I do know Nico from high school. And I’m sure he will be surprised to see me. Will it be nice?That, I sincerely doubt.
“Okay.” He smiles. “Just head two blocks west. Then you’ll see it on the right.”
“Thanks again.” I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”
As I head back down the street, the band wrapped tightly around my chest eases a little. Though I know I’ve only been granted a brief reprieve, the further I get from Nico’s building, the more thankful I am for it.
I can take some time in the diner to get my emotions under control. I can try to wrangle the anger and betrayal that bubble up whenever I think about Nico. When I talk to him, I want to be calm. Confident. I don’t want him to see the hurt I still carry even now.
My phone buzzes in my bag, reminding me that I never texted Brian back. Crap. The annoying—rude, really—guy on the subway distracted me.
I won’t stop now, of course. Not while I’m walking alone, in the dark, down a fairly quiet street. The Upper West Side is considered one of the safer parts of the city, but I know darn well that no place can be totally safe. That’s why I took self-defense classes. That’s why I bought the pepper spray and the?—
A rush of movement comes at me.
It’s large. Dark. Unexpected.
Adrenaline surges as I spin around, already reaching into my bag for my pepper spray. It could be nothing, a nighttime jogger, someone rushing to get home, an oblivious passerby?—
A hand clamps down on my arm.
Then I’m yanked so roughly my shoulder pops.
Pain roars through my body.
My vision grays out for a second.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to scream, a sweaty hand clamps over it.
Panic slams into me with breath-stealing intensity.
An arm snakes around my chest, pinning me to a much bigger body.
The person—a man, it must be a man—starts dragging me into a narrow alley.
Fight,my logical voice screams.Don’t let him do this! Fight!
But practicing self-defense in the safety of a class, with ten other women and a stern but kind instructor wearing padding isn’t the same as fighting back against a real attacker who I’m pretty sure just dislocated my shoulder.
Still, I do my best.
Like my instructor told us, I kick. Flail. Wriggle. Buck. I bite the hand covering my mouth, feeling sick at the taste of sweat and blood that follows.
“Stop it,” he hisses in my ear. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
Then he wrenches my injured arm back.
It’s agony.
I scream into his hand.
Terrified tears fill my eyes.
From the depths of the alley, another man emerges. In a low tone, he says, “She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?”
The man holding me chuckles. “She is. Not that it matters.”
I draw my leg up and kick back with all my strength.
