Goody One Shoe (21 page)

BILLIE ROLLED THE SCROLL
wheel
on her mouse and read line after line of garbage on the screen. How did these
people get past the slush pile? She had no appetite for proofing, each spelling
misstep, each rule of grammar murdered on the page like a bite of liver
dripping with ketchup and onions when she was nine. Cover that shit up with all
the metaphors and adjectives you want, she still couldn’t choke it down.

“Fucking crap,” she mumbled. She smiled. Gold Tooth was
right. Saying it out loud didn’t bite. She bit a section of apple in two.

The ring of her phone, shrill and intense, startled her. Her
hand jerked and tightened against the mouse’s body. In one movement she’d
highlighted and deleted most of one shitty paragraph. The literary world should
thank her.

She eyed the call display, not in the mood for Katherine, or
for cold calls from office supply companies that dial every number until they
find the one dolt in the building willing to commit to buying toner at criminal
markups. Her brows arched. It was Debra, executive assistant to the
editor-in-chief.

Billie lunged for the receiver, dropped it on her desk with
a clatter, snatched it up, and put it to her ear. She swore a blue streak in
her head, but her mouth said, “Good morning, Debra, Billie here. What can I do
for you?”

“Hello, Billie. We’re letting everyone know the result of
the interviews. We’ve shrunk the candidates down to a short-list.”

Billie swallowed and closed her eyes. Next was the easy let
down.

“Can you come for a follow-up interview on Tuesday at ten?”

Billie squeezed her closed lids more closed and hit the
rewind button. Follow-up interview. Tuesday. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.” She
opened her eyes and glanced around the office. Jeffrey had rolled his chair
into the aisle.

She gave him a thumbs up.

He flashed both of his thumbs up and grinned like a lunatic.

“Tenth floor, in Ms. Armbruster’s office.”

“I’ll be there.” Billie knew all too well where the
editor-in-chief’s office was. “Thank you so much, Debra.” She eased the
receiver back on its cradle and stared at it for a few seconds.

“You’re in, right? I told you!” Jeffrey put his hands on her
shoulders and gave her a playful shake. “Tonight. Shopping. You and me. Girl,
I’m going to deck you out.”

Billie laughed. “I’m in. But not tonight, tomorrow. Tonight
is date night.”

Jeffrey pouted. “Aren’t you living with him or something?
Isn’t every night date night?”

“Not living. We just stay over once in a while.” Like, every
night for almost two weeks. But it didn’t matter. Date night was sacred.

Billie flung the glass doors of the office building open and
freed herself from its crumbling cocoon. She skipped down the marble steps and
strode toward the subway, her eyes making contact with every face, offering
each passerby who dared to share her zest for life a sharp nod and a heartfelt
“good afternoon.” Not that there were many of them.

The business end of downtown cleared out early on Fridays,
and she’d chosen to work late, clean up some of the backlog of proofreading,
and meet up with Bruce directly from work. The sun slipped behind the tall
buildings on its descent into nighttime. The towers cast the sidewalk into
eerie shadow. Billie shivered at the evening chill.

A breeze caught her hair and tossed it about. A wave of
tresses flew in front of her face. She pushed it aside and tucked it behind her
ear. A month ago, she’d have captured it, tethered it to the base of her skull
with an elastic band, and wrapped it tightly in a bun. Heck, she’d have never
allowed it loose to begin with.

She fluffed it with both hands and let it fly free, let the
wind have its way with her hair and twist it into knots.

A man jostled her from behind and rushed on past, his suit
jacket open and flapping in the wind. A bike courier, his basket empty of
deliveries, nearly ran her down, his eyes averted. Did no one want to share her
good vibrations?

Her path crossed in front of an alley. She made eye contact
with a young man in the shadows, leaning against the brick building.

He pushed away from the building and stepped from the
anonymity of the alley. He held his arms out, both hands pointing at his
crotch. “Hey momma, you want a piece of this? ‘Cause I’m gonna get me some of
that.” He gestured at her chest with one hand and assaulted her with his eyes.

