by J. Conrad
As I grind my palms and elbows into the grass and try to get up, he grabs me again, this time by the hair. My scalp stings as he forces my head to the ground. The disorientation makes me reel, and I paw at the earth with unsteady fingers. A surreal perspective takes over. It’s a moment of “outsideness.” A sort of detachment, a way of stepping back so I can determine what to do.
When I try to get up, and the man shoves my head against the ground again, for one shattering instant, I visualize my knife. I pull back and thrust my feet against the ground. With just enough room to move, I reach into my pocket and grab the switchblade. I stab straight for the neck.
Like a striking snake, the man’s hand whips out and grabs my wrist. I send my other hand straight for his ear. I’ll rip the thing clean off. By the blood that flows in my veins, I will. But he twists his head out of the way. My knife-hand trembles as he squeezes my wrist so hard, I think he’ll break it. I twist my arm to free it, but he plucks the blade from my grip. He tosses it aside in the tall grass. Then to punish me for trying to stab him, he slaps me across the face again. He grabs my wrist and grates my hand against a thorny thistle.
“Stop! Just—” I can’t catch my breath. “Stop. I’m sorry, Nick. I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.”
I didn’t mean to say it. It just came out. I lie on the ground shivering with the side of my head burning. My right arm aches in a feeble trembling. For an instant, I squeeze my eyes closed, anticipating he’s going to shove my face in the spiky plant as well. Instead, he releases me. As my chest heaves with ragged breathing, I peer up at him. He’s not only stopped his attack but is drawing away. Just slightly. Is he surprised?
But whatever triggered this pause, it passes. As I sit up, the grassy field around me spinning, he drops his full weight on me and locks his fingers around my neck again—but not before I put my own hands there. My fingers block his, and he can’t get a good grip. I, however, can’t get my feet against his stomach this time, and the knife is out of reach. I have one last thing on me—car keys. I can use them, but like the switchblade, I must get to them first. I push back against Nick, and my pulled shoulder muscle screams. A small cry escapes me.
I shove with everything I have. I exert so much force the veins protrude in my forehead, and my eyes ache from his death squeeze. But I fail in pushing him off me this time. Instead, I twist my body. This throws him to the ground, but he continues to try to strangle me with his inadequate hold. I can still breathe—not well, but I can. I won’t let him make me pass out. Because if that happens, I’m done for. He’ll put me in his car and take me wherever he wants to take me. He’ll do with me what he wants, and I’ll never be seen again. But before I die, my last moments will be the most miserable of my life.
He keeps pushing in his superior position, and my breathing decreases. I’m still drawing air, but my lungs begin to burn. The pressure builds, and my eyes ache. A tear slides down my face and into my hair, but I barely make a sound. My vision goes a bit spotty. I won’t be able to hold him off much longer. My strength slips away from me like sand through my fingers. Soon he’ll cut off my air completely. It’s come to this. After all this time, after everything I’ve managed to live through, it’s finally come to this.
I’ve heard when you’re about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. For me, it isn’t my whole life. It’s my loved ones. First, I see Carol. Memories of her that flick by so rapidly, it’s probably no more than one or two seconds. And then, I see my mom. She’s young the day we took that trip to grandma’s so long ago when we sat beneath the Texas lilac on the warm, sunny day. She smiles at me with her blonde hair hanging loosely at her shoulders. And last, I see Trent’s face. I see him knelt beside me on the kitchen floor, a comforting hand on my back during one of my episodes. A few more snapshots of him burst and disappear. Nick will take these memories, and then my life.
As the last of my energy fades and my tense, trembling arms start to go limp, something clicks. I don’t know what it is or where it comes from. A small voice tells me I’m not done yet. I’m not going to die today.
