Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

  Toby turned his head and smiled at Sherry. “You know what?” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’re gonna have a really great time.”

  Nodding, she tried to smile. “Yeah,” she said.

  “Only it won’t be so great if you do anything to ruin it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Like try to get away.”

  “I’m not gonna try to get away.”

  “You’d better not.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you do, you’ll be really sorry.”

  “I told you…”

  “I’ll hurt you a lot.”

  “I thought you liked me.”

  “I like you. I more than like you.”

  “Then you shouldn’t hurt me. And you shouldn’t threaten me. That’s not stuff you do if you like a person.”

  “But I have to.”

  She almost asked “Why?” But she was afraid of the answer he might give. Instead, she told him, “No, you don’t. You don’t have to do any of this.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “You could just stop it all right now.”

  “Stop it?”

  “Let me go.”

  “I can’t. I’ve already…done stuff to you. It’s too late to stop.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything so far can just be our secret. I don’t have to ever tell anyone what you did.”

  “But you would, though.”

  “I won’t. I promise. Just let me go. Nothing else has to happen.”

  Toby turned his head and frowned at her. “I thought you wanted to go to bed with me.”

  “I did. I really did, but that was before you started with all these threats.”

  “So now you don’t wanta?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve got me scared.”

  “You don’t gotta be scared.”

  “I don’t want to get hurt.”

  “You won’t. Not if you don’t deserve it.”

  “I already told you I won’t try to run away. Will you promise not to hurt me anymore?”

  “Okay,” Toby said. “I promise.”

  Sighing, he eased his car to a stop at a red light. There were no other cars nearby—except for a few in the parking lot on the other side of Venice Boulevard.

  The parking lot of the Nacho Casa.

  “How about another taco?” Sherry asked.

  Toby turned his head for a look at the restaurant.

  Sherry snapped open her seat-belt buckle, flung the straps aside and threw open her door.

  “No!” Toby yelled.

  As he reached for her, she dropped sideways and tumbled out of the car.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sherry flung up an arm. The street pounded her elbow and crashed her arm against her head. Still half inside the car, she felt as if she were being thrown upside down.

  Toby grabbed her right ankle.

  She kept falling.

  Toby’s hand slipped. The shoe was jerked from her foot and he lost his hold.

  Her legs came flying out of the car and slammed against the pavement. Grunting with the pain, Sherry flipped herself over. She rolled and rolled, then pushed herself to her hands and knees.

  The passenger door stood wide open.

  Toby, still behind the wheel, was twisted sideways, one arm stretched out as if frozen in the act of reaching for her. “Get back in here,” he said, his voice not loud but hard and clipped. “Right now!”

  Sherry got to her feet.

  Except for Toby’s car, the four eastbound lanes of Venice Boulevard were empty. She saw the headlights of three cars, but they were still far away.

  On the other side of the divider, a car rushed by.

  She saw the shapes of people inside the Nacho Casa. She’d probably be safe if she could get there. But the restaurant was on the other side of the boulevard.

  Running across all those westbound lanes would be easy—no traffic to worry about for a while—but Toby’s car was in the way.

  “Sherry!” he snapped. “Come back here!”

  “Go away and leave me alone!” She broke into a dash for the area behind his car.

  The back-up lights flashed on.

  The car shot backward.

  She wondered if she could beat it.

  Then she saw that she had no choice. She might have time to dodge away and avoid the rear of the car—but the wide open passenger door would nail her for sure.

  Go for it!

  She sprinted for all she was worth.

  Go-go-go!

  Now she was directly behind the backward-rushing car.

  Quick!

  It roared toward her legs.

  She pictured herself crumpled on the road, her legs shattered, Toby hurrying back and scooping her up and loading her into the car.

  His tires screamed.

  Nothing hit her.

  I made it!

  The driver’s door flew open and raced toward her.

  No!

  She dived for the center divider.

  In midair, she felt something bump against the edge of her right foot. The door? It knocked her foot sideways. Her legs smacked together, turning her, flipping her over.

  On the far side of the concrete divider, she hit the pavement of the westbound lanes. She skidded and rolled, then scurried up and ran.

  Her right foot hurt, but not much.

  Though most of her body seemed to be ringing with pain, it worked. She supposed she was no more injured than if she’d taken a bad spill with her bicycle.

  A little battered and skinned.

  I’ll live.

  Dashing for the far side of the road, she swung her head around and saw Toby’s car speeding forward, racing for the intersection.

  He’s gonna make a U!

  But other cars, approaching from the east, were nearing the intersection—three of them in a wedge formation like fighter jets coming to her rescue.

  The turn arrow for Toby was red.

  His brake lights came on. He squealed to a halt.

  The other three cars kept coming.

  As Sherry ran for the curb, she wondered if she should try to wave down one of them.

  First get out of their way.

  She barely made it to the parking lane before the first of the cars whizzed by. As she turned around, the others rushed past her.

  Didn’t it cross anyone’s mind I might need help?

