Page 29 of Silver Linings

sixteen

. . .

To say the girls gave me a thorough ribbing after Hendrix left would be an understatement, and despite all my protestations that he and I are just friends, they didn’t believe me. I don’t know if I believe me either.

I’ve been working overtime to keep the smile off my face ever since he started choking on his drink tonight. How am I supposed to keep things professional when he does things like showing up at a book club about orc smut and just rolling with it? All in the name of support .

I had to send him home, or I might have jumped his bones on the shop floor before I could even lock the door. He looked so earnest, it physically pained me to turn him away, a gut punch feeling that is still roiling in my gut. But it was for the best.

Right?

I dig through my tote bag, rifling through receipts and no less than thirteen different lip products in search of my keys to close the store. When I finally have them in hand, I lock both the handle and deadbolt before jiggling the door to make sure it’s secure.

In college, I made the mistake of forgetting to lock the door one night when it was my turn to close.

I was stressed with exams coming up, trying to keep up with all the parties I felt obligated to go to, and it was unsurprisingly one of the rare times my mom decided to pop up.

Thankfully, nothing bad happened, but Pat never let me forget it, and I’m so traumatized, I still get a little spooked every time I lock up.

Giving the door one more shake for good measure, I turn around to see a man lurking by the curb, staring right at me.

My heart starts beating erratically out of my chest, and every horror story I’ve ever heard from women plays like a film reel through my mind.

Okay, it’s no big deal… If I don’t engage and just walk as quickly as possible to somewhere more populated, it’ll be fine. I briefly entertain the idea of running back into the store, but I don’t want him to follow me in and then block my only exit.

Keeping my keys in my hand between my knuckles, I move to walk past him, but he steps in front of me, blocking my path. He’s too close for comfort, and it’s making my pulse jump.

“Go back in, and give me all the money from your register.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His pallid complexion shines with sweat under the lamp light, as his imposing frame lumbers over me. I try my best to not be cowed by it, to not show the fear racing through my body in case it emboldens him further. Decades of living in New York City, and nothing like this has ever happened to me.

“We’re cash free,” I lie. I have no idea where it came from, but I guess I’m rolling with it.

My subconscious doesn’t want me to relent, even though it would be stupid not to.

It would be safer to just do what he wants, but I don’t want to get trapped inside with him where no one can see us.

What should I do? I really need to not be robbed right now.

Money is getting tighter and tighter as the days and renovations wear on, and even the meager amount of cash in the till counts right now.

“Then give me what you have on you.” He moves to grab my bag, but my body reacts of its own accord and jerks back out of his grasp.

I start to back away, moving to flee. Turning my back on him would be a mistake, but I’m not sure what other options there are, other than to run like a bat out of hell and get away from him as fast as possible.

I might be able to make it. I’m smaller than him; surely, that gives me some sort of advantage, right?

Hoisting my tote higher on my shoulder, I tighten my grip around the straps and move forward, readying to sprint. He anticipates my move and grabs me by my hair, yanking me back.

A sensation like singing fire dances along my scalp from where he grabs me, but my mind moves past the pain, because now, I’m pissed.

I’m not a vain person, but I love my hair. It’s been years of tender love and maintenance to get it soft and thick…and the fact that this fucker touched it has me forgetting I should be trying to get away to safety. Instead, adrenaline starts to flood my body, and I’m gearing up for a fight.

He shifts his footing to spin me around, trying to gain better access to my bag, and as he does, I wind up my right fist and land a punch squarely on his jaw.

“You bitch!” he yells in surprise, but his grip holds firm.

“Fuck, that hurt so much more than I thought it would.” I shake out my sore knuckles, swelling already starting to form.

“It’s about to hurt a whole lot more,” he grunts as he gets a grip on my bag.

I don’t know why I’m being so stubborn. I should just let him take it.

He won’t get very far with a bunch of measly receipts and a twenty dollar bill floating around at the bottom.

But it’s the principle of it all that has me fired up now.

He will not get my bag or my favorite lip oil. Not on my metaphorical watch.

I wrestle to keep my grip on the bag as he hooks one of his legs between mine to throw me off balance, and it works as I stumble a step.

