Authors: Brandon Massey

Twisted Tales (27 page)

BOOK: Twisted Tales

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On cue, a knife appeared in Jamal’s fingers, as if by sleight of hand.

“Now, let’s talk about why you’ve been lying to me so much, bitch.” He waved the blade in the air like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “A blade has a way of cutting to the truth, know what I mean?” He chuckled at his pun.

In a flash, Tonya imagined what could happen. Holding her at knifepoint, he could force her inside the car, making her lie on the backseat. He could rip away her clothes. Rape her. Cut her. And if he decided to let her live, he could leave her in there, weeping and bloody and humiliated, and then she would have to go home and face her child, a beaten woman.

No.

Tonya screamed and kicked him in the groin.

Jamal cried out, doubled over in pain, the knife dropping out of his fingers and landing in the snow.

“Help!” Tonya cried. “Someone help!”

But even as she shouted, she knew her pleas were in vain. There was no one out there who could help or call the police. She was on her own.

She grabbed the door handle.

Jamal lunged at her.

She tore the door loose and swung it open, smashing it into his head, causing a comically loud THUD. Jamal dropped to the ground with a grunt.

She dove inside the car. As she tried to pull her legs inside, Jamal snared one of her ankles in his gloved hand.

Screaming, she smashed her other heel against his knuckles. He yelped, but didn’t let go.

He used his shoulder to force the door open wider.

She saw that he had retrieved the knife.

“Ain’t getting away, bitch,” he said. His nostrils flared.

She thrust her boot into his nose. Bones broke, an ugly sound. Crying out, he let her go.

She drew her legs inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

The interior was coffin-dark, snow blanketing all of the windows. It was so cold inside that she felt her perspiration freezing into a paste on her brow. Her frantic breathing was amplified in the enclosed space, too, rebounding back to her, pounding in her ears, as if she was trapped inside a steel drum.

She fumbled with the key. Praying under her breath.

“Just let me get home,” she said, in a fervent whisper. “Please, God, just let me get home to my baby . . . just let me get home ...”

With a roar, Jamal rammed his shoulder against the window. The car rocked like a canoe hit by a strong wave. But the glass didn’t break. Yet.

She jammed the key in the ignition. Turned it so hard it was a wonder it didn’t break off.

Dear God, just let me get home.

In the horror movies Tonya watched sometimes, when the heroine was on the run from a killer, the car never worked. A car that had started reliably for five years failed when the woman most needed it. It happened so often in films it had become a cliché.

Her Toyota started immediately.

Thank you, Jesus.

Regular auto maintenance that she could barely afford had paid off. She pushed the gas pedal, revving the engine. Then she slammed the gearshift into DRIVE.

“Now, let’s get out of here,” she said. She stomped the accelerator.

The tires spun, and the car moved a few inches—and jerked to a halt.

“No, no, no!” She pinned the gas pedal to the floor. The tires ground furiously.

But the car didn’t move, and she knew why: she was stuck in the ice. The city had plowed much of the parking lot, but had neglected the corner in which her car was parked.

She should have known better. This has happened to her before. She kept a snow shovel in the trunk for times like this. She’d have to dig herself out.

But at the moment, getting out of the car was out of the question.

Jamal hammered his elbow against the window, and this time, the glass shattered. Shards tinkled to the floor. Frosty air invaded the car.

Growling like a wild animal, Jamal groped inside, knocking pieces of glass out of the window frame.

“Come back here, bitch.”

Out of reflex, she punched the accelerator. But the wailing tires were useless against the ice. She was only digging a deeper rut in the snow.

Jamal got a fistful of her coat. She tried to twist out of his grasp, but he had the strength of a lunatic. He yanked her against the door. She hit her head against the door frame, and the collision made her dizzy.

No, I can’t pass out, can’t pass out, can’t pass out ...

As if from far away, she heard her cell phone chirp. Probably her mother calling to confirm that she was in her car and on her way home, and letting her know that Aaron was still awake, waiting on her to tuck him in.

Thinking of Aaron brought her back to her senses.

Jamal was reaching for the interior door handle. She seized his forefinger and snapped it back.

He howled. He pulled his hand out of the car.

Tonya realized that the cell phone had fallen silent. Good. Maybe Mom would realize that something was wrong and call the police.

As Tonya leaned to grab the phone, Jamal knocked away the remaining slivers of glass in the window frame. He grabbed her coat again.

She tried to squirm out of his grip. Tried to wriggle to the opposite side of the car.

He got a hold of her leg. He tugged.

She began to slide across the seats. She raised her other leg, to kick him. But he grabbed that leg, too.

“Gotcha!” he said.

He was going to pull her out through the window, feet first.

As he dragged her out, she curled her fingers around the handle of the passenger door, breaking his momentum. He pulled, cursing. She held fast to the handle.

Her phone rang again.

Mom, call the police, dammit!

A sudden, sharp pain bit into her calf, drawing a cry out of her. Jamal had stabbed her.

Startled by the pain, she lost her grip on the door handle. Meeting no resistance now, Jamal hauled her out of the car like a laborer lifting a load of lumber. He flung her to the snowy ground. She landed hard on her shoulder.

The impact knocked the air out of her lungs, almost pulled her under into darkness.

“Goddamn, you’re a tough bitch,” Jamal said. He dabbed at his bleeding nose with his glove. “I thought you would be, I love that about sistas. I love me a strong black woman.”

