Page 63 of The Woman in the Garage

My attacker recovered first—thanks to my body breaking his fall. He shifted some of his weight to his hands, easing the pressure on my chest.

As his body shifted, though, my breath caught on a silent cry as his knees pinned the backs of my thighs.

All I could think as I felt his hands on my skirt again was:No.

This could not be happening.

I threw an arm out to the side, suddenly incredibly thankful that I hadn’t had the money or time to replace the cheap plastic chairs with their rusty metal legs with the loungers or couches I’d been eyeing. I damn sure wouldn’t have been able to grab a lounge chair and pull it closer, then—as I threw my weight to allow me to twist—use it to whack my attacker.

The blow was true, but there was only a split second before he was grabbing the chair himself.

Who knew what he might do to me when he had it.

Not that I was waiting around to find out.

I scrambled forward across the still tacky floor, and some small part of me was wondering how much blood I was dripping all over the tile I’d just labored over for hours.

That would be a problem to solve if I survived this.

No.

Notif.

When.

I was going to get away, damnit.

I wasn’t going to let this monster win.

I was closing in on the front door when I felt a hand close around one ankle, the grip punishing.

I tried to kick out, but his grip just tightened.

Then my other ankle was snagged.

Just as I was trying to pull, my attacker yanked back hard, making my hands fall out from under me, pulling my body across the floor, erasing the progress I’d made.

But this time, he yanked me over toward the reception desk, away from the chairs and their potential for harm.

The desk itself was a solid wall on the front side. Nothing to grab. No way to hurt him.

And as he wrestled me against it, forcing my face into the space where the desk met the floor, I realized he was limiting my ways to escape. The definition of having your back against the wall. Except, of course, it was my face.

The pressure on my nose caused another flood of tears to escape, blurring my vision.

Hopelessness rooted, sprouted, grew.

Unexpectedly, in that low moment, it wasn’t thoughts of all the awful things that could happen to me that spread across my mind.

No.

It was Santo.

Santo and his gooey eyes and his sweet smile. Santo and the way his hands and lips worshipped over me.

Santo, who was waiting at his house for me with a home-cooked meal.

I wanted that meal, damnit.

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