Page 8 of Boardroom Ties
I use that half-second of space to twist sideways and kick Mr. Refrigerator in the shin with my Prada heel. It connects. He swears in Russian and his grip on my purse loosens just enough for me to rip free. The momentum sends me stumbling backward, my shoulder slamming into the brick wall.
Then I run.
Correction: I try to. In reality, I get maybe four steps before Dr. Dishwasher snags me by the back of my coat. The cashmere bunches in his fist and he hauls me right back into the mouth of hell. My feet skid on something wet and I go down on one knee. Pain shoots up my leg.
“Help!” I scream toward the street. The entrance of the alley is right there. Ten feet away, maybe fifteen, there are cars, people. Police officers, presumably. Surely someone is feeling like a superhero today?
But nobody comes.
Mr. Refrigerator rises up in front of me again. He’s rubbing his shin and he lookspissed. “I told you to go home,” he growls. “You didn’t listen.”
“So this is, what, a lesson?” I spit back. My knee is throbbing but I’m already trying to get up. Sir Shelving Unit puts a boot on the hem of my coat, pinning me down.
“Nah,” Mr. Refrigerator says. He crouches so he’s closer to my level. His breath is hot on my face. “This is just what happens to girls like you who wander into places they don’t belong.”
Dr. Dishwasher laughs evilly.
“You got money, right?” Mr. Refrigerator says. “That’s what you said at the bar. Let’s see how much is in that little purse ofyours.” He tears it away from me and starts rummaging through it.
“Take it,” I pant. “Take the money. I don’t care. Just let me go.”
“Oh, we’re taking it,” he agrees. “But that ain’t all we’re taking.”
He nods at the other two. Sir Shelving Unit grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet. Dr. Dishwasher moves to my other side. They start dragging me deeper into the alley.
Away from the street.
Away from the light.
I dig my heels in. I thrash. I scream again, but Dr. Dishwasher gets his hand over my mouth this time and holds it there, squeezing my cheeks hard enough to hurt in a way that doesn’t let me take another bite out of his palm.
“Keep fighting,” Mr. Refrigerator croons in a sick voice from behind us. “A little wriggle makes it all a lot more fun.”
I wouldn’t call it fun at all. My mind is sort of stuttering on the passage of time, strangely enough. It focuses on tiny little things that are happening, probably as a way to blot out the awful reality of the big picture.
The scrape of my coat buttons on asphalt.
A knee forcing mine apart.
The sound of my own breathing, fast and shallow and panicked through my nose because Dr. Dishwasher’s hand is still clamped over my mouth.
Cold air on my thigh where my dress has ridden up. Wrists pinned over my head. Zippers unzipping. Buckles unbuckling.
I can’t move. Every muscle in my body is trying to, but there are three of them and one of me and I am so fucking small in comparison.
I think of Giana.
I think,Not like this.
“You dumb bitch,” one of them laughs. “I can’t believe you actually?—”
Then he stops.
His eyes go somewhere over my shoulder. His face changes and he starts to say something, but I’ll never find out what that something is, because before the words can emerge, I hear a sound.
A bad sound. A very bad sound. It’s fast and wet, like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon.
Sir Shelving Unit’s grip disappears from my arms. Instantaneously gone. I stumble forward and nearly fall on my face.
