But I realize soon enough that they’re helping him, not me, and panic squeezes my throat, cutting off any and all words that might escape. My brain blanks, literally blanks like a whiteboard that’s been erased clean of every little mark, and I struggle to scream, to yell, to curse him out, to do something.
Anything but be a weakling—again—and just take it.
“Hurry up, man,” one of the others yells. They’re young. They’re cursing each other out, trying to sound all gangster or whatever but I know they’re just stupid kids, stealing on a whim. Or was this planned? Let’s go to the amusement park and rip the tourists off—was that what they said to each other?
Somehow I manage to jerk out of his hold. I turn to face them, air leaving me in great, shuddering breaths as I assess my situation. Cut and run? What if one of them has a weapon? And why in the world has no one noticed what’s going on? I see a couple only a few yards away, but they’re so entranced with the Dippin’ Dots menu they’re staring at they don’t even notice my struggle.
Unbelievable. I can hardly wrap my head around the fact that this is actually happening. I don’t show up here—the place of my nightmares—for years and I’m at the park for an hour, only to be robbed? Really?
Despite my fear, the irony isn’t lost on me. Not by a long shot.
“Hey!” The one who tried to take my purse yells. He takes a menacing step toward me, his eyes narrow little dark slits. He’s an older teen, probably can’t be that much younger than me, and his expression is fierce. Pissed off. Though there’s a hint of fear there, too, lurking deep in his gaze and I start to back away, my fingers curled around the long strap of my purse as I hold it in place. Keep it close to my side.
A jolt of fear moves through me when all three of them step forward as I continue to back away and I contemplate my next move. I should give the purse up. Let them take it. I have one credit card and a debit card in my wallet, plus maybe sixty bucks, tops. No big deal, right? My life is worth more than that. Not that they’re threatening my life . . .
But my phone is in there, too. Would it be such a bad thing, letting the phone/newly discovered tracking device that allows my mother and sister to keep tabs on me disappear? I’d have to cancel my cards, get a new driver’s license. My car keys are in there, too. I don’t want to be stranded here, not after this. Not after everything. I don’t think I could stand it.
“Damn it, give me the purse,” the kid mutters as he lunges for me, making a grab for the bag, his hands and fingers curled into gnarled little claws. “Hand it over, bitch, and you won’t get hurt.”
It’s the bitch, and you won’t get hurt line that socks me hard in the stomach. My shaky, sweaty fingers come loose as if they have a mind of their own, slipping away from the strap. I’m about to let him take my purse when out of nowhere a man appears.
He’s tall and broad, a blur of movement as he shoves his way in between us, pushing me backward with pure brute strength. I stumble away from him, my fingers somehow miraculously finding my purse strap once more, and I watch him with fascination as he takes over.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man isn’t yelling. No, his deep voice is eerily calm as he grabs hold of the front of the boy’s T-shirt. The other two run off without a word, ditching their friend, and the man pulls him in close, dipping his face into the boy’s so they’re only mere inches away from each other. “I should call the police.”
The kid shakes his head, stutters out, “N-no w-way, mister. I didn’t d-do anything. Please.”
They stare at each other, breathing the same air, the man’s fingers tightening in the boy’s shirt so the fabric strains against his thin chest. I hold my breath, my entire body shaking as I watch them, afraid that they might hurt each other.
“I should make you beg,” the man murmurs, the edge in his voice sending a shiver down my spine. “What sort of asshole tries to steal a purse in the middle of the day from a defenseless woman?”
“I-I m-meant n-nothing b-by it,” the kid stutters, his voice shaky, his eyes full of fear as he flicks his gaze toward me for the briefest second.
The man jerks on his shirt and the kid’s head flops back and forth like he’s some sort of old toy thin from lack of stuffing. “Don’t you dare even look at her.”
I stand up a little straighter, a thrill moving down my spine despite my fear. It’s the way he says it, all dark and threatening, like he’d tear the boy’s eyes out of his head before he allowed him to look at me. It’s wrong, the excitement that pulses in my blood, floods my belly. I abhor violence. Of course I do.