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She bared her teeth. Tried to bite his hand.
The glove was too thick.
“Stop it!” he ordered.
She didn’t.
“If you don’t, I’ll fuck you up,” he growled into her ear, the smell of his last cigarette heavy on his hot breath. “Real bad. I swear. Cut your face to ribbons.”
So where was the knife? For the first time she thought about a weapon. The fact that he hadn’t put a gun to her head, or a knife to her throat.
His hands were busy holding her down.
Panicked, she fought harder. Wriggled and kicked with the heel of her boot. Bam! She connected with his shin and he let out a howl.
“You bitch!”
Hadn’t anyone heard?
Where was the cop?
Or one of the cowboys from the bar?
Or anyone.
With the hand on her face, he pinched her nose between his thumb and index finger and held her jaw closed. “Stop it!” he growled as he cut off air to her lungs.
Ivy struggled harder, trying to hit or scratch or kick. To maim him in any way. She was only three damned blocks from the bus station, for God’s sake. Couldn’t anyone hear or see his brutal attack?
Please, please, please!
Her lungs began to burn.
She tried to draw in a breath.
Failed.
If only she could reach the scissors in her boot. If only . . . Her hand fisted and she struck. Hard. Her knuckles connecting with his head, the greasy hair. He barely flinched.
It was too late.
She needed air.
Bad.
She couldn’t think.
Her thoughts swam and blackness threatened to pull her under.
The bus! She had to get to the bus!
She swung again, this time her arm flopping ineffectively.
Pain radiated from her chest and her eyes bulged. She felt them, felt every nerve ending in her body.
“Give me the money!”
The money? He’d followed her to rob her?
