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Who was going to get to me in a secured building that was owned by the O’Donnellys?
No fucking one.
Or so I thought.
Famous last words.
I had to save myself.
Jesus.
I hadn’t done that. Ever.
I felt like he had wings as he flew toward me, so fast, so fucking sure of what he was doing, so I did the only thing I could. I stuck out the mop and waved it from left to right.
Sure, I looked like I belonged in a Groucho Marx movie, but I’d played field hockey in school. I had a mean arm when I chose to use it.
The mop, still wet, sent a tiny shower of coffee beads spraying all over my crushed gray velvet sofa but I decided not to worry about that as my blood could, very likely, be decorating it next.
"What do you want?" I screamed at him, still waggling the mop.
No reply.
Silent motherfucker but he grinned at me, laughing at my weapon.
That made me want to prove exactly what I could do with a stick.
I prodded the mop in the air then quickly twisted it around. Because Dad was who he was, I’d been trained to defend myself. Of course, my instructors had never imagined I’d be armed only with a piece of cleaning equipment.
Knowing I needed something heavier, I tried to think about what the room contained, all while I stabbed the air as he finally got into my personal space.
His arm went high, arcing upward as he started to bring the knife down, so I shoved the wet, slimy mop head in his face.
He darted to the side, ducking down, but I followed, smushing the mop like I was wiping the floor with it, then I pushed hard. He yelled in surprise as I carried on pushing forward. I tried to find his mouth, to find the depressed cavern that came now he’d parted his lips but to no avail.
"I’m gonna make you deep throat this, fucker," I snarled even though it was bullshit. His hands wafted in front of him, grabbing the mop and shoving it aside but I was ready for that.
Giving it one final push, I let go and leaped over the sofa, scuttling along the cushions like I'd done as a kid, then I made it to the coffee table. The glass was cold beneath my feet as I dipped down and reached for the remote lying there. I sent it soaring at him and laughed, crazily pleased with myself, when I scored a hit.
I wasn’t going to die today.
I just had to get out of here.
I had to go one floor up.
I had to.
In that place, safety lay.
"You fucking bitch," the guy snapped.
"What was I supposed to do?" I panted, staring at the coffee-grounds that mingled with his scar. "Just let you kill me?"
Yeah, not going to happen.
I grabbed a coffee table book, one that was full of artsy pictures that made no sense but had the advantage of being a hardback and with over four hundred pages in it, and I swooped that from left to right as he approached me.
If I hit him, in just the right spot, he might stagger back—
