Page 58 of My Girl
“Crave?” one of the men chuckles. He whams the heavy object into my body again. I scream Crave’s name again and again. “Is that some kind of slang word?”
“Crave!” I shout. Desperation fills me. My voice strains: “Crave. Crave,please?—”
A hard object dashes through the air, and the shorter man falls to the ground, blunt force trauma killing him cold. Another object lands near the couch, right by my hands. I scream, closing my eyes.
More motion. More noise. More everything.
I can’t think.
“What the?—”
The tall man swings his rifle toward the noise.
A black leather bondage mask clings to the assailant’s face, the zipper shut. The dark eyes ominous.
“Crave,” I cry.
The tall man shoots. The bullet rings in my ears. Crave launches toward the man—the bullet must have missed him—and whacks the rifle out of his hands. The two of them fight on the ground. I squinch my eyes shut.
Crave is here. He’s saving me.
Will someone hear the gunshots? Are the cops going to come now?
I both plead that the cops come and cross my fingers that they don’t. If the cops come here, Crave will get caught.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want Crave to get caught.
I want to see Crave again.
I want these rifled men to die.
I want to kill them myself.
I want?—
I pull my arms down and realize that my wrists are free. Crave must have cut them free right after he killed the shorter man.
I panic, my eyes frantic. Then I see the man—that tall, brown-haired, muscular man—with his hands around Crave’s neck. Heat boils inside of me—anger, fury, then pure need—replacing that drive for survival. Crave hooks a punch into the man’s gut, and the man lets go, giving Crave his breathing back. With a quick blur of hits, the man is on his hands and knees.
Crave will take care of these men. He doesn’t need my help. I don’t have to do anything.
But I want to do something. Iwantto help. I want?—
The tall man crawls, using the couch as leverage to pull himself up. I growl, the sound so beastly, I almost don’t recognize myself, and Crave kicks the man’s back. The man stumbles into the nearby wall, using it to find his footing.
“Get the fucking gun,” Crave orders, his voice muffled by the zipper. “Kill him, Rae.”
My eyes dart around. The tall man pulls a knife out of his pocket. Raises it up. The man looks from Crave to me and sees his easy shot. Blood seeps from his mouth and a wound on his head. His cheek is swollen like a ripe fruit.
“I’ll kill you first,” the man mutters.
Crave won’t let me die. He’ll protect me. I don’t need to kill this man. He’s so messed up that whether or not I do anything, he’ll die soon.
But god, I want to kill him.
My ankles are still tied to the couch’s feet. I reach for the rifle. “You motherfucker!”
