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Before he can straighten, I send my knee into his face, and he falls back. Hurt, he climbs onto all fours to steady himself while he fights the pain spreading through his gut and face.
But I’m not finished with him.
I kick an arm out from under him, and he collapses onto the pavement.
“Bitch!” He wheezes.
Pulling the Ruger out of my bag, I kneel on his spine and press the gun’s barrel into the base of his skull. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out all over this goddamn concrete.”
“What the fuck?”
“Strike one. Your question is not an answer. Tell me why I shouldn’t paint this parking lot with your gray matter.”
“What the fuck? You’re crazy!”
“Strike two… there you go again, answering a question with a question. You know how it goes… three strikes and you’re out.” I dig the gun in deeper. “So if I were you, I’d choose my next words very carefully. Now tell me, asshole, why shouldn’t I end your miserable sorry ass life right here and now?”
“Because… because…”
I sigh and press my knee harder into his spine. “I’m getting bored. And just so you know, when I get bored, my finger gets itchy.”
“Don’t hurt me,” he cries.
“But you were going to hurt me. I believe the term of endearment was ‘now give me your cash, you harlot, or I’m going to gut you like a deer.’ Help me out here. Am I right?”
He blubbers something inaudible. So I grab his hair, pull his head back, then slam his face into the concrete.
“Answer a lady when she speaks to you. I said, am… I… right?”
He’s dazed for a moment, then starts screaming, “You’re crazy! Help. Help me!” He begins wailing like he’s the one who was pinned against the car and felt up by a whisky-soaked pervert demanding he hand over his hard-earned cash.
Fucking cry baby.
“Stop wailing, you pathetic ass. If you can’t take it, don’t fucking dish it.” I lean down and whisper in his ear, making sure the tip of the barrel presses deeper into his skin, “You do anything like this again, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to use this here gun, and I’m going to pull the fucking trigger. Do you understand me, you fucking twerp? I’ve done it before, and I’m telling you now… nothing beats seeing the brains of your rapist spattered all over the ground.”
This makes him holler some more.
Bennie and Lloyd, two of the bouncers from the Spicy Crawdad, come running across the parking lot. I put my gun back into my purse.
“You okay, Rory?” Bennie asks, panting.
I climb off the would-be-rapist-mugger man who just shit his pants and straighten my skirt. “You might want to take this man out the back and hose him off.”
Mr. Shit His Pants looks up at Bennie and Lloyd. “Thank fuck, you’re here. This bitch was about to kill me.”
My nerves are still buzzing when I get home and find Ares waiting at the foot of the stairs leading up to my apartment.
I can’t suppress my smile.
“This is becoming a habit,” I say, walking by him to climb the stairs.
He follows. “A good or bad habit?”
“Bad,” I say, stopping to unlock my front door. I glance at him over my shoulder. “But bad habits are my favorite kind.”
When we’re inside, he notices the red marks on my arms.
“That happen tonight?”
