Page 3 of The Intruder

I cringe at the way his eyes travel down my body, even though my winter coat and blue jeans leave everything to the imagination. When I reviewed the lease, inside this very cabin, he leaned over me to show me where to sign, his hot breath on my neck. You can only accidentally graze a woman’s breasts so many times before it’s clearly no accident.

I should have ripped up the lease right then and there. But I was desperate for a place to live, and the price was right. It’s not like I have a lot of options in my zero-dollar income bracket.

“No, thank you,” I say as calmly as I can.

The cold tone of my voice does nothing to wipe the lecherous smile off his face. In the seven months I’ve been living here, I have not interacted with Rudy once without him trying to hit on me. Thankfully, I rarely see him. If this cabin weren’t so cheap, I would’ve moved out already.

“Listen…” He looks me over, that hungry grin back on his lips. “If you’re really worried about the roof, you’re more than welcome to stay with me at my house back in town.”

Yeah, right. I don’t want to spend a night with Rudy pawing at me. I would rather get blown away by a hurricane. “I’ll pass.”

“Come on, Casey.” His gaze rakes over me in a way that makes me squirm, even under my thick coat. “I bet you don’t even have supplies to outlast the storm.”

I have plenty of supplies. Even when there isn’t a storm on the horizon, I’ve got a whole pantry packed with canned goods, first aid supplies, gallons of water, dozens of candles, and a flashlight that’s so bright, it would do permanent eye damage if you looked at it head-on. I’m always ready for whatever might happen next.

“I’m prepared,” I say tightly.

“Still.” He stands there rigidly, not fixing my cabin and not fixing to leave either, which bothers me. “You’ll be safer with me. And if the power goes out…” He winks at me. “We can keep each other warm.”

I want to tell him that I’d rather the roof fall on my head, but at this point, I just want him to leave. If he’s not going to fix the roof, he’s just here to annoy me.

“Come on.” He slings his right arm around my shoulders in a way that’s far too familiar for a shitty landlord. “I won’t take no for an answer, Casey.”

Before I went off to college, my father insisted on teaching me some self-defense moves he learned for a class he’d been teaching. He showed me this exact position, and I still remember what he said: If some guy puts his arm around you to get close to you, you can get him off you real easy.

His advice? Instead of pushing away, you turn it around on him.

I swing my left arm over his left shoulder, pushing into him. Then I grab his right forearm with my right hand and twist his arm so that it’s behind him. My next move is to kick at the back of his knee so he falls to the ground with a yelp of pain. The cigarette goes flying.

My father told me that the next thing I should do in this scenario would be to disengage and run away. But where am I supposed to run? This is my house.

So instead, I climb on top of him, keeping his arm forced behind him. I stick my knee into the small of his back so that his face presses into the dirt, and I step up the pressure on his right arm, twisting his rotator cuff.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Casey?” Rudy barks out, probably getting a mouthful of dirt. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

I twist his arm another few millimeters, and this time, he screams.

“You’re going to break my arm!” he cries.

I lean in to his ear so this time he can feel my breath, although it doesn’t stink the way his does. “Don’t you dare touch me ever again. Ever. Do you understand me?”

“Jesus, what are you so uptight about?”

I twist even harder, feeling the tendons strain, threatening to snap. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes!” This time as he yells, his face turns bright red, mud in his stringy hair. “For Christ’s sake, yes! Let me up!”

“And you’ll fix my roof,” I add. “Right after the storm is over, you’re going to come over and fix my roof first thing.” When he doesn’t say anything, I tighten my grip on his arm again. “Right?”

“Right! Anything you say!”

I wait another few beats, my hand holding pressure on his shoulder, his face pressed into the soft earth. I remind myself that if I break his arm, he won’t be able to fix my roof. Also, I just felt a drop of rain. So with a sigh, I get off his back and let him free.

He takes a second to catch his breath before gingerly struggling back to his feet. He glares at me with his watery blue eyes, rubbing his sore shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with you, you crazy bitch?”

I assume that’s a rhetorical question.

“I’ll see you in two days to fix my roof,” I say tightly.