Goody One Shoe (15 page)

“WELL, LOOKY, LOOKY.
It’s the
gimpy chick.” Bat Head tapped Billie’s prosthesis with his shoe. High tops this
time. Red, like freshly spilled blood. Or an ordained editor’s ink.

Billie gathered her purse close to her side and held her
newspaper to her chest. She looked the little bastard in the eye. “Leave me
alone.”

He scanned the car, his arms out, palms up. “Where’s Prince
Charming? Your superhero boyfriend? No one here to save you today?”

His posse must have taken the day off. Perhaps even bullies
need a vacation. Only one of them hung behind him, eyeing the few riders on the
car.

A mother cowered in the back and held her toddler close,
unable to make eye contact. Billie didn’t blame her. Why risk the safety of
your baby for some stranger?

But Billie wasn’t about to back down. “I don’t need to be
rescued.”

He laughed at her. “Hear that, Todd? She can protect
herself.” He loomed over her, his feet on either side of hers and bent down
until she could smell the weed and alcohol on his breath. “How about I prove
you wrong, huh, crip?” He grabbed at her breasts over the newspaper.

She leaned back, gritted her teeth, and rammed her knee into
his groin.

His breath whooshed from his lungs and he backed away, his
face scarlet. His thug buddy snickered. Bat Head regained his composure, glared
at his wingman, and shut him up with one look. Clearly, this little boy was in
charge of the other little boy. He jumped toward Billie and swatted the paper
out of her hand. It floated to the ground in an anti-climactic swish. He poked
his finger near her nose, careful to keep his legs together. “You think that’s
funny, bitch?”

She slapped his hand away.

He backed away, his mouth agape, eyes dazed.

She sat up straighter and leaned toward him. “You reek of
booze. Aren’t you a little young to drink? Is that the best use of your summer
vacation? Maybe you ought to try volunteering or something. Help an old lady
cross the street. I don’t know …” she shrugged. “Read a book.” Her red pen drew
nerdy spectacles on his face and made him buck toothed. She scratched a pocket
protector where a breast pocket should be and filled it with pens. In her head,
he pushed his glasses back up onto his nose and peed his pants.

His eyes clouded and he approached again. “I’m gonna fuck
you up, bitch.” He took hold of her cardigan and yanked her face toward his.
His words slurred together and his balance faltered.

She smirked. “You couldn’t keep it up long enough to fuck
me, punk.”

His eyes twitched. For a second he looked like a puppy
that’d just had its nose smacked by a rolled up newspaper. But that second
passed quickly. He released her cardigan and drew his fist back.

She closed her eyes. The impact hit her cheek and set
fireworks off behind her eyelids. She slumped to the side and her hand flew to
protect her face. He loomed over her, his eyes glinting with anger and smug
pleasure, his hand still balled into a fist.

She patted her cheek and looked at her hand. Blood marred
the tips of her fingers.

“Dude, leave her be, man.” Bat Head’s friend tugged on his
sleeve. “I ain’t going back to juvie for this.” He headed for the exit at the
far end of the car.

Bat Head leered at her. “I don’t know. I think it’ll be
worth it.” He pulled his fist back again.

She pitched sideways and ducked.

His knuckles cracked against the metal frame around the
subway window. He bounced backward and jumped up and down, cradling his fist in
his other hand. “Fuck, you stupid bitch-ass whore.”

Billie tried not to laugh on the outside. She swept her good
leg at his ankle and knocked his feet out from under him. He landed on his ass
again, just like the last time. Billie stood up and loomed over him. “I told
you I don’t need to be rescued.” And she’d never be a victim again.

He scrabbled backwards like a crab on an oily beach. She
drew beady red eyes and little crab antennae. He hit his head against a pole;
used the pole for leverage, stood, and backed away. “You think you’re tough,
bitch?” He curled his fingers at her, dared her to come closer, all the while
edging his way to the door. “Come on, then, let’s see what you got.”

Bright station lights streamed past the windows. Billie
grabbed the railing overhead as the subway screeched to a halt. Bat Head lost
his footing and, once again, his ass found the rubber floor.

“You want to know what I got?” She took a step toward him. “I
got titanium alloy.” Billie brought her prosthesis back and kicked Bat Head
between the legs.

He groaned and grabbed his nuts.

She sneered. “How do you like me now, bitch?” She dug into
her purse and pulled out a red pen. She kneeled beside him, her knee inches
from his groin, and drew circles around each eye while he moaned and called her
names under his breath. She stood and admired the spectacles she’d drawn on his
bully face. “Seriously, dude. Read a book.”

The door opened. Bat Head crab-walked away from her and
bounded to his feet. “You crazy fucking gimp.” He pushed Todd out the door and
they ran down the platform.

Billie dropped into her seat and pulled her purse to her
chest. She shut her eyes, counted to ten and breathed with intent; willed her
heart to shut up and quit screaming in her ears. She might have peed in her
pants a little.

“That was amazing.”

Billie opened her eyes and looked up into the frightened
face of the mother who’d been cowering in the back. “Excuse me?”

“You were awesome. I’m too afraid to say anything. To stand
up to them. I wish I had your strength.” She reached out and touched Billie’s
shoulder. “Thank you.”

