Page 97 of Coach
I would bet good money that my meat tenderizer, my rolling pin, and my large pepper grinder were all also missing. Hell, probably even my pots and pans.
But this was a house under constant renovation. I had tools everywhere. Some of them not even sitting out where he could easily find them to stash them somewhere.
I’d been trying to fix a lower cabinet near the sink. But Trix had interrupted me by bringing one of her stuffies over to play with. I’d left the screwdriver there. And since I had a dozen others, I’d never needed to go back for it.
The problem?
My attacker was now standing between me and the sink. To get the screwdriver, I would have to do the unthinkable: I’d have to move closer to him.
If I wanted to use it, though, I’d have to be close enough to slam it into some part of him.
My lungs squeezed tighter, my heartbeat thundering in my ears as I flew forward.
I dropped low when I got close, yanking open the cabinet, and feeling around inside.
A hand shot down, fingers clawing at my hair, grabbing a handful of it, and yanking hard enough back to make tears flood my eyes.
The pain was sharp and all across my scalp. Every nerve ending was begging me to lift up, to ease the sting.
But I had to fight against that; I had to pull harder, stretch further away.
My hand met some mystery fluid, making me note that if or when I got out of this situation, I needed to check that out.
And then, finally, finally, my fingers found the hard plastic handle of the ancient screwdriver.
I tightened my fist around it, brandishing it like a knife, then whipped around, and swung in the dark.
For one stomach-dropping second, I thought I’d struck into nothing but thin air.
But then the tip of the screwdriver met resistance.
My stomach lurched.
I bit back bile as I forced my hand to press in harder, deeper, even as a yowl of pain escaped my attacker, as he released my hair.
Free, I let the handle of the screwdriver go, then scrambled on all fours two feet away, four.
But just as I was pressing down to push myself to my feet, there was an exploding pain across my back as my attacker kicked me hard enough to send me flying forward with no hopes of breaking my fall.
My face cracked against the hard floor, making sparks flash behind my eyelids as the shock of impact became a throbbing pain across my cheek and up through my temple.
With each breath I sucked in, though, the pain throbbed deeper until it felt like it was an icepick to my brain itself.
I fought back a wave of nausea and pushed up to crawl forward.
But the hand was in my hair again, tugging viciously back. White-hot pinpricks of pain tracked across my head as he pulled harder and harder, dragging me up onto my knees, then my feet.
Tears flooded my cheeks even as the sudden position change had my head spinning.
That was a concussion, wasn’t it?
Not that it mattered.
Because his arm wrapped around my center, pressing hard enough to make my ribs scream, wringing any remaining air from my lungs.
It wasn’t good enough for him, though.
His arm cinched tighter, grinding bone against bone until every shallow breath scraped like broken glass in my chest.
