Page 145 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“Thanks.” I curtsy because, why not? I have no control over my body anymore, might as well treat him like the goddamn King of England. “Well, I shall be on my way,” I say in a British accent. “Pip pip, cheerio, and off I go.” I salute him, duck my head, and walk straight up to my car.
I’m so humiliated. So embarrassed. So beyond infuriated with myself that I unlock the door and shuffle inside where I press my head to the steering wheel and mutter, “You are a fucking moron. Pip pip? Who the fuck says pip pip?”
“I liked it.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I see movement in my passenger seat.
Locked into pure survival mode, I raise my hand, flatten it, and jab the invader’s throat with a quick whip to the jugular.
A gust of air flies from his mouth as a low groan fills the small space.
Got him!
Satisfied, I allow myself to confront my attacker, and that’s when I realize it’s Hardy.
“Oh my God,” I yell. “Oh God, I didn’t know. When did you…oh, God, can you breathe?”
He coughs, he sputters, and he takes a few deep breaths.
Dear God, I broke his esophagus. Karate-chopped right through his ligaments and muscles.
I rest my hand on his shoulder as he gasps for air.
Do I perform CPR?
Do I call 911?
Do I check for a dent?
After what feels like minutes, he finally turns to me, hand on this throat, and says in a very squeaky voice, “What the hell…did you…do?”
I lift up my hand and flatten it like a plate. “I, uh, I knife-handed your throat. Did you…did you not like that?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
My lip curls into my teeth out of nerves as I say, “I don’t think you liked it.”
“Correct,” he says, still gasping for air.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but you startled me, and it was pure self-defense. I could have grabbed my stun gun. Do you want me to test that on you? See which would have been worse?”
“Does it look like I want you to do that?”
“Not so much,” I answer and then grab my water bottle from my purse. “Would you like something to drink?” Maybe we can test for holes.
He shakes his head and then leans back in his seat. He takes a few deep breaths, and when he seems collected, he says, “Just drive.”
“Drive?” I ask, very confused.
“Yes, drive.”
“Drive where?” And then it hits me. “Oh God, the hospital?”
“No,” he says before I can panic. “To the store.”
“The store? For ice? Medicine?”
He pinches his nose. “For the dip ingredients, Everly.”
