Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

With a heavy heart, I sigh, another day down but a full night of alone ahead of me. I wonder what Trace is doing tonight, what he had for dinner. He probably went to crash Noah and Miranda’s supper. No wait—it’s Tuesday.

He’s probably out eating tacos.

Or maybe, like me, he has no appetite and can’t eat at all.

I wish I had the nerve to call him, but after almost an entire week, is he likely to give a shit? Women chase after this man—he isn’t going to wait around for one who doesn’t.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t see the man lurking next to my car, fiddling with the door handle. Lost in my thoughts, I don’t see him startle when he sees me approach.

One second I’m carrying my laptop bag, the next second it’s being yanked out of my grip.

“Hey!” I shout, caught off guard, barely registering what’s happening.

But I’m in his way, blocking his exit, so he has to shove me to get by.

The mace—the mace! You have mace, Hollis.

I fumble for my keychain and the pink canister hanging there, a gift from Madison after I got my first apartment. Three years old and never been deployed, I pray something shoots out when I push down the little trigger.

My aim is terrible.

The man tries hitting me, still latched onto my bag.

“Let go of the bag you fucking bitch!”

Let go of the bag, Hollis—it’s not worth it.

But wouldn’t he have shot me already if he had a gun? Wouldn’t he have stabbed me if he had a knife? A million thoughts enter my brain, none of them to flee.

“Fuck you,” I tell him, spraying, pointing the pink mace at his face. I squeeze the button and squeeze my eyes shut at the same time.

Open them and press the red button on my key fob.

The car alarm blaring is barely loud enough to attract attention, but the mace on my keychain is enough to make him lose his damn mind—and his eyesight.

The man falls to the ground, screaming in pain, hands cupping his eyes, begging me to throw water on his face.

“Give me some damn water, you fucking bitch!” he screams. “I know you have some bitch.” He calls me bitch over and over—not that I blame him. “I’m blind, you whore!”

Shouldn’t have tried to steal my stuff motherfucker.

Shaking uncontrollably, I somehow manage to dial 911 on my cell phone while holding the mace in his direction—in case I have to spray him again while I’m waiting for the police.

It takes them eight minutes to get here.

Another few for the officers to peel him off the ground and arrest him. Cuff him, put him in the back of their squad car. It’s unpleasant business—the man is cursing at them now too, worse obscenities than he called me and he’s spitting.

I’m trembling still and don’t think I can drive. Not in the city, not like this. In any case, they need me down at the station, so I can release a statement and file a report.

They give me a ride, and on the way there, I shoot my best friend a text to let her know what’s going on.

Madison calls (like I figured she would), but I send her to voicemail; I’m in no mood to chat, especially not in a squad car with a police officer. Maddie would inevitably ask if he was good-looking and single and I’d have to disappoint her and tell her the officer I’m riding with is female.

She makes chitchat with me, trying to bring down my stress level and calm me down.

“I’m fine now. I’m fine.” Keep saying it—maybe it will come true.

And I am, for the most part. The odds of getting robbed or mugged are low—I was just the unlucky one who interrupted Alvin Butterfield while he was trying to break into cars and steal loose change from the cup holders.

Parts of me are sympathetic; resorting to crime to feed yourself is a reality I’ve never had to face. The other part of me is angry—he could have hurt me and I could have hurt him, all over some spare change.

I don’t even keep money in my car. It was a bad investment on his end to waste so much time trying to get inside, considering the outcome.

Still.

Here I am, sitting at the police station in Precinct Five. It’s an old college campus they converted into law enforcement offices, and I follow the officer into the lobby. Plop down in a chair straight out of the eighties—they obviously didn’t have the budget to redecorate when they bought the building, comfort being the least of their priorities.

Hookers and pimps have sat in these chairs…

I squirm.

Stand, rooting through my bag for hand sanitizer. Douse myself.

Before long, I’m seated across from the arresting officer and she begins taking my statement. I describe how I left work and had my head down walking into the parking structure (a mistake). I told her I had my hands full, but my keys ready. I told her about how I didn’t notice Alvin Butterfield trying to break into my car until I was upon him—how we both startled each other. How he lost his mind when I sprayed him in the eyes.