  Toby’s car lurched into the intersection. Tires whining, it started into a tight U-turn.

  Sherry ran for the Nacho Casa.

  As his car roared closer, she rushed to the restaurant’s nearest door.

  Made it!

  She grabbed the handle and pulled. As the door swung toward her, Toby’s car lurched to a stop at the curb.

  She stepped inside.

  Out of the wind and heat, into air-conditioned brightness and tangy aromas of Mexican food.

  Standing just inside the doorway, she stared through the wall of windows. Toby’s car remained at the curb, headlights on. But he didn’t get out.

  He’s afraid to come in.

  Of course he is, she told herself. He tries to come in after me, all these people are going to see him.

  All these people?

  Forcing her eyes away from Toby’s car, she scanned the restaurant:

  Most of the tables were empty.

  Him!

  He’d moved to a different table, but Sherry was certain this was the same man she’d seen in here earlier—the creepy, gray-haired guy who’d spent so much time staring at her.

  He was staring at her now.

  Staring and frowning.

  Sherry looked away from him.

  At one of the other tables sat a filthy old woman jibbering to herself.

  At another were a couple of husky, tough-looking bikers. The one facing her was a woman with a black patch over one eye. The other had wild black hair and a thick beard. He wore a
sleeveless denim jacket with Hounds of Hell on its back.

  Glad they’re here, Sherry thought.

  Far down near the other end of the restaurant, two guys and one gal were seated at a table. They were probably in their early twenties, and seemed serious as they talked quietly and sipped coffee. Several books were piled on the table.

  Probably college students, Sherry thought.

  She liked them at first glance.

  Maybe they’ll give me a ride.

  Turning her head, she saw Toby’s car still sitting by the curb. Its headlights were now off.

  He’s still in it, isn’t he?

  She crouched slightly and narrowed her eyes and made out a vague shape in the driver’s seat.

  As she straightened up, aches and pains made Sherry grit her teeth. She looked down at herself. The right sleeve of her gaudy, tropical blouse, ripped at the seam, drooped off her shoulder, which was skinned and shiny with blood.

  A single button, just above her navel, was all that held her blouse shut. Completely untucked, the blouse draped over her yellow skirt. The skirt was filthy in front, but didn’t seem to be torn.

  Leaning forward, she pressed the pleated fabric against her thighs and looked at her knees. They were both scraped raw.

  The shoe was missing from her right foot.

  Deedle-deedle dumpling…

  Her white sock, now dirty, was half off.

  Balancing on her left leg, Sherry raised her right and pulled up the sock.

  Then she checked both her arms. Aside from the skinned shoulder, she had an abrasion on the underside of her right forearm.

  She wondered what else was wrong.

  Torn ear lobe.

  Maybe bruising in the face from the first punch.

  Damage to her side from the second.

  Probably a bruised breast.

  She thought about going to the restroom. She could take a better look at wounds, clean herself up a little, use the toilet…

  She needed it badly, now.

  But what if Toby decides to come in?

  He’d have me alone.

  She looked out the window, crouched and saw the dim shape of Toby behind the wheel of his car.

  Planning to wait me out?

  She glanced toward the creepy, gray-haired man. He was still staring at her.

  She turned her back, then looked down at her blouse, hoping to fasten the rest of her buttons. They were gone, leaving behind tufts of broken thread.

  All over the street, she supposed.

  Along with bits of my skin.

  Holding her blouse shut and not looking back, Sherry hurried into the alcove under the BANOS sign. The short hallway led past several doors. She glanced at the signs on them: Employees Only, Private, Hombres…

  She stopped and frowned at the Hombres door.

  Was the naked girl still in there, hiding in a stall?

  Maybe I can borrow her top. She isn’t using it anyway. Or buy it from her. Give her ten bucks, let her have mine to wear home…

  MY PURSE!

  Sherry let go of her blouse and raised her arms away from her sides and looked down at herself, turning her head from side to side, double-checking, checking again, hoping her purse was there after all, hanging from one shoulder or the other—that it was somehow simply escaping her attention.

  She whirled around.

  It wasn’t on the floor.

  It didn’t swing by its strap and bump against her rear end.

  It was really gone.

  Sinking inside, she tried to remember losing it. Had it been torn from her shoulder when she hurled herself out of Toby’s car or when she dived over the center strip—torn off and left on the pavement of Venice Boulevard like her buttons and her skin?

  Abandoned there, waiting for someone to grab it and take it?

  If they haven’t already.

  I’ve gotta go get it!

  With quick, jabbing hands, Sherry started to tuck her blouse into the waistband of her skirt.

  Toby’s out there. He’ll nail me for sure if I make a try for my purse. It isn’t worth getting killed over. Or raped over. Or…

  But what if he gets it?

  Blouse tucked in, she still had a strip of bare skin down to her belly. As she pulled the edges of her blouse together, she remembered where her purse was.

  And groaned.

  He already has it.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s right where I left it, Sherry thought. On the floor of Toby’s car, just in front of the passenger seat.

