Page 35 of Crowbar

My arm throbbed, each pulse sending fresh agony radiating outward. The sling had twisted during the struggle, fabric cutting into my shoulder.

“You’re mine, Spencer. You’ve always been mine. A piece of paper doesn’t change that.” Ken gestured with the gun toward the bed. “Now get up.”

“No.”

“Get. Up.” Each word was punctuated with a jab of the gun barrel.

“I’m not yours.” My voice shook, but I forced the words out anyway. “The restraining order expired, but that doesn’t mean I’m yours. I was never yours. You just convinced me I was.”

Ken’s expression went flat. “Wrong answer.”

Grabbing my good arm, he hauled me off the couch. My feet scrambled for purchase on the hardwood as he dragged me across the room. The bed loomed ahead, and I knew exactly what he planned to do once he got me there.

“No!”

Not again. Never again.

Twisting in his grip, I threw my weight sideways. Ken stumbled but held on. His fingers dug into my bicep hard enough to leave new bruises on top of old ones.

“Let go!” I kicked at his shin. My sneaker connected with bone, and he grunted.

His grip loosened for half a second. That was enough. Ripping my arm free, I shoved both hands against his torso. He stumbled backward and the gun tumbled from his hand, clattering onto the hardwood and skidding toward the bed.

We both lunged for it.

Ken was bigger, faster, but I was closer. Dropping to my knees, I stretched my good arm for the weapon, fingers brushing cold metal. Ken grabbed my ankle and yanked. My chin hit the floor, and pain bloomed across my jaw.

Kicking backward, my heel connected with something soft. Ken swore, and his grip loosened. Scrambling forward, I got my hand around the gun’s grip and rolled onto my back just as Ken dove toward me.

Bringing my elbow up, I drove it straight into his nose. Cartilage crunched. His nose erupted, hot and copper-scented blood rushing from the wound. Ken jerked back with both hands pressed to his face, a string of curses pouring from his mouth.

The gun was heavy in my hand. Heavier than I expected. My finger found the trigger, and I pointed the barrel at Ken’s face.

“Get out.”

Ken lowered his hands. Blood poured from his nose, dripping onto his shirt and turning the fabric dark. His eyes locked onto the gun then lifted to my face. The rage was still there, but now something else lived alongside it. Calculation. Like he was running numbers, figuring odds, deciding if I’d actually pull the trigger.

“You won’t shoot me.” He took a step forward. “You don’t have it in you.”

“Try me.”

Another step. “Put the gun down, Spencer. You’re only making this worse.”

“I said get out!”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? Call the cops?” Ken laughed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll tell them you attacked me. That I came here to talk and you went crazy. Look at my face. Look at what you did.”

The gun trembled in my hand. My arm screamed from holding it up, muscles already exhausted from the fight. Ken saw the weakness and smiled through the blood.

“You broke my nose,” he said, his voice muffled and thick.

“Good.” I got to my feet, keeping the gun pointed at the floor. My hands were shaking so badly the barrel was doing a little dance. “Get out.”

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

“Try me.”

“You don’t even know how to use that thing.” He took another step forward. “Give it to me before you hurt yourself.”