Toxic: A Dark Romance

I don’t give my attacker a moment to plan their next action because I’ve been waiting for them. Spinning underneath them, I wiggle my feet free and plant them on their broad chest. I heave with all my might and manage to free myself from their hold. Their hands scrabble at my uniform and bruise my arms in an attempt to keep ahold of me, but I kick my attacker in the face and grin as they howl in pain.

It allows me enough time to scoot backward on the slick linoleum floor and dig through my purse for the can of mace I always have on me.

I train the canister on their prone form with one hand, and just as they get to their feet, I shoot them—him, I realize as I note it is the guy from the diner—with a face full of mace. He chokes, his eyes and nose automatically streaming.

There’s only a split second for me to escape, and I use it to my full advantage. I grab one side of the pullout couch and shove it so it blocks his path. Without the use of his eyes, the guy stumbles over it and crashes headfirst into the wall, denting the drywall.

I don’t stick around to see if he’s okay. I dart down the hallway that leads to the back door, leaving a smaller obstacle course in my wake to slow him down even more. Laundry baskets full of clothes, small shelving units I used as a makeshift pantry, and bookshelves scatter their contents all over the floor.

The attacker is still howling and crashing around in the living room as I dive out the back door. I didn’t have money for a car for a quick escape, but I do text out an emergency Uber order for a coffee shop a couple of blocks down. I timed it out after I moved into the apartment. If I book it, it only takes just under five minutes, about the same time it’ll take for an Uber in the area to arrive.

I’m halfway down the alley when he charges out the back door. I can hear his thundering steps following after me, but I’m lighter on my feet, and his bulky form is no match for it. My heart is in my throat as if I know somewhere deep down in the primitive parts of me that if I don’t escape this man, I may as well slit my throat. It’s a pure kind of fear that drives me to keep going past the point of exhaustion.

I turn a corner and see the coffee shop within the next block. The sight spurs me to pump my legs faster, despite the burn in my lungs. The sound of my pursuer begins to fade, and I slow to check my phone, finding the Uber alert that my car is waiting for me.

The sidewalks are full of people, and there’s no way he’ll do anything when there are witnesses everywhere. I try to slow down and look ordinary, but I’m shoving through tourists and hipsters as I speed-walk to the curb where the Uber is waiting.

Without stopping for pleasantries, I dive in the car and say, “Lakeland and 5th, please. And hurry.”

He grumbles and gives me a curious look, but he, thankfully, doesn’t argue. When he pulls away from the curb, I look behind me and scan the crowd, but the man from the diner is nowhere to be seen. I heave a tentative sign of relief, but the vice around my insides is still tight with fear.

Traffic is still horrific as we merge with long, snaking lines of cars, but being surrounded by them on all sides makes me feel somewhat safe. Once we get to the storage locker I rented, I’ll be able to retrieve the go-bag I stored there for just this occasion. I didn’t know if I’d have to use it, but I didn’t want to be stuck without a means of escape again. I vowed I wouldn’t be helpless again the second I got to LA. I’d realized it would be possible for the most experienced criminal to track me if they had the means, motive, and money. I wasn’t altogether certain Gracin had the last, but I knew he had the first two in spades.

The storage locker has a couple of changes of clothes, most of my cash, more weapons, and the jewelry I hadn’t pawned yet. I take in the scenery in greedy gulps as we inch along the freeway. I’m going to miss this place. Maybe I’ll go to Florida, keeping to areas where sunshine is prevalent. I don’t think I’ll ever go back up north if I can help it.

As the adrenaline begins to wear off, I wrap my arms around myself to stave off the shakes that wrack me all the way down to the bone. A part of me, the part that wanted to believe in the lie Gracin had spun, wants to break down and cry, but that part of me is shriveled up, a husk of who I used to be. The woman emerging from the ashes of my past life is harder, less trusting, and determined.

I won’t let them beat me. Won’t let him be yet another mistake I let ruin my life.

As I begin to crash, the weariness from a long day of work makes my eyes droop, and my mind goes fuzzy. That’s why I don’t notice we’re going in the wrong direction until it’s too late.

“Excuse me,” I say to the driver, a little annoyed. “You’re going in the wrong direction. You should have gotten off at the last exit. Can you please take the next one?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Thanks.”

I blow out a breath. Just what I need. Another delay in getting out of the city. I nearly laugh. Making an escape at seven in the evening is pretty much a fruitless endeavor. Travel between four and eight is practically gridlocked, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

At the slow crawl, we’re forced to make it takes another thirty minutes before we make the next exit. I strain to catch a glimpse of the sign, and then relax when it comes into view.

“Right here,” I tell the driver, who either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care to follow my directions. “Uh, sir? That was the exit. Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t respond, and unease prickles at the back of my neck.

“Excuse me?”

When he ignores me again, I try the doors, but they’re locked, and no amount of pushing the buttons will unlock them. Panic spurts inside me, and I almost whimper. Suddenly, being cornered and surrounded by vehicles doesn’t feel as safe as it did a few minutes ago. I pull the gun from my purse where I’d stowed it after the attack in my apartment.

I steady my hands and keep the gun close, just in case. I don’t think I’m overreacting, but if I am, I’ll end up as just another crazy chick in a city full of them. I won’t take any chances, even if I have to take another life.

To think just a few months ago, my only concern was saving lives, and now it’s taking them to protect my own.

We drive in silence, picking up speed as the traffic slowly begins to clear. I don’t know the rest of LA as well as I know the area around my apartment, so I don’t recognize where he’s taking me. He eventually gets off the freeway, which drops us somewhere downtown moving too fast for me to risk an escape without potential injury.

“Please,” I say to the driver. “Please just let me go. I’ll give you cash, whatever you want.”

I learn something then that’s more terrifying than a man’s bare fists.

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Not knowing what’s going to happen.

The anticipation is a thousand times worse than the actual violence.

It claws at me, taunts me.

His lack of response tells me there isn’t anything I could offer him that would deter him. I can’t think of a single person who would kidnap me besides Gracin, and I decide he must be paying him a shit-load to fetch me. I don’t know who Gracin was involved with, and I didn’t want to know. I have a feeling I’ll find out anyway.

I don’t dare risk shooting him while we’re driving. If he crashes, there’s no guarantee I’ll make it out myself. I’ll just have to save my escape for when we stop. The gun gives me an advantage. I just have to be smart about using it.

When we pull to a stop at a nondescript warehouse, my whole body tenses, and the gun is slippery in my damp palms. There are no lights outside, so I can only see the faintest outline of the massive building. Nothing about it is reassuring. I have to get out of here.

My first shot clips the soft tissue of his arm, causing him to emit an inhuman shriek. The second buries itself into his throat. I’ll never forget the gurgling sound he makes as he chokes on his blood. I push it to the back of my mind because I don’t have time to think about that.

I climb over the center console and unlock the front door, avoiding his grabby hands as I shove at his body to dump him out the driver’s side door. He’s heavy, and the angle is awkward, but I manage to topple him over. I’m about to pull the door closed again when three men in expensive-looking suits jog out of the building and toward the car.

The car’s still running, so I slam it in reverse, but before I can gun it, the passenger side door opens and a fourth man points a gun at my face.

“Drop the weapon and get out of the car unless you want a bullet between those lovely eyes,” he orders.

I release the gun, letting it fall to the seat, and he snatches it away. My hand goes to my stomach, not because I’m feeling queasy, though there’s certainly some of that, but to protect the life growing there.

The life Gracin and I made and that I’d die to protect.