Billie clenched her trembling hands into fists and
straightened her spine. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m gonna kill that little bastard.” Bruce dabbed at the
cut on Billie’s cheek with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

Billie loved the dichotomy between his gentle nursing of her
wounds and his rough language and he-man, testosterone-fueled outbursts. “I
don’t think the death sentence is a fair punishment for bullying.” Though she’d
envisioned Bat Head hanging from the rafters by the strings of his Batman
hoodie more than once on the walk to Bruce’s apartment.

She couldn’t face the gym. It was a hard enough day at the
office. Katherine had taken her cold-hearted, don’t-give-a-rats-assedness to a
whole new level. She’d announced that interviews for the new editing post were
delayed until better resumes came in. She stared at Billie with every word that
hissed from her fork-tongued mouth.

Billie just needed some comfort. Some warmth. Damn it, she
wanted Bruce’s protection. And that just pissed her off.

“This isn’t bullying. It’s flat-out assault.” He used a
Q-tip to cover the cut with antibiotic ointment, then applied a Band-Aid.
“There. It shouldn’t leave a scar.”

Not on the outside.

“And if it does,” he wrapped his arms around her and helped
from her perch on the bathroom counter. He kissed the bandage and then her
forehead. “I’ll give him a matching one. Maybe add a few more for good
measure.”

She hugged him, her sore cheek against his chest. The thump
of his heart against the throb of the wound on her face was a healing salve. “I
think I did one better. I kicked the little prick in his, well, in his little
prick.”

“That’s my Billie. Defender of justice. Now in three-D and
surround sound. You’re not just an editor anymore.” He squeezed her, took her
hand, and led her to the living room. He arranged her on the couch with pillows
behind her back.

“I’m not made of porcelain. I’m fine.” She sat up. “But
thank you. For taking care of me.”

“You hardly need me to take care of you. But I sure enjoy
doing it.” He grinned. “I’ll make tea.”

With the heat from the teacup soothing Billie’s nerves,
Bruce read the newspaper to her aloud. They cherry-picked two articles where
justice did not prevail and rewrote the endings.

“How would you edit the ending to your encounter this
morning?” He set the paper aside and slid closer.

Billie shifted, leaned against his shoulder and rested her
head against his cheek. She smirked at the picture of Bat Head’s
red-bespectacled face that popped into her mind. “I’d make him a different
person. Change him into a good kid. I wonder how he got to be such a jerk?”

“Well, maybe it’s his upbringing.”

“He appears to be well off. Expensive shoes, high-end jeans.
It’s like the attitude and the delinquency is all an act.”

“Having money doesn’t make you good. And having rich parents
doesn’t make you well-adjusted. Sometimes it’s just the opposite. Parents who don’t
have time for their kids. Or have all the time in the world, but prefer to
spend it golfing or traveling. You don’t have to be poor to be a criminal.”

Billie nodded. She knew that was true. She’d been poor.
Still was. And she’d never broken the law in her life. Except inside her head.
But until God told her to stop — or the thought police nabbed her — that didn’t
count.

Bruce ran one finger along the exposed skin of Billie’s arm.
“My parents had money. A lot of money. But they were assholes. And look what I
turned into. An asshole. You know, before the metamorphosis into the butterfly
I am now.” He jostled her. “Or maybe I’m just a moth. Because I am drawn to
your flame.” He pulled her into his lap and kissed her.

She reached her arms around his neck and returned his
affection.

He stood and lifted her into his arms in one movement, swift
and agile and precise, like a ballet dancer. A big, lumberjack of a ballet
dancer. He was so strong, he could snap her in half if he chose to. But she
trusted him more than she’d ever trusted anyone. They still barely knew each
other, their relationship just a few milliseconds old in terms of a whole
cosmic day. And yet she wanted to tell him everything. Be with him always.

Maybe she was nuts.

He carried her to the bedroom and laid her gently on his
bed. He began to dismantle the parts of her prosthetic leg; slid down the
sheath and rolled the socks away from her skin. “Tell me if I’m too
presumptuous. If you’re not up for it, or if you just don’t want to.” He
removed the leg and set it on the armchair kitty-corner from the bed.

She sat up, slid her fingers into his belt loops and tugged
him closer. “As long as you don’t stick your thing in my aching cheek, it’s all
good.” She whipped his belt free and tossed it on the floor.

The bed creaked and shifted. Cool air filled the void where
Bruce had been nestled next to Billie’s aching body. She reached for him, her
fingers trailing against his arm. “Don’t get up yet.”

He stood, bent over her, and kissed her forehead. “Sorry,
love. I have an early meeting and need a shower. You stay as long as you need
to.”

“No. I have to go home to change. Just what I need,
Katherine noticing that I’m wearing the same clothes.” She sat up and rubbed
sleep from her eyes.

Bruce opened his closet and flicked hangars with suit
jackets and white shirts aside. “Maybe you should bring a change of clothes
over.”

Above his head, a black case rested on the shelf. The
periphery blurred and the case came into laser focus. “Is that it?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”

She swallowed. “Is that the gun?”

He followed her pointed finger. “Yeah. That’s it. You want
to see?”

Billie nodded.

He brought the case down and rested it on the bed beside
her. His giant thumbs turned the tumblers of the combination lock.

Four. One. Nine. His birthday.

The lock opened with a click. Bruce lifted the lid. Inside,
swaddled within a foam liner cut out to perfectly match its sleek body, lay the
gun. Billie poked at it, prepared for its hot steel to burn her. But it was
cool and icy. “Is it loaded?”

“Never. Except at the range.”