Page 137 of Collateral Damage
“You Hollywood creeps think you’re better than me?” he screeches. His dirty hands reach for me, and I almost throw my bag at him just to get him away. But his fingers lock around my throat.
He squeezes my windpipe, locking my scream in my chest. I claw at his wrist, kicking like a maniac.
“Shut up, stupid bitch.” He lands a punch to the side of my face, the crack like a gunshot in my ears. My head snaps to the side. White-hot pain blooms from cheek and jaw.
I choke on my sobs, not understanding why this man doesn’t just take my purse and go. He punches me again.
My vision goes white, then black, then clears. I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe. Or maybe it’s because he’s still choking me.
There’s a flash of movement, and Cooper’s rage-filled voice fills the air. “Get away from her!”
The pressure on my neck releases, and I gasp for a much-needed breath. The sound of fists, knuckles against bone, barrels toward me. I blink my tears away, begging my eyes to focus.
“Cooper!” I scream. His fists are bloody, his back arched, his arm a continuous pendulum. I barely see the man on the ground underneath him.
“Stop, Cooper. Please,” I beg, panic gripping my heart. He can’t get caught in a media shitstorm. He can’t beat this man to death.
Cooper’s arm stops mid swing. His chest heaves as he meets my gaze with tortured eyes.
“Let’s get out of here,” I ask, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Please.”
He releases his hold, and the man scrambles away, disappearing into the crowd.
Cooper watches his retreat, darkness shadowing his face. “We need to report that asshole for assault.”
All I want to do is get out of here. People are starting to stare, a few pointing their cellphones our way.
“Please take me home.” I climb to my feet and straighten my dress.
“Are you okay?” a nearby girl asks.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Crazy person attacked me. He’s gone. Be careful out here.”
The girl nods, and her friends look at me with equal parts horror and disgust.
I really need to leave.
Cooper turns me to him, his fingers trailing across my face. I wince. The pain is spreading.
“Fucker,” he growls. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Yeah, you might, but we’re not doing that,” I say firmly. “We’re going home.”
Cooper shakes his head. “You need to see a doctor.”
I want to argue, but when I touch my forehead, my fingers return dripping with blood.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Let’s go.”
He wraps his arm around me, anchoring me away from the chaos.
Fifty-Nine
Sybil
Present - Age 27
The scent of the antiseptic stings my nose, and the thin sheets feel all wrong. My forehead throbs in time with my heartbeat, the pain dulled by the treatment I’ve received over the last few hours.
