Own Me

She's met Anthony before, of course. She was my platonic date to Mom's wedding a couple years ago, and back when I still worked for Anthony, she'd visit me in the office sometimes, bringing me coffee or snacks. I told her we had a falling out when he fired me, but I avoided going into the specifics. She guessed it was bad, and promised she had my back no matter what. But I doubt she guessed it was quite this bad.

"You're late, Corbella." His eyes are still fixed on me, drilling holes into my skull.

"We never agreed on a timeframe," I counter, lifting my chin. Which is technically true. He really only said Pay me back immediately–or else.

"This is not a business negotiation. You sabotaged my company. You owe me the damages incurred, or I'll be forced to take it from you by other means." All the while, he doesn't break eye contact, doesn't let his resolve waver. His face is a perfect poker-blank, and yet, I can still read between the lines.

Do this or your mother pays the price.

I shift in place, reaching for my purse, and the two thugs react almost before I can flinch. One of them grabs my bag from my shoulder, while the other shoves me hard against the brick wall of the coffee shop. The whole world turns blurred at the edges, surreal. How can they be doing this in broad daylight, on the perfectly safe street where I work?

And yet, when I glance up the road in both directions, I realize for the first time just how abandoned this stretch of road is at this time of day. The middle of the day, when the coffee shop is slow, the lunch crowd gone and the after-work crowd not yet rolling in.

Diana is gaping at me, but she's the only witness right now. These men could do whatever they wanted, and neither of us would be able to stop them. Unless I screamed for help, but then, I think Anthony would only escalate this farther. Better not to provoke him. Better to give him what he wants– or at least, as much as I'm able.

"I was only reaching for my checkbook," I protest, glaring up at the thug who's pinned me to the wall.

Diana, meanwhile, has retreated to the shop door. She's got her cell phone in her hand, and she's holding it out, midair, so all of us can read the numbers in the call section. 9-1-1.

"Let her go this second, or I'm calling the cops," Diana yells. I can see the goons calculating–are they far enough away that she'll be able to hit call before they reach her and snatch the phone?

I clear my throat hard to get their attention back on me. "Diana, I'm fine. You remember Anthony, don't you?"

From the way they're glaring death at one another, I'd say that's a yes.

"Call off your misguided friend, Corbella," Anthony says calmly.

"Does your mother know her husband is over here acting like a fucking gang lord?" Diana snaps in response.

"Diana, seriously, go back inside." I catch her eye, try to communicate without words that I need her to listen to me for once. "This is a misunderstanding–there's no need to involve the cops." Then I shift my gaze back to Anthony. "I have money. I can pay you."

The goon holding me relaxes his grip, just enough so that I can stand upright again. I feel bruises starting to form around my shoulders, and a harsh burn from the wall he shoved me against starting on my back. He's still standing between me and the other thug, the one with my purse, but he's not defensive anymore. I shove past him and grab for my bag, glaring at them both.

"Let me write you a check," I say, keeping Anthony's focus on me, away from Diana. Last thing I need is for her to get hurt in this mess too.

I hear the faint tinkle of a bell behind me and pray that was Diana being sensible for once and retreating into the coffee shop. The less she gets on this asshole's radar, the better.

"For the full amount?" My stepfather's upper lip curls in a sneer. "You couldn't possibly."

"No," I admit. "But I can pay you an installment." My brain is racing, calculating. I'm trying to figure out exactly how much will be in my bank account now, after a little more than a week of seeing Gio. "How does $20,000 work for you?" I ask, having finished calculating. I might have a little more than that actually, but that's fine. Better to have a slight buffer than to risk the check bouncing.

My stepfather crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. "Where the hell did you get that kind of money?"

I flip my bag open, grabbing my checkbook and scribbling the amount onto the first check. "Do you want it or not?" I rip off the check, then take a deep breath, summon all the courage remaining in me, and stride past the thugs, straight up to my stepfather to hand him the slip of paper.

He glares down his nose at me, then the check, then back at me. "If that check bounces..."

"It won't," I assure him, chin held high, gaze defiant. He probably knows me well enough by now to know that I'm not bluffing. I don't have a good enough poker face to pull that off.

His eyes narrow. "Where did you get this kind of money so quickly? Did you skim off the top of our accounts before you left?"

I snort. I can't help it. The thought of me stooping to his level is too hilarious.

He raises an eyebrow. "Ah. I see." His gaze drops lower, rakes over my body in a long sweep. "Well. I never would have thought you had it in you to sell your worthless body, Corbella. What would your mother think?"

I grit my teeth and clench my fists. "You wouldn't."

"No. You're right. Because I know how much your poor mother has already suffered, having a traitor bitch like you for a child." He snatches the check from my hand. "You'd better pray this money is legitimate, girl. It's the only reason your mother isn't paying more for your mistakes, whore."

My cheeks burn hot, but I hold his gaze. "Better a whore than a petty thief," I spit.

He lifts his hand. I make no move to stop him. I can handle whatever this asshole wants to throw at me.

But before the blow can land, a shrill sound erupts throughout the quiet street. All of us, goons included, whip around in shock. Only to find Diana halfway up the block holding an air horn over her head. She must have slipped out the back of the shop to find the air horn in the storage room, the one we take to tailgate parties at the local football games.

Annoyed as I am at her for getting more involved, I have to admit it's a smart move. Doors everywhere are cracking open, curious neighbors and shop tenders opening their doors to peer out.

My stepfather drops his hand, curls his fingers into fists instead, my check crumpled in one hand. "I'll be back for the rest."

"And I'll have it," I call back, even as he gestures at the goons and starts to retreat up the block.

It isn't until he disappears around the corner and Diana reaches my side that I realize I'm shaking. She wraps her arm around my shoulders, hugs me to her side as she leads me back into the shop. A few neighbors are still watching, frowning, confused. Someone yells something about noise pollution, but Diana ignores him and helps me into the store, onto a stool at the counter.

My eyes sting. I'm surprised to realize, belatedly, that I'm crying.

I guess this is what an adrenaline crash feels like. I bury my face in my hands and struggle to take deep breaths.

Diana slides a cup of water up to my lips, and I take a few sips, then gulps, before I finally regain my head enough to wipe my eyes and pull myself upright.

"Are you okay?" Diana is asking, her hand still gently circling my upper back in a relaxing motion. "Do you want me to call the cops? I will. I got that whole interaction on tape."

I shake my head, harder than I meant to, and spill water everywhere. "No cops. Please."

She heaves a sigh and draws a stool over to sit down beside me. "You know how much I care about you, Cor. Whatever you're going through, you can tell me."

I swallow thickly. "I don't want to get you involved."

She rolls her eyes. "What's your problem is mine too, Cor."