I flip to pure instinct, eyes closed, body engaged.
He’s taller, wiry, with muscles that feel smooth and big under my palm but he’s buff in a practiced way. Stellan’s body is designed for a specific function, not for fighting. From the ground, I kick up, making him fall and taking the single second of advantage to be on him. Something hits my shoulder, a hard, thick object.
The knife.
I feel around for it, failing, then put both hands on Stellan.
But his reflexes are fast, and he’s on his feet before I can let go, dragging me forward. My chin whacks the floor, sending fireworks behind my eyes, a molar cracking in the back of my mouth.
“Get the fuck away from me, you bitch!” he shouts, then he’s out of reach as I take a hand, wipe my eyes clean, open them --
And see a naked, blood-covered Lindsay holding the knife.
She dips into a squat, her right arm at an odd angle, the knife blade up but clutched hard in her filthy hand. Using her thighs, she pushes her body up, turning it into a missile, the kinetic force of her full being in the strike she makes.
And she hits Stellan in the crotch, all three inches of metal blade sinking into his body.
That’s not enough.
Not for her.
Like a gardener hacking away at overgrown vines, she pulls up, hard, with brute force movement designed for function. She grunts with the strain, a war cry, a battle call. There is hypnotic beauty in her motion. I watch with grotesque reverence.
Stellan’s entire groin soaks burgundy, like he’s spilled a glass of Pinot Noir at a dinner party, an oaf, a dork, a clumsy man who can’t even handle his drink.
Reflexively, he reaches out, both hands forming a perfect circle around Lindsay’s neck, her breasts bobbing as he squeezes so hard I hear something snap in her neck.
And then I burrow the knife further in with a drop kick that makes me grateful for punting practice back in high school. I hit her hand and want to pull back, but force myself to give it my all.
Stellan drops her neck and falls backwards, pushed a few feet by my blow.
Click.
I look up to find John holding two guns, one at Lindsay’s head, one at mine.
“Go ahead,” he says with a grin.
“Make my day,” Tiffany finishes for him. Her sad eyes meet mine, her good arm shoving a pillow as hard as possible against her nasty wound. “That’s the old line, right?” She starts to shake. “By the way, I don’t have health insurance, so your television show better cover this.”
A groan like iron plates grinding together comes from the heap of flesh called Stellan, his eyes glazing over, hands fruitlessly patting at what used to be his cock. Lindsay’s turned it into ceviche.
“Corning never told us this could happen,” John says through gritted teeth. “This wasn’t part of the deal when we told him we’d rough Lindsay up four years ago.” Safety’s off on both his weapons, and he has the haunted, hunted look of a man who’s coming to reckoning.
“Rough Lindsay up?” The fact that I just watched my girlfriend turn one of the men who ruined her life into a eunuch has me firmly convinced she can be trusted. I want her to look up, to check in, to give me a chance to read her and understand her next move, but she’s just a wall of tangled, dirty hair.
“Yeah. It was supposed to be in good fun. Slip her something, get on camera, make her look like a slut, ruin her dad. You know.” He shrugs like he’s describing how he cheated on a test.
“And me?”
“You were all Stellan’s idea, man. He wanted insurance. Said you’d go nuts and ruin us.”
He casts nervous glances at Stellan, who is still breathing but clearly nonverbal. I hope the motherfucker is in so much pain every single sperm is screaming.
“That’s not fake blood, is it?” Tiffany says, hysterical, as she watches Stellan pass out. “Oh, my God!” Her panic winds up, her eyes catching everyone’s looking around the room.
Then she looks at the television and screams,”We’re on TV!”
Hysteria can do some fucked up damage to people. I ignore her.
Lindsay, though, looks up and focuses her attention on the television screen.
Then she smiles.
The look in her eyes makes me flinch, so I turn and follow her gaze.
The split screen on the cable news show displays us. Here. Right here, in Tiffany’s living room.
Live.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” John screams, his voice going high.
“...new footage, a second videotape from the attack on presidential candidate Senator Harwell Bosworth’s daughter, Lindsay, shows a shocking discovery: Hollywood actor Stellan Asgarth, major league baseball player John Gainsborough, and up-and-coming California state representative Blaine Maisri all unmasked and all involved in sexually assaulting her unconscious form. Digital media experts confirm that the video footage is real and undoctored...”
The cable news announcer’s voice is flat and unemotional until her voice goes into a gasp, then the live feed from Tiffany’s apartment goes black for a few seconds, resuming with Lindsay’s body pixelated to cover her nakedness.
“We’ve received word from some webcam fans of a woman known on the Internet only as ‘Sexonda Beach’ that fans witnessed the live feed in her apartment and alerted law enforcement when men with guns, knives, and a naked woman suddenly appeared on camera. Police crews have been -- ”
“HOLY FUCK!” John shouts.
“I knew my live feed would come in handy some day!” Tiffany gushes.
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” John screams.
And then it comes together for me. Tiffany’s “camera work.”
Sexcam work.
“I run a live streaming webcam show from my house,” she explains, standing slowly, walking over to a fern and waving her good arm. “Before Drew came over, I made sure my live feed was set up so they could all cheer me on as I filmed my big break.” She blows a kiss at the fern. “Hi, guys! I love you! Thank you for taking good care of me!”