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“I’ll take it from you,” he said. “After I carve the Adam’s apple out of this kid’s throat.”
“Relax,” I said, voice shaky as I sat on the couch, reaching down for my boot, and pulling the knife free, before sending it flying across the room.
“Hey, Cinna,” Joel called, voice shaky, something in his eyes willing me to understand.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man snarled.
“Don’t talk,” I demanded, seeing the knife against his throat, close enough to prick his skin.
“Just be ready,” Joel said, something in his face making my stomach drop.
Just a second before he did.
Joel’s whole body went limp.
And I watched, a cry caught in my throat, as the knife scratched down his neck, a long red streak.
But shallow.
Superficial.
The attacker wasn’t prepared for the movement, and wasn’t ready to grab him tighter, and keep him on his feet.
So Joel went to the floor, scrambling away on all fours as I flew up, charging across the room, grabbing the bastard’s wrist and pinning it to the wall, trying to wrench the knife free.
His hand shot out, grabbing a handful of my hair, yanking back hard enough for me to see stars as the pain shot across my scalp.
“That’s all you got?” I snapped, nails clawing at his hand, prying his fingers loose.
The knife clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Because the next thing I knew, his fist was striking out and landing, making me stumble back.
I had to get a fucking weapon.
He was bigger. Stronger. And being faster wasn’t always enough to win against someone like him.
“Joel,” I called, ducking under the guy’s arm, feeling him catch my wrist. “In the cushion,” I called, yanking my hand free and stumbling back a few steps, just out of reach.
Joel’s hand plunged between the cushions, looking, face blank, until his fingers closed around it. The little round bottle.
My pepper spray.
Well, one of many.
I had bought extras and stashed them around, my paranoia these days knowing no bounds.
Except, of course, it wasn’t actually paranoia when someone was out to get you.
Joel held it up, cocked his arm back, and sent it sailing.
My hand grabbed it.
But so did my attacker’s.
Both of us pulling at it, trying to get control of it.
Somehow, in the struggle, one of us must have worked the safety cap off of it.