Pulling back as hard as I can to inhale more air, I wildly kick my feet and attempt to strike Nick even though the angle doesn’t allow it. I pry my right hand from its defensive place at my neck and then draw it back. I make a fist and punch him in the nose. It’s not a good hit. It’s a weak, puny thing that falls silently against the soft ski mask. But oddly, it startles him. He slightly loosens the death grip around my fingers and throat. Keeping my hand in a tight fist, I punch him in the face again and again. I direct all my energy at hitting him as hard as I can because now he has two hands on my neck to my one. This is my only chance. I pop another blow straight to his nose—this time a good one—and cartilage cracks. He releases my neck from his constricting fingers and reels back.
Free from Nick’s death grip, my mouth flies open, and I gasp for air. I gulp it in, taking loud, heaving breaths. I shake and tremble with each intake as I push myself to a sitting position. He never fully constricted my windpipe, but my throat still feels sore when I swallow, like I’m coming down with a cold. My lungs ache too. But I didn’t pass out. I’m going to live.
Now it’s time to run. But instead of scrambling to my feet and getting the hell out of here like I should—like a normal person—I jump on Nick and start unloading on him.
Technically, I could say I’ve never been in a fight before. But that would be markedly untrue. I’ve fought for my life twice. With Ayden, I won. With Korey, I didn’t. It’s only because Trent found me that I lived. So really, it would be correct to say I’ve never been on the offensive in a fight—like I am right at this moment.
My face contorts in a twisted grimace that rivals the demons of hell. I pound Nick’s face with my fist, and he grunts like a wounded animal. My knuckles split open when they crack against his teeth. I don’t care. He manages to get to his feet between blows. So, I whack him so hard he falls backward and lands on his ass in the dirt. Then I bitch-slap him across the face, just like he did when he first got his hands on me.
All my earlier qualms about “killing someone else” flee to oblivion. I guess he choked them out of me. I think of going for his neck. I seriously consider it. Do I have enough strength to do it? Could I strangle this man to death? This man who’s strong and agile but also thin and no longer young. I don’t know that I can. But it sounds nice. I want him to feel the pain he caused me. I want him to feel the pain every other man before him caused me, too. But just as I’m about to go for his throat, he clambers to his feet again. His shoes slide in the weedy grass a few times, and then he takes off running.
I start to go after him. In my crazed, revenge-driven frenzy, I know I have it in me to chase him. I have just enough endurance left. And when I catch him, I’ll kill him. So help me, God, I will. But after staggering a few steps in his direction, my chest still heaving, I pull to a halt. I’m panting and out of breath. My knuckles are raw, sore, and bloody. My lungs are an inferno, and my throat aches. I let him run. I watch him disappear into the woods behind the field. Within a heartbeat, the shadowy stand of trees conceals him. Branches snap and crack in his wake, and I just let him go. But it doesn’t matter. I won.
No one followed my screams. No one came to my aid. I reach for my cell phone, but it’s gone. It must have fallen out of my pocket either during the run or in the struggle. My knife lies somewhere in the tangled grass. I scan the ground nearby, where the blade glints softly in the dim glow from the streetlamp. Ten feet away. That’s the ironic distance I cover before reaching down to grasp the black handle. I pocket it as I look for my mobile. It’s here, too, a couple of paces away. I can’t find the pepper spray. My pistol should still be in the parking lot unless someone picked it up. It’s brand new, and it wasn’t a cheap gun.
I could try to call Trent again, but I don’t. I’m too… something. Unsettled? More like delirious. I trudge back toward the hotel, stumbling over rocks and weeds as I walk. That fig
ht took almost everything I had.
Trent calls my name. There he is, at the edge of the parking lot on the other side of the field I plod through. I glance at the ground and snort.
He bursts into a run and reaches me within moments. His face hovers sheet-white over his dark coat. “Aria! Oh my God, what the hell happened? Your nose is bleeding.”
I chuckle but don’t stop walking. My nose is bleeding? I didn’t even notice that. I guess I was too busy focusing on protecting my throat—and not dying. But since he mentioned it, I catch the scent of blood. I taste it too.
“Nick attacked me in the parking lot. He was wearing a ski mask, right out in public like some freak. He knocked the gun from my hand, and I couldn’t get to the hotel, so I ran. He tackled me to the ground and tried to strangle me. I fought him. He ran off into the woods,” I say. I don’t feel like explaining that before I lost my weapon, I intentionally didn’t shoot him.
