Page 65 of Forbidden Heroes

“We have a problem here, sweet thing?”

I look from his hand on my shoulder to his face. What is it with creeps and nicknames? I am growing tired of all the pet names and want to drive my knee into the next person who thinks of something else to call me beside my name.

Slim as my chances are, I might be able to beat my landlord to the stairs given his bulging belly would hold him back from moving fast, but no way I can outrun the new guy. His sausage fingers tighten into the flesh of my shoulder like a viper.

“Nothing that concerns you,” I bite out and shake his hand off.

Apparently, that is a wrong move on my part and rejection is a soft spot for him. Or, he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed and I am the first unlucky person to encounter his lack of humor for the day.

A swift backhand slams into my face, catching me high on the cheekbone and sending a ripple of shock through me that makes me gasp.

Fight back and lose or bide my time? The answer is a no brainer. The last thing I need is for the bear to my right to sling me over his shoulder and haul me into his apartment.

With shaky fingers, I dig into my purse for my wallet and pull out everything I earned this last night in tips. “I have one-fifty on me. Take it or leave it. That should buy me a week to get the rest.”

“Just pay me my money and we’re all good.” My landlord holds his hand out like more bills will magically appear.

“Or I can think of a better way you can pay your debt. What you owe him comes to me anyway.”

I see. Well, someone didn’t miss a beat, did they?

Lucky for me, neither did I.

My neighbor’s hand is back on my shoulder and this time he’s stepping in to wind his arm around my waist.

Not today, Satan. Or any day.

Since dying today would suck balls, I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and strike. “You both can fuck off and go use your hand to jack off with, because you’re not getting anywhere near me. EVER!” I might not be strong enough to take two men on even if one resembles a tub of lard, but I won’t be touched. I refuse and will do my best Chuck Norris impersonation and bloody whatever body part I can reach in the process.

One good elbow in the ribs catches douche number one by surprise, and I make my move before the toad of a man to my left can get his greasy hands on me. I toss the money on the floor, hoping that will trip him up, and hit the stairs running to the sound of cackling. “You come back you better have all my money, sweet tits.”

I don’t answer. I’m already in my car trying to shove the keys into the ignition, but my trembling fingers don’t want to work. It takes three more tries before I finally manage to get the car going.

Somehow I make it to the school parking lot without running off the road from all the tears.

I make a quick stop in the bathroom and splash water on my face and touch up my makeup, giving myself time to catch my breath.

Puffy-eyed and visually shaken, I know I can’t approach the school tuition board like this, but I don’t have much time. The committee breaks at noon on Fridays and if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my chance at requesting an extension one more time. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time.

I shove my disastrous morning into a tight-lidded mental black box to deal with later and take a steadying, deep breath. Then another.

One problem at a time. Silver linings. Silver linings, I chant. “I can do this,” I tell myself, trying for a handle on my crazy mess of a mind.

I pull my phone from my purse and shoot a text off to the manager of Insomnia before I push out the bathroom door and head down the hall toward the committee board room, hoping I can convince the secretary to squeeze me in before the cutoff time.

The halls are oddly empty given the time of day, but hey, maybe that’s a good thing. Less people means the scales will tip in my favor. Maybe there won’t be anyone ahead of me and I can slip in and pitch my case to the board.

I pause outside the doors that lead to either the dean’s office if I hook a hard left or the admissions committee to the right.

There’s a reflective vase on a long table at my back, and I take stock of my appearance one more time. I smooth out the wrinkles in my blouse and straighten my hair. It’s pulled over one shoulder in soft, falling waves. Its dark color pairs well with the bright pink lipstick I’ve picked out to match my purse and wedges. A couple of brush strokes worth of mascara and a little powder is all I had time for today. Hopefully it will do. Some of the people behind those doors are as tight and stuck up about appearance as they are about grades and oh yeah, receiving tuition on time. Maybe my soft, SoCal look will help ease my way in this time. I can only hope.

I push through the doors and instead of finding a smiling receptionist behind the desk to field my concerns, I find nothing. Nada. Not a soul that I can see, but the overheads are on and a lamp in the corner throws a soft glow over the half-empty coffeepot telling me another story.

The shriek of my “Livin’ On a Prayer” ringtone peels out through the silence and I hit answer just as quickly. Startled by the sudden noise, I swipe before looking. “Ms. Carter, thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Hey, baby girl, sorry to disappoint—it's me.”

Expecting my boss’s soft feminine tone and not getting it, I freeze in place when a familiar dry, raspy voice comes through instead. There’s not much that can make my blood turn cold, but the sound of my father’s voice puts ice cubes in my veins.

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