Sexy Jerk(62)

       
         
       
        

When he lets go of me instead of inflicting more pain, my mind races with what to do.

Should I turn and gauge his eyes out?

Grab him by the balls?

Stomp on his foot and then run?

Or scream my brains out?

I'm calculating which move might work when he shoves something in my pocket and whispers, "Good luck, sweetheart."

His breath smells of coffee, and his cologne is vile, and a faint memory rips through me, making me stumble. I know who this is.

With a hard shove, he pushes me to the ground.

I fall in a heap, panic now all I know. I close my eyes tightly. I can't move. I can't breathe. My throat closes up when I try to scream. Somehow I manage to raise my hands to defend myself, but nothing happens. Slowly, I open my eyes and look up, expecting to see him pointing a gun at me or holding a knife, but he's gone.

Tears are stinging my eyes, making everything a blur. I stumble as I try to stand and end up crawling to the car and using it to make myself get up. I look around and see no one. I scream anyway. Scream and scream and scream.

My phone. I need my phone. My purse is on the ground and the contents have spilled. Searching, I spot it.

I'm breathing deeply, trying to slow my heart rate, to quell the panic still rising in my chest as I lurch for it.

But I can't stop it. I can't focus. I can't seem to find my feet. I stumble as I bend to get it, land on my hands and knees, and then crawl to it.

Bleeding and crying, I sit on the ground and call 911. Once I've explained what happened, I find my wallet and keys and start moving. Running, I head toward the café for safety. My fingers tremble as I try to put the key in the lock. It won't fit. The more I try to turn it, the more it keeps jamming.

Giving up, I hold my keys tightly in my hand. My tears are falling so hard I can barely see the blur through them. Sagging against the door, it's then that I realize the door is unlocked or the lock is jammed because it swings in.

In early morning dawn, I can't really see inside, but as soon as I step through the glass doors and turn the lights on, I can see there is no safety inside.

The place has been vandalized. Graffiti is strewn all over the walls. The paint and chemicals that were left behind have been opened and poured out all over the floors, and someone took a sledgehammer to the drywall. The place has been demolished.

Shaking beyond my control, I slide down the wall to the ground. I've felt alone many times in my life, but never more than right now. With my phone still in my hand, I call the only person I can.

She answers right away. "Tess, is everything okay?"

"No Fiona, no it isn't," I cry.

"What's wrong?" 

I do my best to tell her.

She stays on the phone with me until the police arrive. It takes them more than ten minutes to get to the café, and less than ten minutes to write up their report. I tell them what I know. That my attacker was wearing a black ski mask that covered his face, and his body was also covered in black. The entire time I can hear my phone ringing from inside my purse. I assume it is Fiona, but I can't very well stop what I'm doing. I'll call her back once I'm finished.

"Anything else about his appearance you can tell us?"

I shake my head. "He never let me turn around."

In response they tell me there is not much they can do without more of a description. When I attempt to explain to them that his breath smelled, and that I've smelled that same vile coffee breath before, they stop me before I can say anymore. Facts, they only want facts, not hearsay or suspicions, they insist.

I'm holding a damp cloth to the side of my face when Ethan arrives. Since Fiona couldn't leave Max alone, or very well bring him, sending her husband to bring me to her house was the best solution. He gasps when he sees me, and once he makes sure I'm okay, he turns to yell at the officers for not having already arranged to have me transported to the emergency room. While Ethan reads them the riot act, Ash comes flying through the door.

I blink several times, not understanding what he's doing here. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Anything broken?"

I shake my head, no I'm not okay, and no nothing is broken, and then I can't stop a low whimper from stuttering past my stiff, swollen lips.

Seeing that I am shaken up, Ash enfolds me in his arms.

Hoarsely, I whisper in his ear, "It was Mathias Bigelow."

He pulls back and gently pushes the hair from my eyes. "How can you be sure?" he whispers.

"His breath."

Ash looks at me for a long time. "Did he say or do anything else?"

I nod, remembering the paper he shoved in my pocket. Slowly, I pull it out. It's the other help wanted sign that was taken from the café window on Friday. "He shoved this in my pocket, and said good luck, sweetheart."