blinds and windows to let all the stuffiness out and cleaned the floors. By six-thirty, I’d had the pantry shelves and cabinets lined and smell-good stuff going in the bedrooms. Hell, I had hot coffee in the pot and cold soft drinks in the fridge, all so the movers could be refreshed.
Movers who wanted to violate me. I make a hard right-hand turn and go to the moving van on the street. Using my well-hung neighbor’s phone, I snap photos of the license plate, the name on the side and the one on the side of the cab. I open the door, leaning in, fighting to get past the stench of used tobacco and motor oil, and grab the two wallets from the center console as well as the two photo IDs on lanyards hanging over the rearview mirror.
I return to the house and offer the handful of zip ties I have in a death grip to the man I’d, more likely than not, cross the street to avoid. He pries my fingers from the plastic one by one, the imprints of their outlines making grooves in my hand. Heading past the … fudge nuggets. I don’t have movers anymore. All my stuff sits outside, and I don’t have a way to get it into my house. Is it too early to hand the keys back and saynever mind, I’ll go with a place less problematic?
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Lorien Anderson.” I give her my address. “Two men entered my home and held me at knifepoint.”
“Units are in route. Are you still in danger?”
I look toward the living room where a man covered in ink from chin to toes ties the attackers together at the wrists and then their ankles. There are two untatted patches. His right leg below the knee and a spot over his left pec.
“No.” Though I don’t know if that’s the truth. “My neighbor disabled them.”
“Disabled them?”
“They’re zip tied in my living room. One needs an ambulance.”
“Disabled,” she repeats, but as if to herself. “Does your neighbor need medical assistance?’
I slide the phone away from my mouth. “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”
His annoyed look says more than any words.
“I don’t think so,” I offer to the operator as I wander.
“And his name?” The operator continues.
