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And the next thing I knew, one of us—or both of us—were pressing against the top, and the spray was shooting out.
There was no way to dodge it.
The spritz was just cold at first.
Until the burn set in.
“Fuck,” I hissed, stumbling back, eyes on fire, making it impossible to see, so I kept stumbling back, trying to get away from a man who had a major advantage now that my own fucking weapon was being used against me.
Disoriented, I was confused when my back slammed into something waist height.
My kitchen counter.
Kitchen.
I didn’t own a single pot or pan.
Not a spatula or soup ladle.
But I did have knives.
Frantically trying to blink at the sting in my eyes, I fumbled along my counter, trying to orient myself.
Until I came across the long, low drawer.
I grabbed at it, yanking it open, misjudging its placement, and hitting my hip in the process.
My hand plunged in, grabbing at silverware until, finally, I felt the thick handle of my biggest knife.
“Right in front of you!” Joel called as I pulled the knife out, holding it close to my body, so my attacker couldn’t wrench it from me until I was sure of where to strike.
I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to see anyway, but hoping it would help the pain.
Which put me relying completely on my other senses.
I felt the air move just a second before a hand closed around my throat.
Panic soared, but I tamped it down.
This was good.
He was close.
I could feel most of him against me.
Which gave me a good target.
I shifted my hand on the handle, tightened my grip, and plunged.
It was a low blow, down by his hip because I didn’t want to risk hitting him somewhere that would allow him to stop me.
It took more force than most people would imagine to stab a knife into someone. More than superficially anyway. And I was trying to do damage.
“Fuck,” he growled, releasing my throat as he stumbled back.
I yanked on the handle, feeling the tension as his muscle and fat tried to hold onto it.
As soon as it was out, I slammed forward again.
