“Look at me, look at me. Remember this face.” Then I pull him up, lift his meaty chest right off the ground, and whisper in his ear so Melody can’t hear. “You stay right here. I’m taking the girl to safety, then I’m gonna come back, and I’m gonna kill you. There’s no way out for you, no escape, do you understand? You’re gonna stay right here and prepare to die. If you’re not here when I come back, I’m gonna find you, and I promise I’m gonna take what would have lasted five minutes and drag it out for an entire weekend. So, I want you to promise me you’re gonna wait right here.”
He chokes, says, “I promise.” Blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth. I dump him back on the ground and he curls into a ball like a frightened armadillo.
“Say it again.”
“I promise.”
“Remember this face.”
“I promise.”
I stand above him, let my shadow cast a layer of darkness over him, watch the guy struggle to make sense of what just happened.
I, of course, have no intention of returning. Sasquatch won’t stay, either—but he’ll consider what I said for maybe an hour. Though those sixty minutes are nothing compared to the lifetime of fear women face after being traumatized by these scumbags, at least it was sixty minutes. My family is in the business of keeping people enslaved to their addictions and under the fearful thumb of our power, and while these people return again and again to repeat the same mistakes, the recidivism rate for those who wrong us is near zero.
I brush off my clothes and return to Melody, help her to her feet. As she stands and stabilizes, I realize she was banged up more than I originally thought, see the bloodstains emerging on her dress. Both straps of her sundress are broken and she has to hold the dress to her chest to keep it from falling. She finds her lost sandal, but the heel has broken off and disappeared. She tries to dignify herself, wipes off her dress and adjusts it over her body with one hand.
“You need me to get you to a hospital?”
She forces a smile. “I’ve been in worse condition.” She tries to take a step forward but her ankle buckles as if hers had been the one I disabled.
“C’mere,” I say, as I bend down and pick her up. She throws her arms around my neck and gets a look on her face like she’s afraid she’s going to fall. I start walking us down the alley and her expression changes. I can sense her staring at me as we reach the well-lit end of the passageway.
We turn back onto the main drag. Cars whiz by as I carry her back to the hotel. We have to endure catcalls and other lewd statements from the occupants of passing vehicles. She doesn’t seem to care.
As we enter the hotel lobby, the commentary ends and the staring begins. Melody waves her hand at the desk staff and visitors checking in, offers up, “We just got married.” Everyone starts clapping and whistling like they’re relieved no weird or criminal activity is occurring in this prestigious facility.
An older couple hold the elevator, stare at us the entire ride to our floor. The man comments to Melody, “You know you’re bleeding?”
“He dropped me on the sidewalk,” she says, then whispers, “a nice guy, but a bit of a weakling.”
As we exit the elevator, I let her body slip a little, then fling her over my shoulder. My hand naturally slides to the crevice between her upper thigh and bottom. I hold her legs tightly, press her against my shoulder to keep her secure and steady.
When I get her to my room—balancing her and opening the door is not easy—I walk in, flip on the light, then toss her on the bed like a suitcase. She bounces across the mattress and giggles loudly, goes flying backward—I forgot about the straps of her sundress, for if I’d remembered I would’ve never chucked her like that; her dress rises to the top of her thighs and drops down from her chest, exposes both of her breasts.
She covers herself. Except, not really.
Then, my thoughts, like rounds from a machine gun: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Her smile fades. Actually, it dissolves—into a look that implies she wants to continue. She covers her chest with only her hand, props up a leg that makes her dress