that worked. I thought cops could always tell when you were lying. Either I was good at it, which I knew I wasn't, or I gave him plausible deniability, which seemed more likely.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I will."
He was either really nice or a total doofus.
I walked down the street and around a corner. As soon as I was out of sight, I pulled out the baton again. No way was I going to walk around unarmed.
Or one armed.
Less than six blocks to go. Maybe seven. I turned the corner after the cop encounter and was going down a street I rarely, if ever, went down. I wanted to get out of his sight, and it would have been two more blocks before that happened if I'd kept on my normal route.
Talk about redneck alley! No wonder I never came this way—it was all cars on blocks and rusting washing machines. I looked for a toilet sporting flowers in the bowl. Bubba Lecter must have walked over to my slightly less rundown neighborhood from this one.
I thought about turning back, but it was just one extra block, then I could turn left again toward the ocean.
As I neared one house, I could see a couple of guys in wife beaters on a porch, probably kicking back some Bud and watching the apocalypse unfold. One of them got up and went inside the house, but the other wolf whistled at me.
How he even knew I was a girl was beyond me. Maybe the stupid Frozen backpack. That thing was gonna get me killed.
"Hey, Buffy, headed for a campout? You're welcome to stay in our backyard!" He laughed loudly at his own joke. Stupid, but not dangerous.
And apparently watched teen dramas when he was a kid.
Then he stood up. "Come on, let's see whatcha got in the bag, honey!" He laughed loudly again. I walked faster. He didn't move off the porch, but I kept the side of my eye on him and tried to pick up the pace. Fortunately, it didn't look like he was going to come and chase me.
He didn't. He didn't need to. He was the distraction. His buddy grabbed my bag from behind and pulled me. He'd snuck around while the other guy kept my attention.
I stumbled off balance, but managed to whip the baton around and grazed the guy's arm, but it didn't really hurt him. Then the other guy got to me and grabbed my right arm. I kicked with all my strength at his groin, and yelled for help, but the flab in his thighs softened the blow and he put his foul hand over my mouth and wrenched the baton from my grasp.
DON'T TOUCH ME! my mind screamed.
These guys are gonna pay.
"None of that now, Buffy," he grunted, his breath smelling of beer, chips and salsa. "We're just gonna have us a little looksie to see whatcha got for us."
I struggled, but the two of them frog-marched me up to their porch and inside their house. It was as bad as I'd believed. There were dishes on almost every surface, and boxes of old clothing. A big old chow sat on the couch, and some other kind of hound must have left gray hairs everywhere—or maybe some big tomcat. The place smelled of unwashed bodies and stale food.
"Now I'm gonna take my hand from your mouth, and you're gonna be real quiet. Otherwise maybe I'll grab some undies from that pile and wad it up in your mouth with tape." He chuckled at his own joke.
I looked at Mr. Chuckles and nodded, as much as I was able with his hand pressed hard against my face. He chuckled again and removed his hand.
I spat on his couch.
He frowned for a second, then shrugged and laughed again. "Heh, there's worse stuff on that couch than a little girl's spit." He chuckled again.
I shuddered.
The bag was pulled off my back, along with the backpack. The other guy fumbled at the tool belt. I knocked his hands away and removed it myself. When I handed it to him, he wouldn't meet my eyes. He took the belt, but kept looking at my waist where the belt had been tied.
He licked his lips.
Crap. Must be a graduate of the Creep Squad.
"Get a zip tie,"
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I will."
He was either really nice or a total doofus.
I walked down the street and around a corner. As soon as I was out of sight, I pulled out the baton again. No way was I going to walk around unarmed.
Or one armed.
Less than six blocks to go. Maybe seven. I turned the corner after the cop encounter and was going down a street I rarely, if ever, went down. I wanted to get out of his sight, and it would have been two more blocks before that happened if I'd kept on my normal route.
Talk about redneck alley! No wonder I never came this way—it was all cars on blocks and rusting washing machines. I looked for a toilet sporting flowers in the bowl. Bubba Lecter must have walked over to my slightly less rundown neighborhood from this one.
I thought about turning back, but it was just one extra block, then I could turn left again toward the ocean.
As I neared one house, I could see a couple of guys in wife beaters on a porch, probably kicking back some Bud and watching the apocalypse unfold. One of them got up and went inside the house, but the other wolf whistled at me.
How he even knew I was a girl was beyond me. Maybe the stupid Frozen backpack. That thing was gonna get me killed.
"Hey, Buffy, headed for a campout? You're welcome to stay in our backyard!" He laughed loudly at his own joke. Stupid, but not dangerous.
And apparently watched teen dramas when he was a kid.
Then he stood up. "Come on, let's see whatcha got in the bag, honey!" He laughed loudly again. I walked faster. He didn't move off the porch, but I kept the side of my eye on him and tried to pick up the pace. Fortunately, it didn't look like he was going to come and chase me.
He didn't. He didn't need to. He was the distraction. His buddy grabbed my bag from behind and pulled me. He'd snuck around while the other guy kept my attention.
I stumbled off balance, but managed to whip the baton around and grazed the guy's arm, but it didn't really hurt him. Then the other guy got to me and grabbed my right arm. I kicked with all my strength at his groin, and yelled for help, but the flab in his thighs softened the blow and he put his foul hand over my mouth and wrenched the baton from my grasp.
DON'T TOUCH ME! my mind screamed.
These guys are gonna pay.
"None of that now, Buffy," he grunted, his breath smelling of beer, chips and salsa. "We're just gonna have us a little looksie to see whatcha got for us."
I struggled, but the two of them frog-marched me up to their porch and inside their house. It was as bad as I'd believed. There were dishes on almost every surface, and boxes of old clothing. A big old chow sat on the couch, and some other kind of hound must have left gray hairs everywhere—or maybe some big tomcat. The place smelled of unwashed bodies and stale food.
"Now I'm gonna take my hand from your mouth, and you're gonna be real quiet. Otherwise maybe I'll grab some undies from that pile and wad it up in your mouth with tape." He chuckled at his own joke.
I looked at Mr. Chuckles and nodded, as much as I was able with his hand pressed hard against my face. He chuckled again and removed his hand.
I spat on his couch.
He frowned for a second, then shrugged and laughed again. "Heh, there's worse stuff on that couch than a little girl's spit." He chuckled again.
I shuddered.
The bag was pulled off my back, along with the backpack. The other guy fumbled at the tool belt. I knocked his hands away and removed it myself. When I handed it to him, he wouldn't meet my eyes. He took the belt, but kept looking at my waist where the belt had been tied.
He licked his lips.
Crap. Must be a graduate of the Creep Squad.
"Get a zip tie,"
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