by Shandi Boyes
“Take it back,” I push out through clenched teeth, my low tone crammed with silent warning that I’ve reached my quota of being so poorly disrespected. First, she disrespected a man I'm falling in love with; now she is desecrating the memory of a lady who meant the world to me. "My mother was a wonderful woman. You could only hope to be one-tenth of the woman she was."
Viciously snarling, Delilah pinches the material of her pantsuit and crouches down to meet me eye to eye. "Why would I take it back? The truth may be a bitter pill to swallow, even for someone as dimwitted as you, but everything I've said thus far is true."
Blood rushes to the surface of my skin, burning my cheeks with anger when Delilah whispers, “Your mother must be rolling in her grave knowing she raised such a stupid, tactless, waste of space.” She hisses her last words slowly, ensuring I don’t miss a single ounce of the disdain her words are drenched in.
Before I have the chance to consider the impact of my action, I raise my hand and slap Delilah across the face. The sound of her teeth crunching together booms over the blood roaring in my ears. My slap is so forceful, her head rockets to the side. Although shaken I responded with violence, I am damn proud I finally stood up to the devil’s reincarnation.
Cupping her flaming red cheek in her hand, Delilah shifts her eyes back to me. When I spot the fury glaring from her narrowed gaze, I brace, preparing for impact. Instead of striking me as I am expecting, Delilah smiles a grin that adds to the churning of my stomach. It's vindictive and laced with malice.
The reasoning behind her serene approach becomes apparent when a deep voice behind my shoulder says, “What's going on in here?”
Swallowing to eradicate the enormous brick suddenly lodged in my throat, I spin on my heels to face the teeming-with-anger voice. The color in my cheeks drains to my shoes when I come face to face with an irate Mr. Carson. He is standing in the doorway of his office, bouncing his eyes between Delilah and me. From the heavy groove in the middle of his dark brows, I can readily perceive he witnessed me assaulting Delilah.
“It isn’t as it seems,” I mumble, jittering with nerves. “She provoked me. She’s been harassing me for years.”
Delilah scoffs loudly, but I don’t pay her any attention. I keep my gaze front and center, praying Mr. Carson will see the truth beaming from my eyes.
Some of my silent prayers are answered when Mr. Carson advises, "Global Ten Media has a stringent non-bullying policy, Cleo. If you felt you were being intimidated, we had measures in place you could have utilized to put an end to it."
I nod, advising I am aware of the policy he is referring to. I’ve perused the anti-bullying document numerous times the past two years when Delilah’s taunts became too much for me to bear. Unfortunately, her tirades were protected by virtue of being my supervisor. When I brought up the policy during staff meetings, she often rebutted that she was merely giving me "constructive feedback."
My neck cranks to the side when Delilah sniffles, "Slapping your superior for having an opposing opinion is an exaggerated spectral response, Mr. Carson. Surely the severity of retaliating with violence outweighs an occasionally misread comment."
She keeps her tone low, acting as if she’s on the verge of tears. I’m not buying her Oscar-worthy performance. I can feel the pompousness beaming out of her in invisible waves. She’s loving every snip of tension depriving the air of oxygen.
The dread blackening my veins grows when Mr. Carson asks, “Did you inflict physical harm on Delilah, Cleo?”
Even though his eyes relay he already knows my reply, I nod. "Yes. I did," I answer, hoping my honest response is the first of many. I'm tired of lying.
After Mr. Carson’s eyes drink in the clearly visible handprint on Delilah’s left cheek, he drops his gaze to me. The anger in his eyes softens with every second that passes. “Did Delilah physically harm you first?” he questions, his tone low.
I wait a beat, praying he will see the remorse in my eyes before shaking my head. As he thrusts his hands into the pocket of his trousers, disappointment overtakes some of the empathy in his eyes.
“You heard what she said in the conference room last week. That type of remark wasn’t a one-off occurrence. She’s been tormenting me like that for years.”