My voice comes out slightly hoarse. But I’m not sobbing. I’m not breaking down into a weeping mess, slipping into Trent’s arms and wanting him to hold me. While my heart rate slows, I give him the details of the assault.
As we walk back to the hotel, Trent asks me questions and puts his hand on my shoulder. He stares in a sort of disconcerted horror, at times almost afraid to touch me since he doesn’t know what hurts or where.
“I’m okay,” I say, sneaking a grin. “You should see the other guy.”
Trent blinks like I’ve lost my mind. “You don’t sound okay, Aria. God, I’m so sorry. I wish you wouldn’t have left like that. I heard the alarm on the truck, and I tried to come down, but a bunch of stuff happened and—” He breaks off. He sighs heavily and keeps his head down.
I frown, wondering if I heard him wrong. “A bunch of stuff happened? Like what?”
“I didn’t know you went outside. I thought maybe you went to the lobby for snacks, but not outside alone,” he says.
“No, I understand that part. You said a bunch of stuff happened. What?” I ask.
As we set foot in the hotel parking lot, the police pull up. Trent waves at them. The blonde receptionist, a man in a white shirt and blue tie, and the two early-twenty-something guys who were too timid to follow Nick and me all start heading in our direction.
The white-shirt man is the hotel manager, I find out. With him and the receptionist standing by in apologetic shock, I tell the police what occurred and mention how Detective Spade in Austin already opened a case for me. I know I have no proof the man who attacked me was Nick Pearlman, and I tell them so. I explain that I fired a few shots to deter the attack but that because I erred on the side of caution, he called my bluff and eventually knocked the gun from my hand. I also tell them the man’s reaction when I mentioned his name.
The policeman offers to call an ambulance, but I insist that it’s not necessary. My injuries are minor and don’t warrant a trip to the hospital. When I’m free to go, Trent and I retrieve my pistol. It’s lying in the middle of the parking lot near the tire of a white Ford diesel pickup truck.
“You should have just shot him,” Trent says. “That’s the whole reason you bought a gun.”
My face heats. I tuck my now scuffed Sig under my jeans. “Well, if you still feel that way after taking someone’s life, let me know.”
That silences him.
Dawn breaks over the horizon as we drive back to Trent’s house. Not wanting to give Kyle any grim details, I leave a hoarse message apologizing that I’ll need to miss work today. I change into my pajamas. Then I slip into bed—the softest, most delicious bed ever created—and try to rest. Trent gets ready for another day at the police academy. He may have said goodbye. He may have even kissed me on the cheek as I lay under the blankets. Or did I imagine it? I’m so disoriented I’m not sure.
With the house locked and the security system armed, I sleep for most of the day. Nothing happens, or if it does, I’m so knocked out I don’t notice. After I finally drag myself from my cocoon to eat dinner, I shower away the grassy sweat grime that clings to me. Then I crash again. A gentle pressure on my arm wakes me.
“Aria?”
Opening sleepy eyes that blink at the speaker, I see that Trent has pulled a chair near the bed. He leans over and faces me. It reminds me of what I once did for him eight months ago while he was in the hospital. Our odd conversation from yesterday bubbles to the cloudy surface of my thoughts. My sore throat has improved. Mostly what hurts now are my bruises and strained muscles. Man, I got off easy.
“How are you feeling?” Trent asks.
“Better,” I say. “Especially from the sleep.”
“Good.” He gives me a sad smile and studies me. “Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. My eyes focus on his navy-blue Dallas Cowboys t-shirt that he’s had forever. It’s faded but somehow looks great on him.
Trent nods before reaching over and taking my hand. He smells like wood, citrus, and geranium—his deodorant since he’s never been a fan of cologne. “All right. But let me know if you do.” He softens his voice and asks, “Aria, if you’re up to talking about it, is there anything else you need to tell me about Nick? Anything that maybe you haven’t told me already?”