The bandana, the neck tattoos, the swagger. She’d recognized
him immediately. But he didn’t seem to have a clue who she was.

He blocked her path, looked up the sidewalk past her then
over his shoulder. “Come on, baby.” He grabbed her around her waist and pulled
her into his body, his other hand in his pocket. “Don’t scream and don’t try to
run or I’ll shoot you, bitch.” The stench of whisky rolled from his mouth, his
hoodie stunk of sweet, acrid smoke. His pocket bulged with what could be a gun.

Or probably just his pointed finger, the little faker.

He pulled her into the alley and she let him do it. He
dragged her behind a Dumpster and she didn’t resist. Adrenaline pumped through
her body, her hands trembling. Not in fear. In anticipation. This was no fugue
incident. This was real life. And she was ready for it.

She elbowed him in the ribs and ripped herself free of his
grip. “Get your hands off me.” She dug her hand into her open purse. Her
fingers found her can of pepper spray.

The boy pointed at her and laughed. “Shit, maybe you’re too
dumb to fuck.”

She glanced down. Her prosthetic foot rested in the gutter
that ran down the middle of the lane. Mucky water dripped into her snakeskin
flat. Filth wicked up her pant leg. She raised her eyes to meet his. “What’s
the matter, Bat Head? You not man enough?”

He cocked his head. “Bat Head?”

“Yeah. Bat Head. You don’t have what it takes, do you? Can’t
get it up for the gimpy chick?” She shook the swill from her foot and took a
step toward him.

He took two steps backward. “No fucking way.” He rubbed his
eyes.

Billie advanced. “I hear you’ve graduated from bullying
innocent bystanders on the subway to actual crime. Theft. Drugs.” She raised
one hand and pushed on his chest with her fingertips. “Rape.”

He tripped on a crate that had fallen from a pile of wood
stacked against the brick building. He landed on his ass and scrambled to his
feet. “It can’t be you.”

“Can’t be who?”

“You. Gimpy chick. Shit, look at you. You’re hot.” He
smirked. “But if it is you, then this is my lucky day.” He shoved his hand in
his pocket. “You owe me, bitch.”

“I owe you?” She laughed. “What do I owe you, you thug?
Comeuppance? Another kick in the pants? Retribution perhaps?”

He pulled a knife from his pocket and launched the blade.
“Then maybe I owe you.” He lunged at her.

She jumped sideways. His knife sliced the air, his body
bolted forward. She caught the seat of his pants with the toe of her wet foot
and shoved him to the ground, face first. He rolled onto his back and jumped to
his feet. “You crazy bitch. I’m done playing with you.”

He raced toward her and grabbed her hair. He pulled her head
back, shoved his face into hers, and pinned her arms. “You’re mine now.” He
pushed her to the ground. She landed on her knees and dropped her purse. At the
sound of his zipper coming down, she spun around and shot pepper spray at his
face.

He swore and swiped his face, his cheeks red from pepper,
one eye watery.

She’d been too far away.

He covered one eye with one hand and held the knife out with
the other. “Shit, I’m gonna cut you, whore.”

She focused on the glinting blade and froze. Wet garbage, filthy
asphalt, tall buildings closed in on her. She shut her eyes and shook her head.
No. This was not 1993. She was not a helpless little girl.

She bounced to her feet, stood in fighting stance, her good
leg in front, prosthesis behind, her fists raised and ready, the pepper spray
still in her firm grasp.

He dropped his arms to his sides. “Seriously? You think you
can take me?” He shook his head and pounced.

She weaved left, planted her good leg and brought her
prosthetic foot to his groin.

He stopped mid-attack, like a DVD on pause. He fell to his
knees and grabbed his crotch. His knife skittered across the pavement and came
to rest in the gutter a few yards away.