I'm not remorseful for striking Delilah—she deserved it—I'm regretful for putting Mr. Carson in this predicament. Staff quarrels were the bane of my existence when I was head of the entertainment division at Global Ten Media. More times than not, jealousy was the cause of all the squabbling. But this is different; I'm not jealous of Delilah. How could I possibly jealous of someone with a black heart?
My heart rate spikes. Perhaps I am not the one who is jealous?
The smell of Mr. Carson’s spicy cologne surpasses the anxiety leaching from my pores when he steps deeper into the vast space. When he stops to stand in front of me, Delilah attempts to speak. Mr. Carson cuts her off with a wave of his hand across the front of his body.
“One battle at a time, Ms. Winterbottom,” he snaps, his tone direct.
My optimism that he isn’t blinded by Delilah’s attractive outer shell sails out the window when he says, “Go and wait for me in the conference room, Cleo. Once I have finished speaking with Delilah, I will call you in.”
11
My unassured steps down a darkened alley grind to a stop when a deep voice shouts, “Cleo!”
Listening to the protests of my screaming hip, I place the box I’ve been juggling the past hour onto the curb at my side before pivoting around to face the undistinguishable voice. My spine straightens with concern when my eyes lock in on a blurry figure briskly charging towards me. It isn’t the unapproachable demeanor bouncing off the unnamed man in invisible waves that has my heart rate speeding up; it's his bull-like charge. His speed is unchecked as he races across the isolated street.
Panic tightens around my throat when my nearsightedness clears enough I can see the man’s face. Although his first impression was less than stellar last Friday, I never forget a face. It's the man I met under the Brooklyn Bridge: the man who collected my unsigned NDA.
The angry scowl tainting his face with ugliness sends my panic to an all-time high. His stare is enough to make the burliest men shake in their boots, and that isn't taking into consideration the furious mask slipped over his face. I flinch when he abruptly stops in front of me. His movements are so curt, whiskey-scented air blasts my face.
“Do you know how much your stupidity cost me?!” he roars, his words shooting out of his mouth like daggers. “I’ve been working with Mr. Everett for years, and you’re the first whore who didn’t sign the NDA.”
My first reaction is shock, closely followed by disgust. Who does he think he is to speak to me so disgracefully? And what is it about this weekend? Do I have a massive target on my back requesting to be ridiculed? I’m enduring blow after devastating blow. I knew this morning was the calm before the storm.
But even with my mind still spiraling from my exchange with Delilah, my decorum isn’t so jilted I can ignore his callous statement. “Who the hell are you calling a whore?” The anger in my voice is easily distinguishable, even more so because of the dead quiet of the alleyway.
Acting like he didn't hear a word I said, the stranger digs his chubby fingers into the top of my arm and drags me further into the alley, away from the prying eyes of strangers lurking on the sidewalks nearby. I attempt to yank out of his grip. My efforts are utterly pointless. His large width and height aren't for show. It matches his strength to a T. He is too strong for a woman of my stature.
“Let me go!” I scream, thrashing to get out of his firm grip. “You’re hurting me.”
His vindictive chuckle sends a chill of dread down my spine. “That’s what submissives like, isn’t it?” he sneers, tightening his clutch on my arm. “Being manhandled and thrown around.” His thunderous words vibrate my heart right out of my chest.
“I’m not a sub.”
“Yeah, yeah, sweethe
art, that’s what they all say,” he laughs, his tone mocking.
I’m so angry, the spit of his vicious words sizzles when they land on my inflamed cheeks. “If you don't get your hands off me this minute, you’ll regret the day you met me,” I warn.
My threat increases the corrupt cloud in his dark gaze. He is enjoying every minute of our battle.
A winded grunt parts my lips when he uses his body to pin me to the side of a car halfway down the alley. Even winded, I continue to fight against him, endeavoring to get free. After reinforcing his hold by leaning into me harder, he digs a white envelope out of his trousers pocket before removing a pen from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. With a grunt, he nudges his head to the envelope housing the NDA I refused to sign last Friday night.
“Sign it,” he sneers, glowering at me like I’m a piece of dog poo stuck under his shoe.
“No,” I reply, issuing him the same corrupt glare he wears.
