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And why would anyone care what happens to a whore? Why waste the energy to stand up for her? She’s looking for it. Asking for it. Sex is her profession.
This is why the Roanoke serial killer has gone unapprehended for almost three years. No one cares enough to investigate the murder of a prostitute, or even to report her missing. Who knows how many victims there actually are?
The country music pumping out of the old jukebox twangs on as the girl is stripped of her tank top. Ripped from her body, her faded pink bra is torn and hangs from one shoulder. Her breasts spring free to encourage the guy on.
Next to me, the plaid-shirted trucker hoots. “Get in there, Rusty! She’s been begging for that dick.”
A sickness coats my stomach as he pulls me in front of him, pinning me between the pool table and his erection. His sour beer breath caresses my cheek as he leans in close to my ear. “How about a freebie, honey. One for the road.”
I have a badge in my car. I have a gun in my car. I have the power to stop this. One swift kick to his balls, and I can overpower him. At least for the seconds needed to gain the upper hand. Then run out of the bar. Get my badge and gun. Put in a call to have these rapists apprehended.
The local precinct might not warrant a rape of a prostitute as a major sex crime, but attacking an agent? That would not be overlooked so easily.
My body is braced to put these thoughts into action—my hands gripping the edge of the pool table, my muscles strung tight, limbs ready to be put into motion—until I meet his eyes.
Black pools gauging me. Waiting to see my response.
I loathe myself because, as the girl screams, trying to fight off her attacker, I’m torn. Save one prostitute from being raped, allowing a serial killer to go free. Or witness the injustice and gain a chance to bring Lyle Connelly down.
In the moments it takes for me to weigh my options, the trucker behind me has my dress ruched up around my hips. He pushes his hand against my back, flattening my stomach against the scratchy green felt. Panic immobilizes my body, and it’s enough time for him to spread my legs and step between them, removing my power.
As his fingers snake beneath my underwear, running the length of the seam across my ass to my core, a fierce quake erupts over my body. I watch the girl at the other end of the table submit. Tears leak from the corner of her eye, dripping into her destroyed hair, as her attacker pins her arms and thrusts into her.
Anger seizes me, spiking my blood. I take one last glimpse at Connelly. His eyes widen as I give away my intentions. Mine tell him everything he needs to know. I will get you. This isn’t over. Then I reach for the pool cue in the center of the table, my fingers scraping and clawing the felt.
Just as my fingers nudge it, a hand snags it out of my grasp.
Connelly slits his eyes at me, a rye smile twists his lips—I’m made.
Then the pool stick makes contact with my attacker. A loud crack, then I’m released. Freed as the trucker shouts, “Fuck!”
I roll over and bring my feet in, then land both feet to his chest, kicking him backward as he holds his face. He stumbles into a table, and Connelly is there to finish him. He raises the broken pool cue over his head and proceeds to beat the trucker over the back of his head until he goes still.
The swift commotion garners the attention of the whole bar, which is now quiet and transfixed. I glance back at the girl. The guy has left her and is now coming after Connelly.
He lands a blow to Connelly’s kidney, dropping him to the floor. On his knees, Connelly sweeps the blood-coated pool stick and takes out the trucker’s legs. Once he’s back on his feet, he sends a rapid kick to the trucker’s stomach, then another to his head.
Shaky with adrenaline, I rush over to my attacker and feel for a pulse. He’s alive. Knocked the hell out, but he’ll live.
It hits me suddenly; Connelly is a hero. If this is called in, he might be locked up for a night. Assault and battery charges placed. But once it’s determined that he was defending a woman against rapists, the charges will be dropped to a misdemeanor. He might even walk with no charges. Connelly will be praised within his department for his heroics.
And I’ll be sanctioned.
One word of this reaches Quinn and he’ll know exactly what I’ve been up to. Working undercover with no authorization to do so. I didn’t get clearance; I set out on this UC operation alone. I’m not sure if he’ll be angrier that I ignored his order to stop investigating Connelly, or the fact that I put myself in danger.
Probably both.
A throaty whimper draws my attention. The waitress has the victimized girl wrapped in her thick arms, pulling her tattered shirt up over her shoulders. One look at them and I know this won’t be reported. The prostitute doesn’t want the law involved, and neither do the bar employees.
Here, the law is considered more of an enemy than the rapists who just attacked us.
I try to compose my facial features to resemble the downturned, resolute appearance of the two women. Though I know I’m not fooling Connelly, I have to keep my guise in place until I know for sure what happens next.
Connelly doesn’t discard the pool cue. It’s evidence, and he’s a specialist that knows the evidence is damning. He takes it with him as he walks over to his table, removes his wallet, and drops a bill on the table. He doesn’t look at anyone as he leaves the bar.
As the adrenaline ebbs, my rational mind comes back into play.
I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not; if I’m relieved or repulsed. I’ve studied Connelly for a month. Have worked the profile to understand his character, and his actions tonight deter from every conceivable outcome.