The question itself isn’t that strange. It’s the way he asks it so carefully and tilts his head while he looks me over. Kind of like a father asking a child to give up her secret, naughty deed.
“What do you mean?” My voice is still scratchy, my mouth stale and dry.
Trent swallows. “Has there been anything else going on with Nick—I mean, not—not now, but was there maybe something in the past?” It’s unusual for him to stammer like that.
“What do you mean?” I repeat. I inhale deeply, push myself up on an elbow, and pull my hand away from his.
“The last thing I want to do is violate your confidence. But I think you need to be completely honest with the police. It will help them understand Nick’s motives and nail him for this.” Trent folds his arms and puts a hand to his mouth in contemplation.
If there’s a hint here, I’m not taking it. “What are you talking about?”
Trent shifts again. His fingers brush my cheek as he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Aria, I normally wouldn’t bring something like this up. But I want you to know you don’t have to be ashamed of it. A lot of women in your situation have found comfort in affairs, even if they were short-lived.”
I stare at him, thinking I heard wrong—I must have heard wrong. Because it sounds like he’s insinuating I had an affair with Nick Pearlman, the same man who not only just tried to kill me but is nearly forty years my senior. Of course, my brain isn’t one hundred percent right now. My aches and pains could decrease my comprehension level too. But Trent faces me without blinking. Because I’m so confused and my dizziness isn’t completely gone, my mind starts conjuring up nonsensical answers of what else he might have meant.
Coming up with nothing, I finally blurt, “An affair with who?”
Trent leans back with his palms on his quads. “With Nick. I know it might be difficult and awkward, but I think it would be a good idea to tell Detective Spade about that.”
First, I frown. Then my mouth drops open as I glower at him. I want to scream, but I can’t. My disbelief envelopes me like a chasm. I dive into it back first, falling down, down, down.
“Trent, I never had an affair with Nick. I don’t know him. One evening, he showed up at work when I dropped by to get my laptop, just like I told you. He’s been threatening me ever since,” I say. “And we don’t even know if ‘Nick’ is his real name.”
Trent sighs. “Well, I know I can’t make you talk about it, and it’s not my place to. Just think about it, okay?”
Saying nothing in reply, I let my eyes go out of focus. I flop down on my back again. My blank gaze points toward the open closet at the row of clothes on hangers. With the lights off, the simple bedroom around me melts into a cold, shadowy blur. Did something happen with Nick that I can’t remember?
My therapist once agreed that people like me sometimes have lapses in their recall. An understatement, really, since after a year, Ayden’s death is still a blank.
“Aria,” Trent says. “Please don’t worry. You don’t have to feel embarrassed around me.”
I raise my hands to my head and hold them to my temples. Sighing, I slowly lower them again and let them fall limp at my sides. “I didn’t have an affair with Nick. I’m terrified of most men—with reason. I couldn’t have an affair with someone I don’t know. I’m not even having a real affair with you. Where did you get this idea? Did someone say this about me?”
Trent exhales forcefully. He scratches his cheek before speaking. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to say.”
“Not appropriate? Are you kidding me?” I ask.
I want to press him more, but I’m too confused and lightheaded. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be closer to normal if there is a normal for me. Then I remember Trent’s statements from last night, and I wonder if they’re in some way connected to this absurd, new idea.
After shoving the sheet away, I sit bolt upright. “What happened in the hotel when I was attacked? What prevented you from coming out?”
Trent runs his hand over his forehead. “Okay. I took a phone call from a friend, but then, the Chief of Police picked up and threatened to expel me from the academy if I didn’t explain my involvement at the warehouse on Lamar. I was on the phone with him when my truck alarm went off. I ran outside as fast as I could, but you were already gone. I went after you. I really did, Aria. But I know I didn’t get to you in time.”
“Did you get my phone call? I called you from right outside your truck,” I say.
“No—I mean, yeah, later I did, but I didn’t hear the phone ring. I was on a three-way call, and it went to voicemail.”
I frown. Narrowing my eyes at him, I say, “I thought you tried to come out as soon as you heard the alarm.”