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“You're never going to get away with this,” I said, trying to beat back the old, familiar tug of genuine fear. It had been so long since I felt it, since I knew how fucked I truly was, how utterly devoid of hope, of rescue. I always had my men and women. I always had someone at my back. For the first time in more years than I cared to think about, I was completely and utterly alone.
“What? You gonna get your hacker friends to track me down? Get your sniper friends to take me out?” My eyes must have widened or my mouth opened, because his handsome, evil face turned out an ugly sneer. “Didn't think I'd know about them?” he asked, shaking his head. “Not as clever as you've always thought you were, Willow.” He sat his ass back on his heels, watching me for a minute. I could have squirmed. I could have struck out, but the energy would have been wasted. It would be better to wait, to see where he planned to go from there, conserve my strength until I had a real shot. He clicked his tongue. “I guess I have to teach you a lesson, huh?”
I guess I have to teach you a lesson, huh?
Those ten words.
Fuck.
Those ten words had the nausea rising up my throat, threatening the very real likelihood of vomiting all over myself. But then he shifted his weight and I had a split second to register his fists rising before the pain started.
It felt like it went on forever, fists pounding into my jaw, my cheekbones, my stomach, his boots in my ribs, my back. There was no way to explain the pain of a beating, to describe how the sensations were all distinctly singular, but at the same time, how they all started to meld together, until it was all there was in the world: crippling, unthinkable pain that you prayed would hurt enough for your body to give up and let you pass out.
All I could hear was his grunting, his angry voice calling out, “bitch, slut, cunt, whore” with each blow. Then, some time later, I heard screaming. I wasn't even aware that it was coming from me until I felt the rough, rawness of my throat.
Then, suddenly, I heard the shots. At first, I heard them with genuine relief: it was over. He shot me. I was going to die. Thank god.
But then I felt only confusion as he sat back on his heels, his brows drawing together, like he was confused too.
“We're coming for you, mother fucker!” I heard shouted from outside.
Then suddenly, the weight was off of me. My head turned to the side to watch as he ran toward the door where, I imagined, he would try to take off into the old junkyard out back. I watched the door for a while. Five, ten minutes, I wasn't sure how long, but I was positive he was coming back. When longer passed and he didn't, I slowly tried to push myself up. The pain in my center was screaming out the very real likelihood of broken ribs and I felt the tears streaming hot and fast down my cheeks, burning into the open cuts I knew were spread across my face.
God fucking damn it.
“Fuck,” I groaned, biting into my swollen lip as I felt the pain bring with it light-headedness and the threat of unconsciousness. I wasn't going to pass out. I was going to get my feet and I was going to get the fuck out of my safe house and I was going to...
I didn't know what I was going to do.
I couldn't go back to Hailstorm. I couldn't show up there looking how I knew I must have been looking. I couldn't answer their questions and bring them trouble. I needed to find another way to handle it. I needed...
“Shit,” I cried out, not even caring how loud I was as I took slow, careful steps toward the door.
Okay. I had to focus.
First, I needed to get out of the house. I needed to get to my car. From there, I needed to get to a store and get elastic bandages, peroxide, triple antibiotic, and gauze. Then I needed to get to a gas station with an outside entrance to a bathroom and get cleaned up. From there... I had no fucking idea, but that was enough to keep be busy for a couple hours.
I pushed the front door open and stepped into my front lawn and froze.
There, standing on the sidewalk, staring at my house, was a group of the gang members from across the street.
Gunshots. There were gunshots. From outside. No way.
“We didn't step one mother fucking foot on your property,” the leader called, waving his gun around carelessly.
“I was screaming,” I heard myself say, my voice raspy and raw, but it was an accusation.
“Bitch,” he said, shaking his head. “You got yourself roughed up. That sucks and all, but I wasn't putting my cock on the line in case that threat you delivered earlier meant not even if I am screaming for help.”
I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, pulling out all the cash I had inside which must have been close to five-hundred bucks. “I need someone to get me some stuff from the store. The rest is yours to keep,” I said, thinking it would likely be a better idea to not show up at some store looking how I looked. The leader jerked his chin toward one of his guys who stalked forward toward me and reached for the cash. “Peroxide, elastic bandages, triple antibiotic, and gauze.”
“Got it,” he said, wincing a little at the mess I knew my face was before he ran off.
“Ain't gonna ask what happened 'cause it ain't my business. But we see him again, you want a shout out?”
I moved over toward my car, opening the door and sitting inside, my legs in the driveway. “You see him again, I want fifty fucking bullets ripping his body apart,” I said honestly. “You do that, you get a quarter of a mill from me the next day.”
