We reach the street level, my boots echoing in the high-ceilinged lobby with its glossy hardwood floors. A mirror set into one wall reflects the three of us as we move carefully toward the glass front doors. Petra in the lead, the fancy pink sweatsuit baggy on her small frame, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She moves with elegance and purpose, each fall of a sneaker-clad foot quick and carefully placed.
My black sweatsuit fits tighter, with the pants tucked into my laced boots, and my blonde hair loosened from the bun I pulled it into before the shootout. Blue, his coat glossy in the low light, stays close to my side, his head at my hip, body trailing behind mine, big tail low, ears perked forward. Everything about him is sharp focus.
Petra pushes out into the night. Our remaining attacker must have fled—the street is empty, its quiet disrupted by the shriek of approaching sirens. The rain has slowed—it’s just misting now; the streetlights wear halos and the cars are covered in diamonds.
Petra turns left, as if she has a plan, a place for us to go. I follow, trusting her instincts, knowing they are as honed as my own…probably even finer since this is her city.
“Sorry about your apartment,” I say as we round the corner. The siren-bearing police cars screech onto the street we just abandoned. Petra and I slip our guns out of sight. I stash mine in the front pocket of my duffel at my chest, close at hand yet invisible to any officers who may canvass the area.
“It will be fine,” she says, pulling out her phone.
She swipes it open and chooses one of her favorites. A man’s voice answers and Petra speaks in French to him. She laughs and coos before her voice drops a few octaves, diving into the tones of a threat. The conversation ends soon after that and Petra returns her phone to her bag.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes.” She smiles at me. “Just making arrangements.” Her tone implies questions are not welcome, so I press my lips together to keep from asking anything further.
The adrenaline of the attack fades with each step and exhaustion comes for me again. Petra just keeps walking, winding through the city streets, apparently tireless. “Petra,” I finally say, breaking the long silence between us. “Where are we going?”
“I have a hotel I like, it’s not far now. Very luxurious but also subtle. Not like the Crillon.” She says the name of Robert’s chosen hotel with a twinge of disgust.
“That place is a little over the top.”
“True luxury is not so flashy,” Petra says.
I shrug. “I’m going to give that a rating of ‘not my department’.”
Petra looks over at me, her eyes narrowing. “You do not care about money,” she says. “Have you always had it?”
“It’s not that I don’t care about money,” I say, defensive for some reason I can’t place. As if it’s wrong not to care about the made-up system of value humans have created. “It’s just that I don’t care about fancy stuff.”
“You fly on private jets.”
“Yes, for convenience, not for the luxury. I fly commercial when I can. When I head to the island I’ll fly commercial most of the way.”
“So what do you do with Blue?” she asks.
“He goes with me as an emotional support dog.” She makes a snorting sound that implies emotional support animals are not a real thing. “Seriously,” I say. “You think I can survive without him?”
“No,” she says, her gaze falling on Blue and softening. Even hardened criminals can’t resist his face.
We turn down a narrow alley. The rain drips off the rooflines, plopping into puddles. My hearing is starting to come back. A door opens, spilling music into the night. Two men, leaning on each other, stumble out onto the cobblestones.
They are laughing, but when they see Petra and me they straighten, their faces twisting into lascivious grins. As if they are wolves who’ve found two sheep wandering in their territory…I can’t help my responding smile. You’ve run into hunters, my friends…
They are about the same height, one with blond hair, the other auburn. They separate, spreading out…the better to surround us. Petra sighs and I glance over at her. The men are too drunk to see how dangerous we are, but Blondie does glance at Blue, his eyes narrowing for a moment, wondering perhaps if he might be dangerous. He is.
“Bonsoir,” Auburn says, his accent so bad even I can tell he’s not French. He raises both arms wide in greeting, exposing his chest for a kill shot. But I’m not going to shoot them. No, we are going to do this the old-fashioned way…
“Sorry,” I say, “I don’t speak French.”
“An American?” Blondie asks in a British accent, his attention leaving Blue and rising to my face. His gaze is cloudy with alcohol and I almost feel bad for him. He still has a chance to get out of this totally unscathed, though. If they let us pass everything will be fine...
“Yes,” I answer, my tone friendly, as if I’m not judging the distance between my fist and his throat. It’s easy to pretend since so much of my life is spent hiding this exact calculation from men. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the things Robert loves about me. The thought brings a subtle smile to my lips that Blondie takes the complete wrong way. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, as if he is going to do something with them and me soon. Not gonna happen, buddy.
Petra and I keep moving, indicating that we plan to walk right by them, but the two men, despite their obvious intoxication, move back together in unison, blocking our path. Drunk doesn’t dull that instinct, I guess. “Where you running off to?” Auburn asks.
Petra and I stop moving just shy of arm distance away from them. “We are headed home,” Petra says, her voice icy.
“Come have a drink first,” Blondie says, gesturing toward the bar behind them. “One pint.”
“No, thanks,” I say. “Please let us pass.” See how polite I can be!
Auburn steps forward and Blondie moves with him, closing the distance between us. Petra sighs again, as if she’s experienced this for a lifetime and no longer finds it amusing. Maybe she never did. But something about the scent of rain in the air, the late hour, and the fact that these two goons have lifted the weight of exhaustion from my shoulders again with their simmering threat of violence has me in a good mood.
