Orders? Fun?
Before I can figure it all out, his free hand comes to my blouse, paws at the opening at the top of my chest and manages to get a few fingers lodged in so he can rip it open. Buttons go flying as the white camisole I wear underneath is revealed to the cool night air. It is then I realize what the hell he means by fun.
My body starts to react again, and my hands go to his wrist that holds the knife to my throat as I scream, “No.”
Kicking a leg out, I catch him in the shin, and he curses at me before pressing the blade harder against me. I feel the skin open up, and it stings terribly.
“I will cut your motherfucking throat wide open if you don’t quiet the fuck up and hold still,” he yells at me, completely oblivious that he’s making as much noise as I am right now. The alcohol fumes coming off him and the way his words come out less than clear leads me to believe he’s definitely drunk or close to it.
Drunk or not, he’s incredibly strong and he’s cut into the bottom of my neck, so my body goes absolutely still.
“That’s better,” he praises, then his hand starts pawing at the bottom of my camisole again, trying to inch his way up underneath of it. I take in a deep breath through my nose, trying to think of a way to fight back without getting my throat slit open.
Maybe a knee to his nuts? Surely that will hurt him bad enough he won’t be able to control the knife.
Another scream to distract him?
His rough fingers touch my stomach, and panic starts to seize me again. I can’t help it. My hands try to push him away from me, thinking a sliced throat would be better than experiencing the “fun” he wants to have.
My body locks tight and I try to figure out exactly where his crotch might be in the gloom, intent to launch my kick, when light suddenly floods the driveway and the side of the house, illuminating my attacker.
Dark, greasy hair that comes down to his shoulders and parts in the middle. A long, wiry beard. Dirty face smudged with oil and sweat. The light surprises him and his eyes flare wide as they turn toward the source, which I know is a car that’s just pulled into the driveway.
Either Lorelei or Jake, but I can’t tell because I can’t turn my head without causing the blade to go in deeper.
I have no clue if they can see us, but my attacker must not think so, even though I can see his eyes are pale blue from the shimmer of the light on him. He presses the blade in tighter and doesn’t say a word, seemingly unsure of what to do. For the first time, I feel a small trickle of blood that rolls down past my collarbone to my chest.
The engine is cut off, and I hear the ticking of the motor. The lights don’t go out and the car door opens.
All of this happens in just seconds, and without any thought as to whether it’s the right thing to do or not, I open my mouth and let out the most piercing shriek I can muster. It startles the man so much that he actually jerks backward from me, my neck suddenly free from the knife. I turn and see Lorelei standing beside her car with the door still open, not even fifteen feet away. She’s staring straight at us, the headlights showing her exactly what the situation is. I haven’t met her yet, but I did see her getting in her car one morning from the upper window in the garage apartment. I wonder if she knows who I am.
Because she’s standing in the glow of the sconce lights, I see clearly the look of shock cross her face, then her eyes narrow in recognition of me and a scary, greasy man standing there with a knife.
Oh, fuck… what was I thinking? Lorelei is pregnant. She might even have her daughter in the backseat. She’s now in as much danger as I am.
“Lorelei… run,” I scream, my back still pinned against the wall, not by my attacker but merely by my terror.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she calmly reaches into her purse and pulls a gun out. My gaze goes to the man, watching his eyes widen in surprise. I’m sure mine look the same.
“You get the hell away from her,” Lorelei says as she holds the gun aimed at him in a sure, two-handed grip. She looks completely confident in her abilities, and I think that might be because everyone in Wyoming owns guns and knows how to shoot.
The man doesn’t move one way or the other. He stands frozen to the spot, his eyes riveted on Lorelei and the gun, his hand holding the knife loosely by his side. My gut instinct—no, my internal sense of self-preservation—tells me to run—but I stand frozen to the spot as well, afraid any movement from me might provoke him to attack.
“Only going to say this one more time,” Lorelei says, and I hear the unmistakable snick of the gun cocking. “Get the hell away from her.”