Page 30 of Spooked

Really? That was nice of him, but Alfie had told me not to talk to strangers outside bars. I distinctly remembered him saying that one night in Boston, right after I talked to a stranger outside a bar. I stumbled over a bump in the sidewalk, and my new friend caught me. Wow, I’d almost ended up on my ass.

“Easy, babe.”

His arm wrapped around my waist, and I wasn’t sure I liked that. Being touched in that manner. I tried to push his hand away, but he gripped me tighter.

“I just don’t want you to fall, babe. Look, my car’s right here. I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.”

Everything was dark. So dark. The old station wagon, the quiet street, the man’s eyes. Eyes that weren’t so friendly anymore. I didn’t want to go with him, but he opened the rear door and tried to push me inside. This…this was bad. Very bad. I grabbed the edge of the door and hung on as he unpeeled my fingers, and this was why Alfie had warned me, wasn’t it?

“No, no, no. Get off me!”

“It’s okay, babe.”

It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. I tried to kick him, but my shoes were gone and he just laughed a creepy laugh that made me shudder.

Then he groaned.

And disappeared.

Wait.

Where did he go?

A sickeningthudwas followed by thecrackof glass as somebody slammed him against the car, again, again, again, eachcrunchpunctuated with angry words.

“She said no.”

Crunch.

Another groan.

“And she meant it.”

Crunch.

“She’s mine.”

Crunch.

Someone began whimpering. Was that sound coming from my throat? Or the stranger’s?

“Nobody touches her but me, do you understand?”

Crunch.

More whimpering, and the rustle of clothing.

“I have your driver’s licence, and by morning, I’ll know everything about you.”

Crunch.

“If you try this shit with any other lady, I’ll find you, and I’ll break every fucking bone in your body. Have I made myself clear?”

“Y-y-yes.”

The whimpering turned to full-on sobbing, and the man’s limp form slithered to the ground beside me, blood trickling from his broken nose. He’d need to get that reset. Maybe he’d even need surgery, and then there was a risk of septal haematoma or a deviated— I leaned forward and puked again, this time onto distinctive black laceless Oxfords. And through my alcohol-induced stupor and hazy memories of medical school, one thing became startlingly clear.

I knew those shoes.

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