“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes.” She smiles at me. “Just making arrangements.” Her tone implies questions are not welcome, so I press my lips together to keep from asking anything further.
The adrenaline of the attack fades with each step and exhaustion comes for me again. Petra just keeps walking, winding through the city streets, apparently tireless. “Petra,” I finally say, breaking the long silence between us. “Where are we going?”
“I have a hotel I like, it’s not far now. Very luxurious but also subtle. Not like the Crillon.” She says the name of Robert’s chosen hotel with a twinge of disgust.
“That place is a little over the top.”
“True luxury is not so flashy,” Petra says.
I shrug. “I’m going to give that a rating of ‘not my department’.”
Petra looks over at me, her eyes narrowing. “You do not care about money,” she says. “Have you always had it?”
“It’s not that I don’t care about money,” I say, defensive for some reason I can’t place. As if it’s wrong not to care about the made-up system of value humans have created. “It’s just that I don’t care about fancy stuff.”
“You fly on private jets.”
“Yes, for convenience, not for the luxury. I fly commercial when I can. When I head to the island I’ll fly commercial most of the way.”
“So what do you do with Blue?” she asks.
“He goes with me as an emotional support dog.” She makes a snorting sound that implies emotional support animals are not a real thing. “Seriously,” I say. “You think I can survive without him?”
“No,” she says, her gaze falling on Blue and softening. Even hardened criminals can’t resist his face.
We turn down a narrow alley. The rain drips off the rooflines, plopping into puddles. My hearing is starting to come back. A door opens, spilling music into the night. Two men, leaning on each other, stumble out onto the cobblestones.
They are laughing, but when they see Petra and me they straighten, their faces twisting into lascivious grins. As if they are wolves who’ve found two sheep wandering in their territory…I can’t help my responding smile. You’ve run into hunters, my friends…
They are about the same height, one with blond hair, the other auburn. They separate, spreading out…the better to surround us. Petra sighs and I glance over at her. The men are too drunk to see how dangerous we are, but Blondie does glance at Blue, his eyes narrowing for a moment, wondering perhaps if he might be dangerous. He is.
“Bonsoir,” Auburn says, his accent so bad even I can tell he’s not French. He raises both arms wide in greeting, exposing his chest for a kill shot. But I’m not going to shoot them. No, we are going to do this the old-fashioned way…
“Sorry,” I say, “I don’t speak French.”
“An American?” Blondie asks in a British accent, his attention leaving Blue and rising to my face. His gaze is cloudy with alcohol and I almost feel bad for him. He still has a chance to get out of this totally unscathed, though. If they let us pass everything will be fine...
“Yes,” I answer, my tone friendly, as if I’m not judging the distance between my fist and his throat. It’s easy to pretend since so much of my life is spent hiding this exact calculation from men. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the things Robert loves about me. The thought brings a subtle smile to my lips that Blondie takes the complete wrong way. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, as if he is going to do something with them and me soon. Not gonna happen, buddy.
Petra and I keep moving, indicating that we plan to walk right by them, but the two men, despite their obvious intoxication, move back together in unison, blocking our path. Drunk doesn’t dull that instinct, I guess. “Where you running off to?” Auburn asks.
Petra and I stop moving just shy of arm distance away from them. “We are headed home,” Petra says, her voice icy.
“Come have a drink first,” Blondie says, gesturing toward the bar behind them. “One pint.”
“No, thanks,” I say. “Please let us pass.” See how polite I can be!
Auburn steps forward and Blondie moves with him, closing the distance between us. Petra sighs again, as if she’s experienced this for a lifetime and no longer finds it amusing. Maybe she never did. But something about the scent of rain in the air, the late hour, and the fact that these two goons have lifted the weight of exhaustion from my shoulders again with their simmering threat of violence has me in a good mood.
“I wouldn’t,” I say, offering them one last out, one last chance to not see a doctor tonight.
Blondie’s smile turns predatory. The distance between his throat and my fist is now crossable but I let him come closer, let him make the first move, as it were. A girl is always supposed to let the boy make the first move, right?
The yeasty scent of beer mixed with the harsh tones of cheap whiskey wafts off him as he leans forward, invading my personal space. He smiles down at me like I’m little and he is big. Like I’m helpless and he is dangerous.
Ah, fuck it.
My fist lashes out, driving into his throat. I move so quickly the warmth and texture of his skin doesn’t register on my knuckles. The force of the blow does, though; it reverberates down my arm, settling into my shoulder as I fall back into a fighting stance. Blue’s nose touches my hip and he lets out an excited bark. He loves a fight as much as me.
Blondie stumbles back, both hands clutching his neck, his lips puckering—not for a kiss but in an attempt to get air past his shocked windpipe. I didn’t hit him that hard. He will be fine. Will live another day, maybe even harass another woman.
Yeah, we should probably do something more. Really convince him this isn’t something he should try again.
I shuffle forward, closing the distance between us, my fists up. His eyes widen, but he is too drunk or stupid or both to turn and run. I kick with my front leg, landing a blow between his legs. His skin pales and he drops to his knees. Blondie’s hands abandon his neck and cup his crotch. He tips onto his side, curling into the fetal position.
Auburn hasn’t moved. His mouth hangs open in surprise. Blue barks again, high and excited, waiting for my next move, ready for anything. Petra wears a wicked smile—amused and fierce.
My eyes narrow, searching Auburn’s face. His gaze tracks to mine. “You, what did you…” he sputters for a moment and then finally lands on: “Bitch!”
I huff a laugh. So original. “This never happened before?” I ask, gesturing toward Blondie, still holding himself and making pathetic mewling sounds on the wet cobblestones. “The women you harass usually just let you?” It’s at moments like this I wish I could raise one eyebrow but alas, I do not have that power.
Auburn’s hands fist at his side, and color infuses his face. “He didn’t do anything to you,” he cries, the injustice almost cracking his voice. “We just wanted to buy you a drink.”
Petra laughs, deep and rich and highly amused, but edged with danger. Auburn steps back from her, suddenly realizing how close they still stand. She moves toward him, and he stumbles back. She laughs again.
And it is funny—this big brawny man scooting away from an elfin thing like Petra. “Let me give you a few tips,” Petra says, her voice laced with derision. “If it is late, and dark. If you are in an alleyway. If you are drunk. And there are any women around. They are afraid of you.” Auburn opens his mouth and closes it. “Because you are dangerous. It is obvious to any female with half a brain that you are the type of men who think a game of cat and mouse is fun. That you enjoy blocking women’s paths, making them fear you. Forcing them to calculate which is safer, going into the crowded bar with you or trying to escape out on the street.”
