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“All I’m saying is you’re too pretty to be walking around here by yourself, baby,” the guy croons. He’s not slurring his words, and he doesn’t look like he’s high or anything, which means he’s just a run-of-the-mill shithead who can’t take no for an answer and doesn’t have anything to hide behind as an excuse. Not that it would be different if he did. An asshole is an asshole whether he’s sober or not.
“I’m not interested!” the woman shoots back, not turning around.
The man doubles his pace and catches up to her, reaching out to grab her arm and bring her to a stop. “You need to hear me out,” he says. “I’m trying to help you, and you’re being a bitch. That’s why bad things happen to women these days. Because you won’t stop for a second and let a nice guy help you. Let me give you a ride home, gorgeous. You won’t regret it.”
“I said no,” she shoots back, tugging her arm out of his grip. “Leave me alone, please.”
It’s thepleasethat makes me fucking sick. I can see she’s angry and scared, and even so, she still feels like she has to practically beg this fucker to leave her alone.
The guy narrows his eyes, and I can see the anger there, too. The rage at being rejected when he thinks he’s God’s gift to women or some shit. He pulls back like he’s going to hit her or grab her again, but before he can, I’m across the street and grabbing him myself, yanking him hard away from her.
He didn’t see me coming, and I have the element of surprise on my side, so he stumbles back, and I have a chance to draw my knife and press it against his side, wrapping one arm around his chest from behind.
“No is a complete sentence, asshole,” I mutter to him, making sure he can feel the point of the blade pricking his ribs through his hoodie. “If a woman tells you to fuck off, then you should just do that. Because when you don’t, bitches like me have to step in, and trust me. You don’t want that.”
“What the fuck?” he splutters, trying to turn around so he can see my face.
I dig the knife in just that bit deeper, cutting through his hoodie so it meets skin. I think about how good it felt to jam a blade into that guy’s leg last night. How it was exactly what he fucking deserved, and how this fucker could be in the same boat.
I drag the knife down lower, cutting through more of his clothes and letting it bite through his skin. I can tell from the pathetic little whimper that it hurts, and I roll my eyes. “You’re not so tough now, are you? You’re only a big, brave predator when you’re chasing someone who won’t fight back. But when someone does? Then you want to go crawling home with your tail between your legs. Pathetic.”
It would be so easy to keep cutting. To make an example of this asshole and leave him in the middle of the street for everyone to see. But the woman is watching with wide, frightened eyes, and I only wanted to prove a point anyway.
So I shove him away from me, letting him go. As soon as he’s free, he turns and runs off, stumbling over himself to get as far away as possible.
“Thank you,” the woman says, sounding breathless. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t sure if I should run or try to fight him or what. I didn’t know what he’d do. Thank you.”
“It’s whatever,” I tell her, brushing her thanks away. I didn’t do it because I wanted her praise or gratitude. I did it to send that fucker a message. “Assholes like that are a dime a dozen.”
Before she can say anything else, I’m walking away, crossing the street and getting back into my car so I can finally get out of here.
I roll the windows down as I drive so I can feel the wind rushing over my skin and hair and think about how good it’ll be to finally have all of this behind me.
On the way back to the house, I pass a sign for an outlet mall and decide to stop. There’s one thing I need to make this completely perfect.
There are a bunch of stores for clothes, housewares, and electronics, but I find one that specializes in shoes and walk inside. It’s blessedly quiet and mostly empty, and I wander the shelves, looking for the perfect pair.
In the years since I got out of that room and started this mission, nice shoes have become my one weakness. They bring me comfort, soothing me and keeping me grounded. Another little ritual, like the cutting and hunting down everyone who tormented me and killed my sister.
There are a lot of shoes on display, but I need them to be perfect. Sexy. Deadly, almost.
Then I find them.
All black with sharp stiletto heels. I can tell from a glance that they’ll fit me perfectly and also make my legs look killer, so I grab them up and head for the register.
The girl behind the counter grins as she rings them up and wraps them in tissue paper before putting them in a bag. “These are great,” she says. “Is there a big occasion coming up?”
I think about standing on that roof and putting a bullet right through Ivan’s head, and I smile.
“Yeah. There is.”
