Page 255 of Love Me in the Dark
He’s gone. Which is good. Again, I’m lying to myself.
No one like him could ever like someone like me. Not only are we from different sides of the tracks, but we’re practically from two separate planets with the distance between our social classes.
I take the long way home.
Mostly to walk off the ghost of that man’s stare. The memory of how still he was. Like he already owned the space around me and didn’t need to say a word to prove it.
God. I hate men like that.
But the worst part about the whole thing is that a bigger part of me than I’ll ever acknowledge actually kind oflikedthat feeling.
I sip my overpriced coffee as the streets get quieter. Shadows stretch longer out here. I pass a burned-out building, a broken lamppost, a bodega with its gate halfway down.
I’m halfway through the block when I hear the footsteps behind me.
Too quick. Too close.
I don’t turn around.
Not yet.
Just slide one hand into my coat pocket and curl my fingers around the mini canister of pepper spray I never leave home without.
The footsteps speed up.
I stop walking.
So does he.
“Cute coat,” a voice says from behind me. Low. Breathless. “Bet it’d look better on the ground.”
I turn slowly, just enough to glance back. The tweaker standing three feet away is wiry, twitchy, holding something small and metallic I don’t bother identifying. Knife. Screwdriver.Doesn’t matter. It’s the weapon he’ll use to get me down and hurt me.
“Wallet. Phone,” he says. “And whatever else you got.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You sure about that?”
He sneers. “You gonna scream?”
I shake my head. “I’m gonna break your kneecap.”
He lunges.
I sidestep, fast, just like my old self-defense teacher drilled into me. The one that gave free lessons at the community center. Back when I was a teenager whoneededthose lessons, not just wanted them. He swipes at my arm. Grazes my sleeve.
I jam the pepper spray toward his face—but a shadow drops in from the side before I can press the trigger.
There’s a grunt. A scuffle. A heavythudas the guy crashes against the brick wall and crumples.
I blink.
And see him.
The man from the other night.
The one I gave the sandwich to.
He’s standing over the would-be mugger, a scrap of wood still clenched in one shaking hand, breathing heavy. His coat’s still torn. Shoes duct-taped. But his eyes?