“I wouldn’t,” I say, offering them one last out, one last chance to not see a doctor tonight.
Blondie’s smile turns predatory. The distance between his throat and my fist is now crossable but I let him come closer, let him make the first move, as it were. A girl is always supposed to let the boy make the first move, right?
The yeasty scent of beer mixed with the harsh tones of cheap whiskey wafts off him as he leans forward, invading my personal space. He smiles down at me like I’m little and he is big. Like I’m helpless and he is dangerous.
Ah, fuck it.
My fist lashes out, driving into his throat. I move so quickly the warmth and texture of his skin doesn’t register on my knuckles. The force of the blow does, though; it reverberates down my arm, settling into my shoulder as I fall back into a fighting stance. Blue’s nose touches my hip and he lets out an excited bark. He loves a fight as much as me.
Blondie stumbles back, both hands clutching his neck, his lips puckering—not for a kiss but in an attempt to get air past his shocked windpipe. I didn’t hit him that hard. He will be fine. Will live another day, maybe even harass another woman.
Yeah, we should probably do something more. Really convince him this isn’t something he should try again.
I shuffle forward, closing the distance between us, my fists up. His eyes widen, but he is too drunk or stupid or both to turn and run. I kick with my front leg, landing a blow between his legs. His skin pales and he drops to his knees. Blondie’s hands abandon his neck and cup his crotch. He tips onto his side, curling into the fetal position.
Auburn hasn’t moved. His mouth hangs open in surprise. Blue barks again, high and excited, waiting for my next move, ready for anything. Petra wears a wicked smile—amused and fierce.
My eyes narrow, searching Auburn’s face. His gaze tracks to mine. “You, what did you…” he sputters for a moment and then finally lands on: “Bitch!”
I huff a laugh. So original. “This never happened before?” I ask, gesturing toward Blondie, still holding himself and making pathetic mewling sounds on the wet cobblestones. “The women you harass usually just let you?” It’s at moments like this I wish I could raise one eyebrow but alas, I do not have that power.
Auburn’s hands fist at his side, and color infuses his face. “He didn’t do anything to you,” he cries, the injustice almost cracking his voice. “We just wanted to buy you a drink.”
Petra laughs, deep and rich and highly amused, but edged with danger. Auburn steps back from her, suddenly realizing how close they still stand. She moves toward him, and he stumbles back. She laughs again.
And it is funny—this big brawny man scooting away from an elfin thing like Petra. “Let me give you a few tips,” Petra says, her voice laced with derision. “If it is late, and dark. If you are in an alleyway. If you are drunk. And there are any women around. They are afraid of you.” Auburn opens his mouth and closes it. “Because you are dangerous. It is obvious to any female with half a brain that you are the type of men who think a game of cat and mouse is fun. That you enjoy blocking women’s paths, making them fear you. Forcing them to calculate which is safer, going into the crowded bar with you or trying to escape out on the street.”
Auburn glances down at his friend and then quickly back to Petra, who takes another step toward him. He backs away, keeping more than an arm’s length of distance between them. “Maybe you’re not a rapist,” Petra continues. Auburn’s eyes widen at the accusation as if he would never. “Maybe you just harass women because it’s fun or funny to you.”
“We didn’t harass you!” Auburn defends their behavior. Petra laughs that evil amused laugh again and Auburn’s face goes even redder. “We just wanted to buy you a drink.”
“Yes.” Petra smiles. “That’s what you wanted. And we wanted to walk past you without a conversation. Why do your wants outweigh ours? Why do you get to choose the interactions between us?”
“Well,” I say. “I don’t think they chose this.” I gesture to Blondie, who has moved past mewing into moaning.
“I think I need a doctor,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “I’d guess that you do.”
“You’re crazy,” Auburn decides. “You’re both nuts.”
I shake my head and step toward him. He stumbles back, almost losing his footing on the uneven cobblestones. “No,” I say. “I’m not insane.” Though the smile that twists my lips does feel a little unhinged. “I’m just not taking any shit from asshats like you. In fact, I’m probably the most sane woman you’ve ever met.”
“I’m calling the police,” Auburn decides, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
“Enjoy your conversation,” Petra says, starting to walk down the alley again. Auburn leaps out of her way, his phone gripped in his hand.
The door to the bar opens again and three men spill out onto the street. They are laughing and when they see Petra and me a chorus of “bonsoirs” rings out. But they don’t stop. They don’t try to block our path…like normal strangers, they just keep walking.
“See,” I say, turning back to Auburn who still stands next to his fallen friend, holding his phone. The pale glow of the screen lights his face from below, making him look almost ghoulish. “That’s how you don’t harass a person.” I point to the three men. They glance at Blondie on the cobblestones and one of them asks him something in French—I’m guessing it runs along the lines of are you okay?
Blondie responds with a groan. Blue’s nose touches my hip. It’s time to go.
Petra and I move forward again, reaching the end of the block without incident. “The most sane woman ever, huh?” Petra asks.
“Yeah,” I say as a rumble of thunder joins the lingering ringing in my ears. “Totally sane.”