Page 56 of Tainted Tempos

See? It’s just your friend—or husband—checking on you. Making sure you’re safe.

I shoulder my backpack and move toward the exit. Before stepping into the darkness, I clutch my keys, keeping one locked between my fingers. I have a whistle on my key ring, too. And a tiny canister of pepper spray.

You got this. You’re fine.

I step forward, and the automatic doors open. I walk down the path toward the parking lot. My eyes scan the area for potential threats. My ears are primed to pick up the first sound of danger.

My heart kicks behind my breastplate, and nerves coat my stomach’s lining. A pit grows from my abdomen up into my chest.

Someone is out here. Someone is following me.

My skin crawls, and my shoulder blades pinch together.

Footsteps grow closer behind me.

I keep my pace even and measured, my eyes flicking to my car in the lot.

As I get closer, the sound of the footsteps grows nearer.

Icy tentacles wrap around my wrists and ankles, making me feel shackled, and it has nothing to do with the freezing temperatures of the Boston evening.

I exhale, watching the white smoke that billows from my mouth.

I slow down slightly, but the gait behind me continues to approach.

Black dots dance on the periphery of my vision. My chest is drawn tight, so tight, I struggle to suck in a breath. My toes turn numb in my boots. The sound of rushing water clogs my ears.

Bile burns the back of my throat. I brace for impact.

Footsteps, shadows, overhead lights.

Spinning on my heel, I jut my hand forward, the tip of my car key striking at a man. In the next breath, I’m pressing the canister of pepper spray.

My arm flies wildly, the mist of the spray puffing in the night air.

“Argh!” He jumps back. “Motherfucker.” He swats the canister from my hand.

My entire key ring goes flying, my neck arcing to follow its trajectory. It clatters to the pavement, and I snap my face back to the man, my terror skyrocketing.

“Stay away from me!” I holler.

His expression is bewildered as he blinks.

My eyes roam over him, clocking details of his physical appearance.

Dark hair tucked under a gray beanie.

Blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean.

A hunter-green coat.

There’s a space between his two front teeth and a cleft in his chin.

As I catalog his facial attributes, I notice his lips are moving.

His hands are reaching for me.

I should run. I’m supposed to be running.

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