  Dazed and sickened, she pushed open the door to the Hombres restroom.

  Nobody stood at the sink or urinal. The stall door was shut. She glimpsed the two vending machines on the wall. Just as Toby had told her, one was a condom dispenser.

  She remembered the pack of condoms in her purse.

  Toby, out in his car, had probably already discovered it.

  That and everything else. My money, my credit cards, my driver’s license, my keys. If he wants, he can go over to my place and let himself in.

  The awful possibilities seemed overwhelming.

  She pushed the stall door. It squeaked open, revealing a toilet full of unflushed paper and brown water. But there was no girl.

  She turned away quickly and didn’t breathe again until she was safely on the other side of the Hombres door.

  The alcove was deserted.

  She hurried into the Señoritas restroom. Nobody at the sink. There were two stalls, both empty. One of the toilets looked fairly clean and had a supply of toilet paper.

  She shut the door and slid the latch across to lock it.

  The latch would give her some privacy, she hoped. But it was too flimsy for real protection. It wouldn’t stop anyone determined to get at her.

  If an assailant did have trouble with the latch, he could climb over the top of the stall or slide in through the gap at the bottom.

  Just get it done and get out.

  She took a step backward toward the toilet. Cool liquid suddenly soaked through the bottom of her right sock.

  She moaned.

  Feeling desperate and disgusted and about ready to cry, she bent over and reached under her skirt and lowered her panties.

  The moment she squatted over the seat and started to go, she expected Toby to burst into the restroom.

  And I won’t be able to stop, she thought. I’ll be stuck here, peeing my heart out with my undies around my knees and he’ll come sliding under the door, smiling up at me.

  Too much Pepsi.

  I’ve gotta get out of here. I’ll be trapped…

  At last, she finished.

  On her way from the stall to the sink, she left wet sock-prints.

  At the sink, she balanced on her left foot and pulled off the sock, being careful not to touch the wet part.

  She tossed it into a trash container.

  Then she swung up her leg and put her foot in the sink and turned on the hot water. There was greenish-yellow liquid soap in the dispenser. Straining forward, she pumped some into her hand.

  As she lathered her foot, she saw herself in the mirror.

  Her short hair, dark with sweat, was clinging to her temples and brow. Her forehead had a reddish hue from Toby’s punch. Her face was shiny. Her eyes had a haggard, blank look as if she were only half conscious.

  Turning her head, she stared at her right ear. The bottom half of the lobe was split open. The edges looked as if they’d been glued together with old blood. Just below her ear, the side of her neck was painted with red streaks.

  She rinsed her foot, then looked for the paper towels.

  She saw only air blowers.

  “Just great,” she muttered, and lowered her wet foot to the floor. The tiles felt gritty.

  At least there’s probably no pee over here.

  She shut off the hot water and turned on the cold. Bending low over the sink, she cupped her hands under the faucet. She splashed the chilly water onto her face and head. U
sing her fingertips, she rubbed at the blood stains on the side of her neck. Then, with some soap on her thumb and forefinger, she gently cleaned her earlobe. She rinsed off the suds.

  Nervous about how much time was going by, she glanced at the restroom door.

  So far, so good.

  Maybe he won’t be coming in at all. Why should he risk it?

  Leaning close to the mirror, she inspected her skinned right shoulder. Without a cloth or paper towel, it would be awfully hard to clean. The same with her other abrasions.

  She supposed she could use toilet paper.

  Go back into the stall?

  With one bare foot?

  “No way,” she muttered.

  Then she realized she could use her left sock.

  Is there time for all this? she wondered.

  Why not? Maybe Toby’ll give up waiting and go away.

  “Sure he will,” she said.

  But she still had the restroom to herself, so why not stay and tend to her injuries? As a Girl Scout, she’d learned that open wounds should be cleaned with soap and water as soon as possible to prevent infection. And in recent years, thanks to television news, she’d developed a terror of the “flesh-eating bacteria.”

  Standing on her bare right foot, she pulled off her left shoe and sock. The lower part of the sock was sweaty, but the area from around her ankle seemed dry and clean. She held it under hot water until it was soaking wet, wrung it out, then applied soap and gently swabbed her shoulder abrasion.

  When this is all over, she thought, I’ll take a nice, long bath. I’ll soak in the tub for an hour…

  He’s got my keys!

  When this is all over, she told herself, he won’t have them. Obviously, it won’t be over until I’ve got everything back…

  Including Duane?

  She supposed she didn’t want him back. He’d gotten her into this, testing the damn rubbers on a slut in the back of his van.

  How could he do a thing like that? she wondered. Knowing I was waiting for him in bed? What kind of miserable bastard is he?

  I thought he cared about me.

  The slut probably has bigger boobs.

  Like who doesn’t?

  “Fuck him, anyway,” she muttered.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  Stupid me, she thought. I should’ve just stayed in bed. But no, I had to get all worried and go looking for him and run into my pal Toby.

  I’m getting my ass abducted ’cause Duane’s a backstabbing piece of shit…