Page 23 of Follow Her Down
“You’ve been jumpy today,” Rick says, standing much too close.
His aftershave is cheap and too strong, like he’s trying to cover something rotten underneath.
“Really?”I mutter, not looking up.
“I’ve been watching you.”His voice drops lower.“The way you keep looking at the door.Waiting for someone?”
I straighten up, clutching the dirty rag.“Just doing my job.”
He smiles like he thinks I’m flirting, but all I’m doing is picturing him dangling from a hook.He steps even closer, so close his breath grazes my cheek.
“You do your makeup like you want attention, but then you act like you don’t know what to do with it,” he says, his small eyes glittering with something ugly.
I grin, too wide, all teeth.“Maybe I just don’t want attention fromyou.”
His face darkens.I try to step past him, but he shifts, blocking my path.His hand touches my waist—low, his pinky grazing the top of my hip.
I freeze, but not out of fear.In calculation.
My blood slows, thick like oil.Everything narrows to this moment, to Rick’s sweaty fingers on my body, to the thrumming questions in my brain: Would James kill him if he knew what Rick is doing?Would he leave something messier for me next time, like Rick’s head?Would he still leave me gifts if I killed Rick myself?
When a woman is traumatized, people expect certain reactions.They expect her to flinch, to cower, to freeze in terror.They don’t expect her to go perfectly still like a predator, measuring the exact force needed to end a threat.
“Careful, Rick.”My voice goes syrup-slow, dripping with sweetness that masks the poison underneath.“Don’t make me clean you off the floor.”
He laughs, but there’s uncertainty in it now.He steps back, his eyes reassessing.
“Jesus, you’re intense,” he says, but there’s less confidence in his leer.“Just being friendly.”
I shoot him a withering look.
Something about me is different today.Even he can sense it, even if he doesn’t understand it.The receipt of James’s gift changed something in my chemistry.I feel more solid, more present in my own skin.More dangerous.
“I’m not here to be your friend,” I say and walk away.
The rest of my shift crawls by.Rick stays on the other side of the store doing inventory while watching me warily.Good.Let him taste a little fear for once.
When my shift finally ends, I step outside into the cool night air.The parking lot is empty except for my car and Rick’s pickup truck.I scan the streetlights, the shadows between buildings, the sheriff’s department next door.
No James.
I get in my car, then I turn back to look at the gas station window.Rick is visible inside, counting the register, alone and vulnerable.
The weight of the knife in my boot suddenly feels significant, as does the gun in my purse.I bought the knife for protection shortly after my attack, and I’ve had the gun for years (though I left it at home that one single night), but I’ve never used either.Not yet.
If James was watching me, he must’ve seen everything.
The thought slides into my mind like a blade between ribs.James may have seen Rick touch me.He may be planning something already.Some punishment, some gift wrapped in black velvet.
Or maybe he’s not watching at all.Maybe today’s gift wasn’t from him, but from someone else.
I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, my mind a whirlpool of possibilities.As I pass the gas station windows one last time, I make eye contact with Rick.He looks away first.
If James is not watching, I can show Rick myself what happens when men don’t behave.I can leave my own messages, create my own punishments.
After all,hetaught me that pain can be delivered with a smile, and I’ve been an excellent student.
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