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16
EMME
We were both members, and Charity’s text saying she had already arrived popped up just as I spotted her in the lounge. There was a no alcohol rule here, but an iced coffee tempted me.
She rose as I weaved closer past a few occupied tables. Someone in here was eating a cheesy pasta, another chowed down on a burger dripping sauce that resembled blood. My imagination was running on gasoline, and no wonder after yesterday. My butt had the biggest bruise with a mix of deep red and blue splotches. The mirror had made it look amazing, and I’d traced it with my fingers while remembering him, and masturbating.
I blinked and threw away my reminiscing.
“Hi, Charity! Whoa with the black secret spy look. Turn, girl.”
I rotated my finger. Grinning, she obeyed. Black jeans, black figure-hugging shirt, and her black hair spun and swished over her shoulders.
I opened my arms, and we swapped hugs.
“Let’s go shoot something,” she said.
“Sure.”
On the way down to the range, while Charity nattered about what gun she was using and how she wanted to buy a new Glock, and how happy she was with the ass-clinging features of her jeans because some man had complimented her, I was wrangling with what and how to tell her about my misadventures.
Ear-plugs and eye protection, donned we shot our targets, totaled up scores, exchanged gossip, and still I had not said anything about Mr. Scott.
Charity knew that friend of hers, whose real name was Simon, had ducked out, and she tagged him with many derogatory names, but not the rest. Her last target had been dedicated to him; she was that mad at the guy.
“You could have been hurt! Raped,” she re-iterated as the target wound in toward us.
“I think you got him,” I drawled ironically. “Four bullseyes is way better than mine.” I might be good at kneecapping, today, if they stood really still.
“Never mind.” She shook the target. “I going to frame this and put it on the wall next to the front door.”
“You’re going to scare the shit out of the delivery guys.”
“Hey, that could be a good diet plan.”
I chuckled as we walked back to where the noise of shooting lessened to distant pops.
“Want to go get a cocktail somewhere?”
“It’s five o’clock? But sure.” I nodded. “I’m always up for day drinking. Let’s go somewhere they have great food, too.”
“Argello’s?”
We batted a few venues back and forth before agreeing.
How. How did I say it? She might want to call the police.
Okay, she would want to. I should wait until we had a drink or two inside us.
As we exited, I came to a sudden decision to tell her. We had to drive, and getting hammered was the only way to get braver at this. I may as well do it here.
A kid went by us on a skateboard, and I flip flopped again. Wait.
My confession seemed surreal compared to the people wandering by in the car park. I waved to Charity as I headed to my car.
It wasn’t until we were facing each other over a pina colada and a frozen strawberry daiquiri at Argello’s a low-key Italian place, that I said something.
I rattled out a summary of the events, the fact that the wrong man had grabbed me and, basically, sexually assaulted me. When I said I did not intend to tell the police for reasons, and added that I liked what he did to me, she went an odd color. I strangled the stem of my glass and cringed at the stare she shot me.
