Page 42 of Washed Up
“Didn’t require any genius to work out where you were holed up after your face got splashed around on social media, and the ever-helpful public pointed out that yeah, that missing local lass isn’t really missing at all. She’s just off being a slut for her favourite fucking rock band.”
The women, that night at Blackwater’s. They must have taken pictures of me with the guys.
I twist, attempting to free myself, even at the expense of my hair.
“It’s time to come home, Iris. Mum’s been distraught. You’re going to be a good girl, now, and make her happy. You owe her, after the grief you’ve caused her.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. You fucking arsehole. Let go.” I kick at his legs, twisting and clawing at his arms. “You’re a fucking psycho.”
“And you’re a dirty bitch. How many pricks have you sucked this last week to make sure you had a bed? They ain’t kept you around for your intellect. I’m gonna have to bleach your fucking mouth.”
He starts dragging me away from the car. My feet slide. It’s impossible to maintain any stance on the shifting gravel. I realise he’s pulling me towards the end vehicle, the engine of which is running. His friend Lewis sits behind the wheel, baseball cap pulled low over his brow.
No.
I aim a kick and connect with the back of his leg. It buckles. I lash out at his face when he twists to snarl at me. My nails score his cheek, leaving behind four fat, scarlet stripes. His grip releases. I duck, and his hand sweeps ineffectually over my head. I hop backwards, turn, lurch into a sprint.
I’m not going back. I’m never going back. It took me a while, but I’ve chosen my future and no one, especially not Harrison, is taking that away from me.
Free.
I run for the restaurant. It’s closed at this time of day, but beyond it lies the path towards the studio. The shingle makes each step agony. My feet sink to my ankles.
He’s going to catch me.
I can’t let him catch me.
I’m running, and the past and present collide in my mind. It’s now. It’s a week ago. It’s day. It’s night. Harrison is at my heels.
I reach the restaurant. My legs are jelly. I regret every minute of strenuous activity I’ve engaged in these last few days. I don’t have enough power left. My face is wet. I realise I’m crying. The tears blind me.
I need a weapon.
The chairs are too heavy. There must be something.
Candelabra.
I feel his presence. His hands snatch at the back of my shirt, making my skin crawl as if I’ve ants swarming over me. In frustration, I swing, grunting like a tennis player when the metal connects with his flesh. I hit with everything I’ve damn well got.
Three figures sweep in from the sides, like something from a movie.
I’m no longer alone. Now it’s four against one. Odds I like a whole lot better. The shock on Harrison’s face, right before he hits the deck, is pure comedy. Blood splatters the shingle. Max drags Harrison to his feet again.
Reid’s not done.
“How dare you lay a fucking hand on her?” He boxes. It’s evident in his foot work, in the guard, in the power of his fist as it connects. It explains that physique I’ve explored and admired so much. He whips Harrison with an upper cut then knees him in the face as he folds.
Thai boxer?
Max kicks him in the arse, which shunts Harrison forward so that he lands on his face.
Wynter lifts him by the hair. “I’m going to count to five. At the end of it, you’d better pray you’re halfway across that fucking causeway, or I’m going to feed you to the fucking fishes. One…”
Harrison stumbles on unsteady legs, a hand clasped to his now bleeding nose. There’s salt in the air, that isn’t purely thesea. There’s no way he’ll reach the causeway in time, but I realise that’s the point. Wynter’s just looking for an excuse.
Lewis throws his car into reverse, creating a spray of sand and stones. He meets Harrison, throwing the passenger door open for him to dive inside. He slams the car door, right as Wynter hits five.
No one gives chase.
