And that is so not a good place to be, dancing on one foot with the hand of a sadistic thug wrapped around the ankle of your other foot.
“I’m gonna beat the crap out of you, bitch,” he cheerfully informed me.
I suppose, under the circumstances, I should be glad that he was only threatening to knock me around just like the boy PIs.
“Then I’m gonna fuck you till your pussy splits open.”
Why, why, do they always need to go there?
He was enjoying himself, licking his lips, perfectly willing to telegraph his moves as if there was nothing I could do to escape.
But as they always told us women, anatomy is destiny.
The first motion of his fist sent me into action. I violently twisted my body, ducking my head at the same time I stepped forward with my left foot, using that motion—and everything else I could pack into it—to bring a hammer fist hard up against his groin, then I opened my hand, grabbed whatever I could, and yanked it down, turning my arm at the same time.
“What the—” turning into a grunt of pain.
Enough pain for him to release my shoulder. Now free, I ducked under his arm and quickly kicked him in the back of the knee. That usually forces the knee to suddenly bend, taking someone down, but I had to kick him in the other knee to bring him down.
I kicked again, this time between his legs into a place I was hoping was really hurting by now.
He let out another roar of pain.
I sprinted as fast as I could for my car, praising the gods of technology for a key that could open the doors twenty feet away.
Jerking open the door, I literally jumped in, slammed the key in the ignition. I don’t think I even had my door closed before my foot was jammed on the accelerator and I was roaring around the corner.
I had time for the barest glance back in the rearview mirror.
He was still on his knees but reaching into his jacket.
Then he was out of sight. And, more importantly, I was out of his sighting line. I had to assume that he was going for a gun and not his cell phone to tell Prejean that he had botched the job.
I sped through two stop signs, zigged and zagged onto different streets so I would be far from the one he’d seen me turn onto. I had to assume that he would attempt to follow me, just for revenge at being taken by a girl. I even played the race card, guessing that since he was white, he’d be less likely to think I’d disappear into the so-called black areas of town, but that’s exactly what I did, crossing St. Claude into the Seventh Ward, up Florida Ave. to where the old Desire project used to be. It was now a desolate area, the projects first torn down to be replaced with something better, but Katrina flooded those new empty shells, leaving it a water-marked no-man’s-land.
It was only there that I slowed enough to make sure my door was properly closed and even took the time to buckle my seat belt.
And then another panicked thought hit me. What if he knew my home address and was on his way there now?
I hastily grabbed my cell phone. Did I call the police or call Cordelia?
Cordelia. I loved her.
“Micky? I thought you’d be here by now,” was her greeting.
“Do not open the door to anyone but me. Or Joanne. I’m on my way. If you see a very tall man with scraggly blond hair and enough muscles to be in a freak show, call nine-one-one immediately.”
“Micky, what’s going on—”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there as quick as I can. But don’t open the door.”
I didn’t even give her time to reply before hanging up. Getting there was more important than being polite. And I couldn’t handle being terrified out of my head, driving in New Orleans, and talking on a cell phone trying to calm her down all at the same time.
“Fucking turn green,” I muttered at the first red light I encountered. I slid through the stop signs. And speed limit? What speed limit? Although the potholes and other idiot drivers rarely let me get into fourth gear, let alone fifth, the
“I’m gonna beat the crap out of you, bitch,” he cheerfully informed me.
I suppose, under the circumstances, I should be glad that he was only threatening to knock me around just like the boy PIs.
“Then I’m gonna fuck you till your pussy splits open.”
Why, why, do they always need to go there?
He was enjoying himself, licking his lips, perfectly willing to telegraph his moves as if there was nothing I could do to escape.
But as they always told us women, anatomy is destiny.
The first motion of his fist sent me into action. I violently twisted my body, ducking my head at the same time I stepped forward with my left foot, using that motion—and everything else I could pack into it—to bring a hammer fist hard up against his groin, then I opened my hand, grabbed whatever I could, and yanked it down, turning my arm at the same time.
“What the—” turning into a grunt of pain.
Enough pain for him to release my shoulder. Now free, I ducked under his arm and quickly kicked him in the back of the knee. That usually forces the knee to suddenly bend, taking someone down, but I had to kick him in the other knee to bring him down.
I kicked again, this time between his legs into a place I was hoping was really hurting by now.
He let out another roar of pain.
I sprinted as fast as I could for my car, praising the gods of technology for a key that could open the doors twenty feet away.
Jerking open the door, I literally jumped in, slammed the key in the ignition. I don’t think I even had my door closed before my foot was jammed on the accelerator and I was roaring around the corner.
I had time for the barest glance back in the rearview mirror.
He was still on his knees but reaching into his jacket.
Then he was out of sight. And, more importantly, I was out of his sighting line. I had to assume that he was going for a gun and not his cell phone to tell Prejean that he had botched the job.
I sped through two stop signs, zigged and zagged onto different streets so I would be far from the one he’d seen me turn onto. I had to assume that he would attempt to follow me, just for revenge at being taken by a girl. I even played the race card, guessing that since he was white, he’d be less likely to think I’d disappear into the so-called black areas of town, but that’s exactly what I did, crossing St. Claude into the Seventh Ward, up Florida Ave. to where the old Desire project used to be. It was now a desolate area, the projects first torn down to be replaced with something better, but Katrina flooded those new empty shells, leaving it a water-marked no-man’s-land.
It was only there that I slowed enough to make sure my door was properly closed and even took the time to buckle my seat belt.
And then another panicked thought hit me. What if he knew my home address and was on his way there now?
I hastily grabbed my cell phone. Did I call the police or call Cordelia?
Cordelia. I loved her.
“Micky? I thought you’d be here by now,” was her greeting.
“Do not open the door to anyone but me. Or Joanne. I’m on my way. If you see a very tall man with scraggly blond hair and enough muscles to be in a freak show, call nine-one-one immediately.”
“Micky, what’s going on—”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there as quick as I can. But don’t open the door.”
I didn’t even give her time to reply before hanging up. Getting there was more important than being polite. And I couldn’t handle being terrified out of my head, driving in New Orleans, and talking on a cell phone trying to calm her down all at the same time.
“Fucking turn green,” I muttered at the first red light I encountered. I slid through the stop signs. And speed limit? What speed limit? Although the potholes and other idiot drivers rarely let me get into fourth gear, let alone fifth, the
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