“Answer me, Ashley Cox. Want to pla-a-a-a-ay?”
Cringing at those familiar words, she closed her eyes, speechless. Hopeless.
Until Tripp’s words came back to her. ‘When faced with imminent attack, act fast and decisively. Go in fast, hit hard. Never let them see you coming.’
But I’m scared and he’s got a knife.
‘Eyes, nose, throat, balls…’
And you were supposed to teach me how to shoot.
‘Eyes, nose, throat, balls…’
Ashley glanced sideways at the monster in her home. The trench coat made this creep look professional and mysterious, the knife made him look evil. But he was still short. Average weight. Average build. Not anything like Tripp or Jameson or his boss. His trench coat was stained and dirty. The hems of his jeans were ragged. His pea-green running shoes were muddy, the laces frayed and dirty. His gray eyes weren’t as scary as they’d been the first time she’d seen him. He was nothing special. He was ordinary.
‘Fight for keeps, Ashley. Fight to kill. Gouge your attacker’s eyes, punch the heel of your palm into his nose, or make a good, hard fist and punch his fuckin’ throat. Knee his balls, kick, scream, whatever you have to do to stay alive. Just do something.’
Fudge. Okay. Deep breath. Tripp wasn’t there, but Ashley was beginning to think she might just stand a chance. That she could live through this attack.
‘Might does not make right. Men who assault women are generally bullies and cowards. They’re weak. They think because they might be physically bigger and male, that women are easy targets. Now you know better. If you ever find yourself up against some jerk... Surprise the hell out of him and prove that son of a bitch wrong.’ Those were Zack’s words in her head now. Tripp’s friends sure wanted her to live. They made defending herself sound doable. But she’d never hit anyone before in her life. Ever. Could she really keep this monster from hurting her?
The jolt came out of the blue. She wanted to live. This guy intended for her to die. To borrow Tripp’s salty vernacular… No, fuckin’ way.
Ashley might not be able to keep this guy from hurting her, but this time, she could hurt him back.
Still facing Peewee, she curled her fingers around the apple wood perch she’d intended to put in his cage the next time she cleaned it. Terry Chandler had brought several hefty branches to work the last time he’d trimmed his trees, after she’d told him how cockatoos were voracious wood-chewers. Most extra branches were stored in her spare bedroom. He’d given her enough applewood to last Peewee a couple years, and he’d trimmed them all to the perfect length. Applewood took Peewee longer to chew. It was a hardwood. The would-be perch was dense and smooth. It felt really good in her hand.
She clasped it against her chest. Her heart was still climbing up her throat, but her grip was solid, and she meant to fight back, even if it killed her.
“Game time,” the creep who thought she was still a timid little waif said. “Get your ass over here.”
Even his voice was nothing special. More whiny than masculine. A pitch too high to be dominant. Nothing like Tripp’s gruff baritone or his boss’s husky bass. Ashley closed her eyes, shaking with fear. This jerk wanted to play? She was ready.
Ashley faced the creep with Peewee’s perch in her sweaty hands, her heart a flock of scared hummingbirds fluttering up her throat. “Who are you?”
His face wrinkled into a snarl. “Your worst nightmare.”
How cliché? This girly guy wasn’t much bigger than she was. She could take him. So what if he had a sharp knife? She had a perch that she’d turned into a club, and it was longer.
Ashley raised it over her right shoulder and charged. She screamed like a banshee. Peewee screeched along with her. The jerk turned sideways. Good move. She bashed the bat into the side of his skull. His cheek shifted over his teeth like a loose rug in the wind. Spittle flew out of his mouth. Was that a tooth? Man, she hoped so.
“I’ll kill you for that!” he bellowed.
“Get out of my home!” She hit him again on the upswing. That blow wasn’t as strong. It landed too high on his shoulder.
“Why you fuckin’ bitch!”
She battered up again, her club cocked like a baseball bat over her shoulder. But she’d gotten in too close. If she’d had more room to swing, she could’ve knocked his head off. Instead, his fist snaked out and hit her chest. Dead center. He knocked the wind out of her.
Ashley stumbled, shocked at the pain sucking her breath away. Black shadows danced at her peripheral. She’d landed on one knee. He was still a man and bigger; she was still learning how to fight. He came at her with his knife raised next.
She stuck her club into the carpet and used it like a walking stick, needing to get back on her feet.
He kicked it aside and shoved her to her back.
Fighting for her life, Ashley rolled to her side and wrapped her hand around the perch, not that she could swing it. But not letting it go, either. This was war, darn it!
He was on her, weighing her down and straddling her hips. His hands on her neck, choking her, his thumbs digging into her throat.
Ashley wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d set his knife down to strangle her. With one hand still on the club, she slapped her other palm to the floor, needing to locate his knife before he did. Needing with all her heart to stab this creep in the eye!
Hissing, he cocked an arm back and slapped her. The force of that hit knocked her head to the side. Fudge, that hurt! She lost her club.
