“Again, I’m getting real furry vibes here.” I back away from him. He grabs my arm.
I’m a baker. I knead bread and manhandle sourdough. Big hockey player hyped up on steroids? I’m no match.
“Not me! It’s not for me!” I shriek as he drags me into the bedroom.
He slams the door. There’s yelling from the other room, the girls all sad they didn’t get picked.
“Look, I have a hot sister.”
“You want to do two girls at once?” he says while admiring himself in the mirror.
“No, thank you. Me and my sister are not that close. Look, I was really just trying to find a rich guy.”
He peers at me drunkenly.
“But honestly, I’d rather eat nothing but kale the rest of my life than have you as a brother-in-law.” I reach for the door.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He slams his thick, meaty hand on the door.
I let out a little scream and whirl around to face him.
I am not scared,I tell myself.Do not be scared. This is fine. We will be fine. And then we will kill Kathy, whowill not be fine.
The hockey player grabs the front of my dress, leaning in. His mouth gapes like his fishy namesake.
The smell of overpriced vodka mixed with protein shake is nauseating. I fumble at the door handle, trying not to breathe in the smell of his breath.
Locked.
Crap.
“You’re not leaving here. I’m a winner. I’m a hockey star. I get who I want, when I want.”
“There are lots of other nice-looking girls out there who really want you.”
“I’m sick of skinny chicks. I need an ass I can grab.” He grabs his dick, half hard.
“I’ve actually decided that I’m going to be celibate for autumn.”
“Celibate means sex, right?”
I scream as he grabs the dress—the thin material ripping—and throws me onto the dirty bedspread.
Never wearing heels again.My feet scramble for purchase. I smell his breath, the sticky dampness of his beard on my neck—
Then the door splinters.
I gasp when I get clear air.
The hockey player has his hands up, like he’s about to fight the shadowy figure in the doorway…
17
FITZ
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
I look up from where I’m huddled under the covers of Salinger’s bed with Faulkner, watching videos on his phone of the goat collection I’m trying to foist on someone unsuspecting.
