Chapter 19
nineteen
brENNA
It’s the moments of distraction that get you.
I’m seriously freaking distracted as I walk the six blocks to Logan and Emily’s.
It’s the best kind of distraction: my head is filled with thoughts of Mac.
Even though our first meeting was a little rough, introducing me to his daughter is a huge step.
It’s even better because it feels like Naomi and I could actually be friends.
We spoke last night, and I took her on a virtual tour of my shop this morning while I was setting up.
When she’s not running on the treadmill, Naomi’s funny and chill to talk to.
It’s an awesome display of Mac’s trust that he’s introduced me to her when we’re still so new, but it’s not the only one.
He keeps fitting his life to mine in ways I never imagined I’d want.
I don’t just want them; I need them.
I’m strolling, casually batting at the flyers on a plywood construction wall closing off a brick building three blocks from my place that’s been under renovation for-fucking-ever, while I think about Mac and let the warm feeling spread all through me.
I’m not in a hurry. Although she was an absolute trooper, several hours of pain finally got on top of the lady I’ve been working on all morning and she tapped out a half-hour early.
I’ve got plenty of time to get to Logan’s townhouse before our late lunch.
The day’s cool but not cold. There’s no bite in the air yet, but there is a hint of woodsmoke among the usual city smells of asphalt, exhaust fumes, and garbage.
I have no idea where woodsmoke comes from, here in the concrete jungle; it’s one of those idiosyncrasies of living in the City.
Ahead of me, two-story scaffolding scales the building under construction and overhangs the sidewalk.
I step towards the street to go around it out of habit, smiling a little to myself at the memory of Bebe J’s superstition about walking under a ladder, when a man appears in the shadows of the scaffolding.
I startle and give myself a shake. I know better than to daydream when I’m walking in the City.
Yes, it’s the middle of the afternoon and I should be safe enough, but assholes don’t really care what time it is.
I didn’t see him and I should have. I take another step towards the street to give him space to pass me on the sidewalk.
Two more men appear in the overhang of the scaffolding. As I get closer, I realize why I didn’t see them: they’re wearing black sweats and as they move towards me, they’re pulling ski masks down over their faces.
This is not good.
I back up to get the stupid construction wall behind me.
A hard hit will break the damn thing, but it’s better than having one of them flank me.
I don’t see any weapons, but they could have anything tucked into their sweats.
I’m not waiting to find out. I shrug off my leather jacket, which is too tight to fight in and let it drop to the ground.
I don’t carry any weapons, not even a can of pepper spray, because I know from experience how easy it is to have a weapon turned against you, but, man, I’m missing my Smasher right about now.
I shake myself. I have my hands and my feet and several years of training.
Thanking the Benevolence that I’m wearing my Docs instead of heels, I bounce on my toes before I settle into a fighting stance, guard high, weight on my back foot.
“Time to put you outta business, bitch,” Black Mask One says. He takes a step forward, pulling his right fist back to swing at me. He lets his other arm dangle at his side, and I wish for a fleeting second that I had Kru’s pool noodle to whap him on the nose for not keeping his guard up.
Instead, I hit him with a left jab that lands solidly in his eye, which I feel squelch against my knuckles, and follow it up with front kick straight between his legs. I’m not sparring with these fuckers. I’m putting them on the ground so I can run the fuck away.
Black Mask One drops to his knees, clutching his junk, with a scream that would do a Belieber proud.
I take several deep breaths to pump my brain and muscles full of oxygen, and on an exhale scream “Help!” as loud as I can.
I don’t actually care if anyone hears me, because I’m not sticking around.
The streets are quiet this time of day. There’s no one else on this block and even if there were, this city isn’t the kind of place you wait for a rescue.
Native New Yorkers don’t like to get involved.
But I figure screaming might startle Black Mask Two and Three, and it does.
Black Mask Two stumbles to a stop, looking torn between coming at me and helping his buddy on the ground. Black Mask Three recovers faster and pulls what looks like a flashlight out of his pocket. Then he snaps it open and I realize it’s a baton.
