Not fiction.
Jesus, I felt so bad about that.
An old family friend told you she’d been a sex slave, and you went and blocked her?
"Man, I’m such a bitch," I grumbled to myself as I tripped over a couple of pillows that had taken up too much room on the bed so I’d tossed them onto the floor while I slept.
Of course, I’d been conceited and arrogant for years. It was only since I’d been knocked off my pedestal that I’d come to realize any of that.
A reformed bitch trying to shrug off her ‘mean girl’ crown wasn’t breaking news, but it sure as hell felt like it to me.
So, when Star had come to me with this whole NWS shit, telling me about a woman who recognized every face she'd ever seen, including the men who had trafficked her overseas, who'd raped her, sold her, owned her, and that Star had figured out a way for her to get those faces down on paper so she could run them through a facial recognition scanner, my ears had pricked up.
When some massive names from the political sphere had popped out of that scanner, and I was talking names from the upper echelons of the government here, well, that had me creaming all over it. Not just because I wanted to apologize to Star either. But because, hell, what a chance to make a difference, to right some wrongs.
"And, if I'm lucky, earn back Star’s friendship," I whispered to myself on a sigh.
Stepping out of the bedroom, I ambled over to the wall of glass that had pre-programmed drapes. From nightfall to daybreak, the curtains were open. From daybreak to nightfall, they were closed. That meant I had a panoramic view of the city as well as my terrace.
Spider-Man wasn’t there.
I mean, that was a pity, but I was kind of glad. Especially as, who the fuck knew? Spider-Man could be a Sparrow too.
Shivering at the thought, I stopped a foot away from the glass and looked out onto the world.
New York really was how they said it was—it never slept. Not really. The thousands upon thousands of glittering lights had, once upon a time, given me the heebie-jeebies.
Before I’d morphed into the Savannah Daniels, global warming and climate change had been my pet cause. Seeing all these lights was a reminder of how much energy we consumed even when we were supposed to be at rest.
Then, of course, it had led to me thinking about how many lights were on in Tucson, Dallas, Chicago, LA, and Atlanta too. Major cities all of them, but what about the minor? What about the towns? And hell, that was just the US.
How many other lights were on in Madrid, Paris, Tokyo, and Brazil?
See?
Just thinking about it made me shiver again, but I’d grown up since then.
Sort of.
From my position on the front line of the news, I’d come to learn that nobody really gave a damn about the climate. About the planet either. They just said they did but they still didn’t recycle, still had sex in the shower even though that wasted a gazillion gallons of water, and it didn’t stop them from picking up discounted meat at the store even if that beef came from a super farm where bacteria was treated better than the cattle.
Aware I sounded judgmental from my position of privilege, I gnawed on my bottom lip, and decided that IT was the least of my worries. We were living in a horror movie, one that was just slow burn.
Wincing, I made to twist around when my foot knocked against something. It rattled against the glass, then clattered to the floor. It scared the heck out of me until I remembered I’d spilled coffee out on the patio earlier and had cleaned it up, then left the mop here.
"Lights on," I declared to the room at large, swooping down to grab it.
With it in hand, I cast a final look at the view ahead, only, with the light on, I saw more of my reflection than before.
Movement shifted behind me as I caught a face in the window and I screamed.
Holy fuck, I screamed so loud that I scared myself as I jerked around, catching the intruder as he swarmed toward me like some kind of fucking ninja.
His face was mean, nasty, and that I saw it period told me he didn't intend on my surviving tonight. He had a massive scar slicing down from his right eye all along to the curve of his lips. I’d heard about those clown grins before. Someone—I’d assume they weren’t friends—placed the tip of a knife to the corner of his mouth then sliced up.
His presence here told me he wasn’t the kind of guy I wanted to be friends with, so even with the curiosity that really would be the death of me, I had no desire to know why he had a one-sided, scarred grin.
"Who the fuck are you?"
No answer.
Armed with a mop, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to survive.
He had a knife. Not a gun. Did that give me more of a chance?
No one else lived on this floor so I knew I had to rescue myself.
Dad insisted on security, but I dismissed them when I was at home.
Who was going to get to me in a secured building that was owned by the O’Donnellys?
No fucking one.
Or so I thought.
Famous last words.
I had to save myself.
Jesus.
I hadn’t done that. Ever.
I felt like he had wings as he flew toward me, so fast, so fucking sure of what he was doing, so I did the only thing I could. I stuck out the mop and waved it from left to right.
Sure, I looked like I belonged in a Groucho Marx movie, but I’d played field hockey in school. I had a mean arm when I chose to use it.
The mop, still wet, sent a tiny shower of coffee beads spraying all over my crushed gray velvet sofa but I decided not to worry about that as my blood could, very likely, be decorating it next.
"What do you want?" I screamed at him, still waggling the mop.
No reply.
Silent motherfucker but he grinned at me, laughing at my weapon.
That made me want to prove exactly what I could do with a stick.
I prodded the mop in the air then quickly twisted it around. Because Dad was who he was, I’d been trained to defend myself. Of course, my instructors had never imagined I’d be armed only with a piece of cleaning equipment.
Knowing I needed something heavier, I tried to think about what the room contained, all while I stabbed the air as he finally got into my personal space.
His arm went high, arcing upward as he started to bring the knife down, so I shoved the wet, slimy mop head in his face.
He darted to the side, ducking down, but I followed, smushing the mop like I was wiping the floor with it, then I pushed hard. He yelled in surprise as I carried on pushing forward. I tried to find his mouth, to find the depressed cavern that came now he’d parted his lips but to no avail.
"I’m gonna make you deep throat this, fucker," I snarled even though it was bullshit. His hands wafted in front of him, grabbing the mop and shoving it aside but I was ready for that.
Giving it one final push, I let go and leaped over the sofa, scuttling along the cushions like I'd done as a kid, then I made it to the coffee table. The glass was cold beneath my feet as I dipped down and reached for the remote lying there. I sent it soaring at him and laughed, crazily pleased with myself, when I scored a hit.
I wasn’t going to die today.
I just had to get out of here.
I had to go one floor up.
I had to.
In that place, safety lay.
"You fucking bitch," the guy snapped.
"What was I supposed to do?" I panted, staring at the coffee-grounds that mingled with his scar. "Just let you kill me?"