I kick, wail and scream with all my might, praying one of the many people scrambling past the alleyway will hear my plight and come to my aid. All I end up achieving is more windedness. His large frame is just too big. No matter how hard I fight, he doesn’t budge an inch. I don’t think a crane could move him.
“Let me go!” I demand again, my anger grow.
"Sign the NDA, and I'll let you on your merry way," he snarls in reply.
He grips my arm so hard, I'm confident I’ll have a bruise tomorrow morning. His roughness pushes my Garcia fighting spirit into overdrive. I yank backward to gain some distance between us before raising my knee to his groin. Pain rockets through my body when he foils my attempt of kneeing him by twisting his body to the side. My knee slams into his thigh with brutal force, maiming my body as severely as his cruel words nicked my heart.
Yanking me forward as if I am a ragdoll, the unnamed man brings me to within an inch of his ugly face. The toes of my stilettos skim the asphalt when he suspends me in the air by clutching the front of my shirt. Even with fear sparking every nerve-ending, I shut down the responses of my body, refusing to let him see he has me rattled.
“Sign the NDA, or I’ll show you how a real man dominates.”
Snarling, I shake my head. “No.”
His lips pull high, exposing a gold veneer on his right incisor tooth. “You’re either an idiot, or you're so fucked in the head, you think this is foreplay.”
He runs his morally corrupt eyes down my body, lingering his heavy-hooded gaze on my thrusting chest so long my skin crawls. His tongue delves out to replenish his dry lips as the anger in his eyes rapidly morphs to lust.
“Do you want to play, Cleo?” he jeers, staring into my eyes to ensure I can’t miss the sexual innuendo laced in his question.
Anger flames my cheeks. “I’d rather wake up in a pool of vomit than play with a man like you!” I scream at the top of my lungs, my cry hoarse from the amount of yelling I’ve been doing.
Fiery anger spreads through me like liquid acid when he uses his spare hand to backhand me. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, panicked that our gathering has gained us a few inquisitive stares at the end of the alley.
My teeth crunch together as pain zooms through my right cheek. His hit is so firm, white spots dance in front of my eyes and dizziness consumes me. Even though I should be cowering, his hit angers me more. Only a coward hits women.
Blood oozes from my nose when I return my frightened eyes to my attacker. “Is that all you’ve got?” I mock, acting like I can’t feel blood trickling over my lips. “I’ve had girls hit harder than you.”
My stomach launches into my throat when his slimy tongue slithers out to lap up a droplet of blood from my top lip. I buck and wail against him, sickened at the thought of him touching me.
He draws me in more firmly to his body so he can whisper in my ear. "I'm not even getting started yet.”
My stomach heaves when the scent of his breath lingers into my nostrils. It's as hideous as his horrid face. When one of his hands creeps along my stomach, slowly inching towards my erratically panting chest, I fight with all my might. I grunt, kick and wail until I am utterly exhausted. Not happy with my continuous disobedience, he pins me to the car with one hand before raising the other into the air, preparing to strike me again. I grit my teeth, bracing for impact. The evil grin on his face grows, no doubt relishing my frightened response.
Just before his hand connects with my throbbing cheek, a commotion sounds behind us. Panicked we are not alone, my attacker cranks his head to the side so fast his muscles shriek in protest. Using his distraction to my advantage, I wildly kick out my leg. A grunt rolls up my aggressor’s chest when my perfectly placed kick hits him straight between his legs. The air is forcefully removed from his body as his hands dart down to protect his groin.
“You fucking bitch,” he stammers out, his words coerced through his balls, which are now sitting in the back of his throat.
Protecting himself from another blow, he dumps me onto my feet. As the color drains from his face, he glares into my eyes. His gaze exposes that he is bankrupt of a soul. I have no doubt, if given a choice, he'd rear up to strike me again. The only reason he doesn't is because a man shouting at him to get away from me resonates over his furious growl.
“This isn’t over, bitch,” my attacker sneers before hobbling to a dark blue sedan parked under a dimly lit street light on my left.