I do not want to be hit with that thing.
It could easily break a bone. I dance back, staying out of range, and shift my weight back and forth to loosen up my hip.
Kicking him keeps my body better out of range than a punch.
The asshole feints right and left, swishing his baton around like it’s a sword and he’s a fucking Musketeer, but he doesn’t actually raise it to hit me.
While he’s screwing around, I line up and the next time he pretends to zig when he’s actually zagging, I go in at his stomach with my right knee and when he hunches forward to protect his gut, snap a roundhouse kick to the side of his head.
His ski mask goes flying into the gutter and he goes down in a spray of blood out of his ear, with a thud that rattles my damn teeth. I hope it breaks a few of his.
Black Mask Three collapsing seems to galvanize Black Mask Two. He screams “Bitch!” and charges me.
I dance back to stay out of range of his flailing fists. As he windmills at me, I see the tattoo on his knuckles.
“Hi, Kevin,” I hiss at him. “Wanna talk to the manager?”
“Bitch!”
Very limited vocabulary these dickheads have.
He keeps swinging at me and I keep dancing back along the construction wall.
He probably weighs about what I do, and he clearly doesn’t have any training, but if he lands one of these wild punches, he can still hurt me.
I also really don’t want to hit him bare-knuckled if I can avoid it.
Without tape and gloves, hitting him hard enough to put him down is going to hurt like hell.
I’m already feeling it in my left hand from that punch to Black Mask One’s eye and that was a comparatively soft target. I need my damn hands.
I kick at him, hoping to sweep his knee like I kept sweeping Mac’s, but Skinhead Kevin’s bouncing around too much for me to drop him on his ass. If I do get him down, I’m kicking him in the fucking head.
Black Mask One rolling to his knees and projectile vomiting all across the sidewalk between us stops Skinhead Kevin in his tracks.
Looks like the asshole had pizza for lunch.
Man, that stinks. Kevin shies away from stepping through the spew, but I give not one fuck.
I’m getting away from these dickheads whether or not I have roll in it.
I stomp through the rank sludge and while Kevin’s still staring at his upchucking buddy, spin on my back leg and slam a flying elbow into Kevin’s throat.
His scream is more garbled but still wouldn’t be out of place at a Beiber concert.
I take stock of the three shitheads to make sure none of them are going to chase after me.
Kevin’s on his knees, clutching his throat and gasping.
The asshole with the baton is seriously out, sprawled on his back among a pile of cans and glass where he knocked over a recycling bin as he fell.
There’s a lot of blood on his face and on the ground near his head.
I’m wondering whether I should get close enough to check if he’s still alive.
Then he groans and I decide I don’t care.
I’m not Florence fucking Nightingale and they weren’t delivering Girl Scout cookies.
They were going to hurt me. When Black Mask One starts heaving again, I grab my jacket off the sidewalk and take off around the scaffolding at a jog that will get me away from them fast without laying me up tomorrow.
They came at me half-way between my place and Logan’s, but I don’t hesitate in picking a direction. Mac’s in front of me. My place is behind me. I’m not sure what it says that I feel safer with Mac wherever he is than in my own apartment with my doors locked, but there it is.
I check behind me as I reach the end of the block.
The whole fight probably took less than two minutes and people have started moving towards the noise—not that any of them rushed to help me—but no one seems to be following me.
The scaffolding obscures my view of the three dickheads, but I can see that one of them’s on his feet and staggering around.
By his build, I think it’s Black Mask One.
I don’t wait to see if he manages to shake off having his testicles relocated into his stomach and jog across the street without waiting for the light, winning me the usual New York salute of a blaring taxi horn.
I flip the taxi off as I jog down the next block.
I can still smell Black Mask One’s puke by the time I get to Logan’s townhouse.
Either it’s all over my Docs, or it’s all in my mind.
Either way, I feel terrible about trekking it into Logan’s house and I hesitate on the top step.
Then I remember that three masked assholes who tried to hurt me are somewhere behind me.
I ring the bell and turn to get the door at my back so I can watch the street while I wait.