Page 61 of York

I wasn’t in some isolated rental. Or walking down an abandoned street.

I was in a fully-occupied apartment building in a busy area of Florida. Someone would hear me. Someone would come. If they wouldn’t come, they would call the police.

But before I could even breathe again, there was a blunt pain to my stomach. Once. Twice. Three times.

Punches. He was punching me.

But he seemed as blind in the dark as I was, hitting me in the center of my stomach. Painful, but not debilitating like my ribs.

I squeezed into the space near the shower niche, just needing to get out of the cramped space, get into the hall, get toward my bedroom.

Because sitting beside my bed was the very fancy little gun safe. All I needed was five seconds, my fingerprint, and then I would have what I needed to end this.

I had the home field advantage, especially in the dark, I reminded myself. I just needed to squeeze past him.

I sucked in my stomach, tried to make myself as small as possible.

Then I rushed past, scraping my hips against the counter and yanking open each drawer as I went, hoping one might catch him, slow him down, something.

I flew out the door, praying there wasn’t a second set of hands to grab me as I rushed down the short hallway toward my bedroom.

But hands shoved me hard, making me stumble forward.

I managed not to fall, but before I could surge forward again, he landed a kick to the back of my leg, sending me down onto my knees, the impact of the hard floor sending pain shooting through my thighs and hips.

Heartbeat hammering, I scrambled forward on all fours, trying to get to the side of the bed.

A handful of my hair was grabbed. I was shoved forward, the whole side of my face catching the edge of my wooden bed frame.

My lip split, a metallic taste filling my mouth as I finally drew in a breath and did all I could do as he viciously yanked my hair.

I screamed with everything I had.

It only lasted maybe three seconds before one hand yanked my hair until my head was arched unnaturally backward. Then his hand was over my mouth, fingers digging in, silencing me.

I tried to throw my weight forward, to use the side of the bed to pull myself out of his grip.

It was no use.

He was too strong as his arm wrapped around my waist, pinning me to his body.

“You’re gonna pay for what you did in Georgia.”

Georgia.

Where I’d bested not only him, but his buddy.

I could do it again.

I had to.

I reached up onto the bed, knowing I’d left the remote up there when I’d turned the TV off earlier.

I felt around blindly, my head and chest getting tighter as my oxygen depleted until, finally, my hand closed around the hard plastic.

With a death grip on half of it, I drove the other end into the man’s knuckles with every bit of strength I had left.

“Fuck,” he snarled, his hand dropping.