She didn’t know what to do next. This man was relentless.

But she could not—
would not
—allow him to have his way with her.

As she tried to get up, Jamal sat on her knees, to prevent her from kicking him. Panting with excitement, he lowered the knife to her chest. The blade was about four inches long, and looked sharp enough to cut the air itself into ribbons.

“You’re tough, but every woman’s got to submit to a man,” he said. “The man’s the head. That’s what the Bible says, sista. You know that, right? You got a Bible on your desk, too.”

She didn’t respond, unable to take her gaze away from the knife. She saw her own blood staining the razor-sharp tip. Her stabbed calf throbbed; she felt blood trickling across her skin, like ice water.

Jamal sliced open the front of her coat. Buttons popped.

“Please don’t do this,” she said.

Giggling, like a child opening presents on Christmas morning, he peeled away the edges of her coat to reveal her blouse.

“Ah, here we go now,” he said. Saliva had collected in the corners of his mouth, like dried milk. A blood bubble pulsed in one of his smashed nostrils.

Say something to make him stop.

“I have a son,” she said softly.

“Yeah, so? I saw those pictures of him on your desk.”

“His name is Aaron.”

“Like the guy in the Bible? Moses’ brother.”

“That’s right. He’s only five, Jamal. He’s expecting me to come home to ... to tuck him in bed.” She sniffled, fought back tears.

He ripped open her blouse. The frigid air raised goose bumps on her naked flesh.

“Don’t you have a mother?” Tonya asked, striving to keep her voice calm. “Would you want some man to hurt your mother, to take advantage of her?”

“Someone did. My daddy.”

“Oh.” She tried to sound sympathetic. “I’m very sorry.”

“I ain’t.” His eyes hardened to black points. “She’s a crackhead bitch. She deserved it.”

Tonya wished she had kept her mouth shut. She had been trying to tap a sympathetic nerve somewhere in him and convince him to stop what he was doing, but she’d succeeding only in drawing forth the deep-seated hatred he held for his mother—which he might now channel toward
her
.

She had to come up with another strategy, and her time was running short.

He cut away her bra, then pulled it away and tossed it into the snow behind him. He stared at her fully exposed breasts. Something approaching rapture lit his eyes.

She was a well-endowed woman, but a lot of the brothers that she encountered were all about the booty and could have cared less about her breasts. Normally, it was white men—like her boss, Roger—who fell into a trance when they saw her cleavage.

Jamal’s fascination presented her with an opportunity.

“You got some really nice titties,” he said. He licked his lips. “Not too big, not too small. Just perfect.”

She turned her head away and sighed, as though she was giving up. Trying to lull him into a false sense of power. It was hard for her to play docile, but it might be her best chance to strike back at him.

He roughly squeezed one of her breasts. She let out a cry of pain that was more genuine than anything she could have faked.

He backhanded her across the jaw. Her head snapped sideways, and her vision swam.

Don’t pass out, don’t pass out ...

“That’s right, bitch. You like it rough? I’m gonna give it to you rough.”

His threat brought her world back into focus. His eyes hungry, he lowered his head to her breast. She saw the gleam of his teeth, those perfectly straight, white teeth—and she knew he was intending to bite her.

She couldn’t take any more.

As his lips closed over her nipple and his teeth started to rake across her skin, she flipped up the rim of his skully cap, to reveal his ear. Surprised, he started to lift his head, but she was faster: she clamped her teeth over his earlobe and bit down as hard as she could.

He yelled. As he jerked away, his ear tore, blood spattering the snow.

“You bitch!” He scrambled away, hand pressed against his head. “You bit my ear like fuckin’ Mike Tyson!”

She spat out his bloody earlobe. Rising, she pulled her blouse across her bosom.

With horror, Jamal regarded his chewed-off ear, lying on the snow in a smear of blood.

She noticed that he had dropped the knife beside her. She snatched it up.

Jamal made a move to charge her.

“Get the fuck away from me!” She waved the blade in front of her, made a feint as if to cut him.

Weeping, gritting his teeth against the pain, Jamal scooted backward. He dug his hand into an inner pocket of his coat.

When Tonya saw the cold glimmer of the gun, she turned and ran.

He fired. A bullet zipped past her, plowed into a snowbank. Bits of ice sprayed her.

She started to run in a chaotic, zigzag pattern, to make herself a difficult target. The station was ahead. There was no attendant on duty, but if she could get inside, get to a pay phone ...
something
. Maybe some kind of plan would become clear. Maybe she could survive this nightmare.

She leaped the concrete steps and ran onto the platform. She almost slipped on a patch of ice that hadn’t been covered with salt, regained her balance just in time.

Jamal was rushing across the parking lot, kicking up snow, coming after her.

She hurried inside the station. It was a small, glass-fronted structure, built solely to shelter passengers from the elements. It was full of faded plastic chairs and a trash can. No potential weapons. Not even a telephone.

Jamal had reached the platform steps.

She ran out of the door on the opposite side of the building, onto the boarding platform.The railroad tracks lay beneath her, gleaming in the moonlight like the vertebrae of some ancient beast. No train approached, and none would for the remainder of the night. She had caught the last train home.

Jamal was charging through the station.

She jumped off the platform, landed on the tracks. She raced across them and plunged into the brittle snow on the other side.

BOOK: Twisted Tales

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