As my savior chases the crippled man’s quickly retreating frame, I struggle to keep upright. I am so disorientated and confused, I’m having trouble recalling why I’m standing in an isolated alleyway late on a Saturday night. It is Saturday? Isn’t it?
When my wooziness becomes too great for me to bear, I crumble to the ground. I wince in pain when my knees connect harshly with the asphalt. Although my hit is brutal, it isn’t painful enough to stop gratefulness from consuming me. During times like this, I realize one day my Garcia stubbornness is going to backfire on me.
My blurry gaze drifts to my right when a multihued display of light dances in my eyes. I blink several times in a row to clear my vision. When it clears, I realize my attacker’s vigorous shakes forced my cellphone out of my pocket.
After gathering my shattered cell off the ground, I scamper across the alleyway on my hands and knees so I can lean on the side panel of the car I was pinned against mere minutes ago. My temples are drilling my skull, and awful nausea is overwhelming me.
Pretending the rogue tear streaming down my right cheek is a bead of sweat, I pinch the bridge of my nose, vainly trying to stop more blood from staining my ivory-colored shirt. I grimace when my fingertips skim over my top lip. When I run my tongue over the burn to soothe it, the taste of copper fills my mouth.
It feels like hours pass before my savior returns from chasing my assailant’s car, but it's most likely only minutes. Fresh tears prick my eyes when a familiar face pops into my peripheral vision. Don’t ask if they are happy or frightened tears as I wouldn’t be able to answer you.
“Hey, Cleo, are you alright?” Richard questions, his tone low and unsure.
12
I nod, soundlessly answering Richard’s question before endeavoring to stand from the ground. My brisk nod makes it feel like my brain is rattling in my head, amplifying my dizziness and making my stomach lurch into my throat. Stumbling, I crash into Richard’s firm body.
“Whoa, Cleo, careful. You might be concussed.” Richard steadies my swaying movements by gripping the tops of my arms. “Take in some deep breaths while you gather your bases.”
“I’m okay. . . I’m just. . . umm . . . going home?” My words are strained through my hand clamped over my mouth to ensure the contents of my stomach remain in my stomach.
After guiding me to sit on an old milk crate, Richard places his hand under my chin and carefully raises my downcast head. “Let me have a look at you,” he requests, his tone low—almost caring.
His smooth voice eases some of the uncertainty prickling my spine, but it also convinces me I
am not lucid. This helpful savior can’t be the same man I kneed in the balls three months ago. That Richard doesn’t understand the word empathy. He has the type of personality that would prefer to video someone getting attacked rather than aid in their recovery.
Air whizzes out my lips when Richard's thumb dabs the top right-hand corner of my mouth. “Sorry,” he apologizes as his remorse-filled eyes dance between mine. “The split in your lip is a little deep, but it won’t need any stitches. Can you stand?”
Since my mouth is refusing to cooperate, I once again nod, more carefully this time.
Placing his hands under my arms, Richard assists me off the crate. I'm definitely in shock because not a single objection is fired from my brain when he curls his arm around my shoulders and commences guiding me out of the alleyway.
“My box. I need my box,” I stammer out, my choked response exposing the catalyst of emotions pumping into me—shallow, low, and brimming with confusion.
Remaining quiet, Richard gathers my box with his spare hand before he continues with our journey out of the alleyway. My battered appearance gains the curious glance of many spectators out enjoying their Saturday night, but not a single person questions if I need assistance.
Since my legs are so wobbly, it takes nearly five minutes for us to walk the half block to the parking garage employees of Global Ten Media use. With my mind shut down without a single thought, I allow Richard to guide me into the passenger seat of his truck.
When he secures a seatbelt around my waist, I mumble, “I’m okay; I can find my own way home.” The shaking of my voice hinders what should be a strong statement. “Should we call the police?”
Richard doesn’t acknowledge my comments. He just places my box next to me on the bench seat before cracking open his glove compartment. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he removes a wad of cotton and some antiseptic ointment from the small first aid kit housed inside. It's very well, as the instant I blurted out my suggestion, I wanted to take it back. Getting the police involved would only add more tension to an already tense situation.