Billie bent over him. “Yeah, I think I can.” She shot pepper
directly into his face.

He screamed, his hands flew to his face.

Her head ping-ponged, her gaze cutting from his face to the
knife that rested a few feet behind her and back. Her fingers itched to snatch
it up. To slice him into ribbons, to feel his hot blood against her skin. To
make him truly pay for his vile crimes. There had to be more victims than the
reporters knew about. He was ripe to reoffend. Hell, he was probably a serial
killer in the making.

He swept one leg up and kicked her in the stomach. The air
left her and she stumbled backwards, landing hard on the alley floor.

Bat Head scurried toward her and pinned her to the ground.

She stared up into his swollen eyes, blazing with hatred and
oozing tears. She spat at him.

“Oh, that’s it, you fucking bitch. Now you’re going to know
what being a whore feels like.” He backhanded her across the face.

Her head snapped to one side. Her mouth filled with liquid
metal and rage.

“Get off me, you fucking little bastard.” She jerked her
body and tried to buck him off.

He laid one forearm across her chest. “I’m done talking,
skank.” He ripped her blouse open with his other hand.

She grabbed at the sleeves of his hoodie, squirmed beneath
him and struggled to breathe, unable to scream.

He fumbled with his pants, undid the button of hers and
tried to yank them down. “Fuck, why you bitches gotta wear skin-tight jeans?”

Billie got one knee up, planted her heel and pushed. She
scooted back a foot.

He scrabbled along the payment with her and took her by both
shoulders. He lifted her upper body until their noses were so close she could
hear his inhale whistle through snot. “Stop moving,” he said, his voice a low
growl, “or I’ll bash your pretty head in.” He pushed her.

Her shoulders and head hit the pavement. Her right arm
flopped to the side. Something cut into her elbow.

Bat Head shoved one hand in her bra and squeezed her breast,
his other hand grabbed at her pants and tried to rip them from her body. His
waistband was around his thighs, his erection tenting his loose boxers.

She’d figured he’d have Batman briefs.

She scanned the ground, her eyes wild, her heart about to
explode. That’d show him. She’d die during the commission of his crime. That
was first-degree murder.

No, God damn it, that was not the way she and Bruce had
written it. The little prick had to go to jail with not one more victim. But
maybe it was too late for that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the knife. She cut
her eyes to him. He was all wrapped up in the difficult task of stripping tight
jeans from a woman who wouldn’t quit kicking and bucking. He had them down far
enough that she could see most of her white cotton underpants. And he could see
them too, his thug eyes on her private underthings. His grimy, disgusting hands
on her flesh, touching things he had no right to.

She shook her head.

No. Fucking. Way.

She scooted the blade closer with her elbow until it was
close enough to grab.

Bat Head curled his fingertips around the elastic of her
panties and smirked. He looked into her eyes and yanked on them.

She thrust the blade into his belly and held her breath. It
slid in easier than a steak knife through tenderloin.

His face twisted and contorted. His boxer bulge deflated on
impact. He squeaked something unintelligible.

Billie pushed him off of her and rolled away. She crawled a
few feet, filth and rocks and broken glass digging into her palms, until she
bounded to her feet. She ran to the alley entrance, the knife still gripped in
her hand. At the sidewalk, she screamed for help.

The street was empty except for a lone woman exiting
Billie’s office building. The woman ran to Billie, stiletto heels clacking
against the cement. “Oh my God, Wilhelmina?”

Billie looked up into the confused face of Katherine. “Call
the police.”

Katherine dug in her purse and pulled out her iPhone. “I
need cops and an ambulance at Seven-fifteen Fourth Avenue. The alley entrance
on the east side.” She squatted in front of Billie and examined her. “Assault,”
she said into the phone. She pulled what was left of Billie’s blouse over her
partially exposed breast. “Make that rape.”

Katherine tossed her phone into her bag, took off her silk
blazer, probably Holt Renfrew, and draped it around Billie’s shoulders.