How is it possible no one is seeing this happen right now? Eight million people in this fucking city, and not a single one is on this block right now to help me?

I struggle to stay upright as he continues to try and trip me while he grabs the arm holding my bag and squeezes. His grip is bone crunching, and I need to switch tactics somehow, but all the self-defense classes Nan enrolled me in as a girl dissipate from my brain in the height of my panic.

“Just give it up.”

I should. At this point, I should, just so I can get to safety.

The adrenaline is wearing off, and the fear is setting in again when something shiny flashes in his hand.

This guy has a knife, and I’m trying to defend…

what? Nothing that matters, at least. In the far reaches of my mind, I realize I’ll need to call a locksmith tonight to have the locks changed on the shop door because my keys are in the bag I’m about to let him have.

“Fine, take it.” All the fight leaves my body, and I go a little limp, offering him my bag.

“Give me your necklace too.” He motions with the knife toward the dainty gold pendant around my neck. The necklace I wear every day without fail. The one my dad gifted to me right before he died.

“No,” I whisper softly, hardly audible.

I take a step back, uncomprehending what to do. He can’t have this necklace, anything but the last piece of my dad I have left.

The attacker follows my retreat, latching on to both of my arms to hold me immobile, spinning me around and pinning my back to his front.

The contact makes me want to vomit. He’s banded his arm around my upper half in a vice grip as he snakes his knife-wielding arm up and settles the edge under the chain of my necklace.

A tear silently tracks down my cheek at what I’m about to lose.

I glimpse a tall shadow not far off in the distance, but my devastated mind can’t make sense of what it is, only that it’s lumbering closer and closer, faster than I even thought possible. Then, my gaze settles on eyes the color of sun soaked evergreens.

Hendrix.

He came back? For me?

The haze of resignation starts to retreat at seeing him, and it gives me the boost of strength I need to make one last ditch effort to get out of this. The attacker hasn’t noticed Hendrix is here yet, and I need to deploy distraction tactics and hope to God it works.

Striking like an asp, I bring my leg up and swiftly crunch it back down on his foot, hard enough that he bends forward, taking me with him.

The sudden movement makes the blade under my necklace nip the side of my neck, and I feel my pendant fall to the ground.

In our crouched position, he’s brought me parallel to his groin, and I sail my arm back with as much force as I can manage into his balls.

His hold finally weakens, and I push myself out of his grip and away from him just in time for Hendrix to take him to the ground like a seasoned NFL defensive tackle.

Safe.

Hendrix is here. I’m safe.

All the blood rushes to my ears, and all I can hear is a faint ringing. The adrenaline I had moments ago has fully worn off and my whole body has run cold. Vaguely, I can hear someone speaking to me as I crouch down and pick up my necklace, now broken, from the pavement.

I stare down at the floral embossing on the face—frozen, ears buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

The last thing my dad ever gave me is broken. I can no longer feel its soothing weight against my chest, can no longer reach for it when I’m sad or confused or pensive, expecting it to have all the answers. I feel cold with it gone, or maybe that’s just the air outside. I’m not sure.

The voices persist until something finally gets through to me.

“Silver!” Hendrix calls out my name, gentle yet ringing with authority.

He said my name .

Not another random name like he does when we play our little game. I almost forgot what it sounded like falling off his lips, and it’s everything I never thought to dream of.

I want to hear it a million more times.

“I need you to call 911. Can you do that for me, Sunshine?” I like when he calls me that too.

I nod at him, but I don’t say anything as I crouch down to my bag, discarded on the ground, and reach shaking hands inside for my phone.

Hendrix has the assailant down on the ground, straddling his back with the guy’s face pressed to the concrete, bones crunching and both hands gripped behind his back. He’s definitely not going anywhere if the flex of Hendrix’s biceps is anything to go by.

When I finally get through to a first responder, I answer all their questions, and within minutes, there is a police car on the scene, handcuffing my attacker.

With Hendrix no longer detaining him, he gently walks over to me, intuiting I may need some space.

I don’t. Not from him.

So, I bridge the final few steps between us.