“I see that.” The woman crouches next him.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I cry. So pathetic. Maybe they should just kill me. Toss me in the dumpster next to that other guy and call it a day. I don’t contribute anything to this world. What’s the point in being a part of it?
“No, sweetie.” The man reaches out and takes my chin in his hand. “Looks like that happened already.” There is a melancholy tone to his voice.
It confuses me. He just dumped a dead body; why have any compassion for a stray on the street?
“Who did that to you?” the woman asks, much more hostile.
“No one.”
“Sure. That’s what we all say.”
I try to actively look at them, but the phone light is just too bright.
“My boyfriend,” I reluctantly admit.
“Perfect.” She perks up. “No legal bullshit involved.” Then, she stands. “Get her up.”
The man lifts me gingerly despite my unwillingness.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” he tries to assure me.
“Forgive me if I’m not so trusting. You just tossed a dead body.”
“Yeah, but he deserved it.” The man puts his arm around me, and I hiss. I think my rib is broken. “He really did a number on you, huh?”
I don’t respond. Why confirm the obvious?
“We’ll do a number on him.” The redhead saunters in front of us all high and mighty.
“Do a number on him how?” We emerge from the alleyway, and I finally get a good look at both of their faces under the streetlight.
“However you want.” The beautiful redhead looks back at me and smirks. She’s everything I’m not. Stunning, strong, confident . . . everything a woman should be. “We could torture him? Break all his fingers one by one and listen to him scream. Take a baseball bat to his kneecaps next and watch him fall to the floor right in front of you. Use a spoon to dig out his eyes so he never looks at you like a weak, pathetic victim ever again.” Her words are dripping with malice and frighteningly serious.
“I could never do any of those things.” I shudder.
“Why not?” she questions me.
“Because . . .”
“Because society says it’s wrong? They say it’s wrong to beat a woman, and yet here you are. Bet he’s at the bar getting drunk with his buddies not even thinkin’ about you. Why is that okay?” There’s disdain on her flawless face.
“It’s not okay,” I reluctantly admit.
“All right, then.” She nods with conviction. “Let’s go give that wife beater a taste of his own medicine.”
I look over at the man holding me, utterly terrified. He’s tall and lean with buttery brown skin and surprisingly kind, amber eyes. “I don’t have the guts to do any of those things.”
“By the end of the night you will. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be able to do that, and so much more.” She struts toward a car parked in the shadows in her “try and fuck with me” stilettos.
“Fallon is very good at what she does,” the man hums in my ear as we walk behind her.
I swallow thickly, staring at her back. “I believe you.”
Fallon —I test her name in the safe space of my thoughts — unlocks the car doors, and the man, whose name I still don’t know, helps me into the back seat gently. He’s so careful with me, which boggles my mind. Less than ten minutes ago he was disposing of a body. Those two things do not seem to yin and yang.
Once inside the less than luxurious sedan, the man reaches into the front seat. I hear some rumbling of paper, but I can’t see what he’s retrieving.
