The shorter man's hand landed on my shoulder.
Heavy.
Possessive.
Wrong.
I slammed my forehead into his nose.
The crack echoed through the bookstore—wet, sharp, satisfying.
He roared, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. Blood poured between his fingers.
I didn't wait.
I ran.
Behind me, chairs crashed. The shorter man cursed—loud, vicious, promising violence.
"Grab her!"
My sneakers slipped on the hardwood. I caught myself against a shelf, books tumbling in my wake. Pages fluttered like dying birds. Spines cracked against the floor.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry?—
But I couldn't stop.
Heavy footsteps pounded behind me. Closer than they should be. Too close.
I shoved another shelf sideways. It tilted, groaned, spilled decades of carefully curated fiction across the floor in a cascade of paper and binding glue.
My chest burned.
The back office. The desk. The?—
The bat.
I'd bought it years ago after a late-night scare. Kept it tucked behind the filing cabinet where customers wouldn't see.
I crashed through the office door, lungs screaming.
There. Wooden. Scuffed. Real.
I grabbed it with both hands, whirling just as the shorter man filled the doorway.
His nose was a mess. Blood streaked his chin, dripped onto his jacket.
Pure rage twisted his features into something barely human.
"You little bitch?—"
I swung.
The bat connected with his shoulder. The impact vibrated up my arms, rattling my teeth.
He staggered sideways with a howl.
I raised the bat again, muscles screaming in protest.
