I skip the elevator and hurry toward the stairs, both relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t follow. I want to go—or I want him to go—but I also want a fight. I want to release all the shit that’s building up in me. I want to explode, and I really don’t know how.
It’s not until I reach the street that I realize I don’t know where I’m going. Obviously not to the townhouse since it’s no longer mine. Honestly, though, it doesn’t matter. Right now I’m so fired up all I want to do is walk, and so that’s what I do.
Maybe when I’m tired I’ll catch a cab to Brody’s. Or maybe I’ll go splurge on a hotel. Hell, maybe I’ll go sleep on a park bench. I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t think. I can’t focus.
I have to move.
I’m not walking with any particular destination, so I’m meandering through a pattern of long and short blocks. Now I’m on a dark residential street, the canopy of trees making odd shadows on the asphalt.
I hear footsteps behind me and move to the side, expecting a resident or dog walker to pass me by. But the footsteps slow, and even through my haze of anger and hurt, my skin begins to tingle with awareness and my heartbeat begins to quicken.
Mentally, I curse myself, because I am never this unaware when I’m outside. I always watch my surroundings. I always pay attention. And yet here I am, wandering blind in an emotional haze.
I’d left with only my small cross body purse and my keys, and now I slide my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around the keys, letting the metal slip between my fingers so that I can not only punch, but do some damage in the process.
I continue walking forward, listening, and when I hear the footsteps again, I turn.
Mistake.
The word screams in my head as voltage rips through me, stealing thoughts. Stealing the world. Stealing reason.
I don’t remember falling, but suddenly I’m on the ground, terrified and lost as my body writhes in the wake of the Taser assault.
I feel my lips move as I form his name. Dallas.
And above me I see a woman. Tall. Lean.
She’s wearing a red dress and a mask, and is carrying something long and black, like a thin telescope. I’m confused at first, and then realize it’s an extendable billy club.
“You,” I croak.
“He’s mine,” she whispers.
Then she leans over, lets the club fly, and lands it square against my temple as the world fades to black and my heart screams for Dallas.
Lady in Red
Dallas paced the living room, or tried to. The place was so full of boxes it’s a wonder he could even more.
He’d fucked up and it was his own damn fault. He’d known he was taking a risk not telling her about Colin, and now that choice was biting him in the ass.
Frustrated, he glanced toward the door, wondering now if he’d made the wrong choice again by not following her. He was trying to give her space, but already the gap between them was too wide. He needed her beside him. And, dammit, he was certain she needed him.
As if in evidence to the thought, his cellphone pinged, the tone signaling a text from Jane. He snatched it up, praying she wanted him to meet her somewhere.
But when he opened the text, it was as if he’d been punched in the gut.
His knees gave out, and he fell to the ground, the phone tumbling from his hands.
It didn’t matter. The picture was burned in his mind.
Jane, her face bruised and battered.
And on the sidewalk next to her was an all-too-familiar carnival mask.
The Woman.
And now she had Jane.