As she pushed against the hearth to free herself, he shoved his full weight into her body. Her face scraped against the mortar, and when she whimpered, his erection hardened against her backside. As the metal star heated, she realized being raped again paled to what he now planned. “Josiah, don’t do this. You’ve taken enough. ”
“Not even close. “ He removed the star from the flame, tossed it on the floor and then shoved her back, pressing her right shoulder into the hot metal. Instantly, it burned through her shirt and into her flesh.
She howled in anguish. His excitement grew. But as he reached for the hem of her skirt, agony turned her world black.
Eva Rayburn jerked awake, gripping the steering wheel of her truck, dragging in a lungful of air. Her muscles, as tense as a bow, braced for attack.
Seconds passed. No burning pain seared her flesh, and her muscles eased. Cocooned by the night, she heard only the distant sound of traffic and the chirp of a nearby grasshopper. The dream’s smothering haze slowly eased its grip and the familiar came into focus. She was in the cab of her old truck parked on a suburban street corner. Safe. Okay. Years away from that terrible night she’d endured long ago.
“Damn it.” She rested her head against the steering wheel and drew in a deep, deep breath before slowly letting it leak away. “Just the dream. Just the dream.”
She slumped back against the seat, grabbed the edge of her T-shirt and billowed the ends until the sweat dripping between her breasts dried. It had been years since she’d suffered through the nightmare, and its arrival didn’t bode well.
Eva checked her watch, cursed herself for having dozed and then glanced toward the one-story house across the street. A ‘72 red Porsche was now parked in the driveway, signaling her guy had arrived home.
“Way to go, Eva,” she muttered. “Sleep through the job.”
Eva tucked her long hair under a FLORIST ball cap, grabbed the bouquet of daisies and a clipboard and jogged toward the front door of the one-level rancher. She rang the bell, shoving aside a quiver of worry. An overhead bulb spit out a weak halo of light that ringed the cracked brick porch steps and a ragged welcome mat. Not a lot of light but enough to see her way quickly back down the stairs.
She’d been a part-time process server for about three months. The work fit well around her job as a waitress/bartender at King’s pub and her other gig as a night attendant at a homeless shelter. Normally, she didn’t squeeze in a delivery between a shift at the pub and an overnight at the shelter, but her boss, Luke Fraser at LTF Processing, had promised her extra cash for this delivery tonight. The additional income had been too sweet to pass up.
Luke had described the job as a piece of cake. Piece of cake. Luke never paid extra for easy jobs, and toss in that this was a divorce court summons for a guy nicknamed Bigfoot, she’d decided to play it safe and go with her florist delivery ruse. Eva adjusted her cap and rang the bell a second time. The faint scent of garbage rose from the daisies retrieved from the Dumpster behind a florist shop down the alley from King’s. All she needed was a signature.
She rang the bell a third time.
Eva straightened her slim build to her full five feet one. Faded jeans hung on her slim hips and an oversized black hoodie swallowed her narrow shoulders and flat chest. As her mother used to say, she weighed one hundred pounds “soaking wet.” The clothes combined with her small stature had most guessing she was a high school kid, not a woman in her late twenties. She hoped this guy pegged her for a kid because people generally underestimated kids.
Footsteps sounded behind the front door. Her heart kicked up a notch, but her chin stayed level and her stance relaxed. Just a signature. Piece of cake. Just serve him and then get the hell out of Dodge.
The door snapped open to one of the tallest men she’d ever met. The guy stood at least six foot six and had to have weighed three-hundred-plus pounds. A stained wife-beater T-shirt stretched across a wide chest and three days’ growth of beard covered a lantern jaw. Bigfoot.
Behind him a table lamp lit a messy room furnished with a worn couch and a flat-panel sixty-four-inch television airing a game show.
“I have a delivery for Bruce Radford.”
He snorted. “I don’t know what the hell you are selling, kid, but I don’t want it.” His deep voice, raspy from cigarettes, telegraphed annoyance.
“I’m not selling. I’m delivering.” Extra attitude in the voice hid the nerves flexing in her belly. “Are you Bruce Radford?”
Radford moved to close the door. “Nobody here ordered any fucking flowers. ”
She shrugged, still careful to keep her expression neutral. “Like I said, I ain’t selling anything, mister. Just delivering flowers. You Bruce Radford or not?”
Bloodshot eyes narrowed.
“If you’re not, just say so. I’m too tried to play games. I’ll tell the boss you refused the flowers.” She turned to leave.
“Who sent them?” He was more careful than she’d expected.
Eva paused and glanced at the clipboard, pretending to read. “Some woman named Wanda.”
“I don’t know a Wanda.”
“She’s some hot chick that came into the shop at closing time. Red dress. Blond hair.”
The suspicion darkening his eyes faded a fraction. “Blond?”
“Yeah. And big boobs.”
A hint of a smile tugged his full lips. He didn’t know who the hell Wanda was but blond and big boobs suited him just fine. “I’ll take ‘em.”
“So you are Bruce Radford?” The scent of stale pizza and beer mingled with his body odor.
“Yeah, I’m Radford.”
“Great.” Eva pulled a pen from behind her ear and held it out. For good measure, she tossed in a smile. “Just need your John Hancock.”
Bruce studied the paper but in the fading light couldn’t possibly read the small print. “Must be the chick at Hanson Trucking. She’s got a thing for me.”
She edged the clipboard closer, obscuring the page with most of her hand. ‘Just sign here and I’ll be out of your hair. ”
Pursing his lips to hide a smile, Radford nodded. “Cool.”
Radford grabbed her outstretched pen and scrawled his name in a sloppy mixture of print and cursive that reminded her of a third grader. “Thanks.”
She shoved the flowers and tore off a copy of the delivery slip. “You have a nice night.”
Absently, he took the slip. “Sure.”
Eva moved toward her truck, praying the starter didn’t act up and wishing she’d had enough gas in the tank to keep the engine running. Just hustle across the yard and get behind the wheel before Bradford figures out what he’s really signed—an agreement to appear in court. When he figured out he’d been tricked, he’d be one pissed hombre.
Eva fished her keys out of her pocket, got in the truck and fumbled in the dim light for the ignition. A glance over her shoulder told her Radford hadn’t raised his gaze from the flowers, which he sniffed like a lovesick fool. He’d already forgotten about the delivery kid. Round one goes to Eva.
She cranked the engine.
Nothing. She tried the engine a second time. Still nothing. Crap. Another look at Radford had him studying the paper closely. The dumb schoolboy look morphed into confusion and then anger. “Hey, what the hell is this?”
Tension fisted in Eva’s gut. She cranked the engine. Nada.
What had her boss, King, said when he’d lent her the truck? Count to three and then try again. Shit. One. She glanced over at Radford who sprinted across the yard toward her truck. Two. He reached the street in seconds and thundered halfway across the street when she lost her nerve and turned the key.
Click. Click. Click.
No engine roared to life.
Normally, she’d get out and tighten a few wires and the problem would be solved, but if she got out now, Radford would likely beat her to a pulp.
With the paper balled in his fist, Radford shouted, “What the hell is this, bitch?”