5: The Sleepover

So I was definitely sober now.

What the actual...fuck?

My hands immediately flew up in surrender.

“Don’t move,” the man’s voice shook behind me and the cold metal pressed harder into my back.

My whole body locked up.

“You've got it, I'm not moving,” I said, trying to move my eyes without moving anything else. Of course, just when I thought I'd had it all happen to me. What do you want from me?”

“J...just give me your money,” he stuttered, “your purse, now.”

"You can have the fucking purse," I attempted to toss the purse at him but paused, he was unpredictable and I didn't know what he would do with sudden movements. "All my bank cards are in there man, just take it and leave."

"Don't fucking move!" He snapped.

"I'm literally as frozen as ice."

He sounded young and nervous, the gun kept shaking against my back.

That was his mistake.

I took one slow breath, then suddenly twisted hard on my heel.

“What the fuck-” he started to say.

I grabbed his wrist with both hands before he could react and shoved the gun upward. My purse slammed into his face at the same time.

"Shit!" He cussed, clearly taken aback.

I drove my knee straight into his stomach.

The second he doubled over, I yanked his wrist down with all my strength.

The gun slipped from his hand and clattered onto the pavement. His eyes went huge, mine probably did too.

For one second we both just stared at the gun and then I snatched it first.

I pointed the gun at him with both hands, even though I could barely keep the thing steady.

My purse hung off my elbow, half open, lip gloss, receipts, and a crushed pack of gum spilling out while I dug around for my phone without taking my eyes off him.

“Stay the hell back,” I said, my voice coming out sharper than I expected.

The guy lifted both hands, breathing hard, his hoodie twisted around his shoulders from the way I had yanked him.

His eyes kept dropping to the gun in my hands, then jumping back to my face like he was trying to figure out if I was crazy enough to use it.

Honestly, same.

“I said stay back,” I snapped again, gripping the gun tighter.

“I’m not moving,” he said quickly, his voice cracking. “I’m not moving, okay?”

“Good,” I said, swallowing hard as my fingers kept scratching through my purse. “Great. Love that for us. Now I’m going to call the cops, and you’re going to stand there and keep being useless.”

The man’s eyes darted past my shoulder. I noticed it instantly and my stomach dropped.

“What?” I asked, turning my head just a little, but not enough to take the gun off him. “What are you looking at?”

Before he could respond, the air behind me moved and I knew someone was there.

My whole body reacted before my brain even understood. I spun with the gun still in my hand and pulled the trigger.

The sound cracked through the street so loud my ears rang.

The bullet hit the brick wall behind the stranger, sending dust and tiny chips flying.

He ducked hard, one arm flying over his head, “fuck it, Red, it’s me!”

I froze.

My ears buzzed so badly, his voice sounded far away, like I was underwater. I squinted at him, my fingers still locked around the gun, “Art?”

Art lunged at my attacker, who had equally been shocked, grabbed the back of his hoodie and shoved him down with one knee pressing into his back.

Art looked back at me, his hair falling across his forehead, “call the cops.”

I blinked at him, “what the actual fuck is going on?!"

“Red,” he snapped, “call the cops.”

That finally shook me awake.

I pulled my phone out and dialled immediately.

*

After a series of questioning from the cops, statements were given and the muggler was taken away.

Art turned to me, "what the actual hell is your problem?!"

His face was tight, his brows pulled together, and his chest rose like he had been holding back the whole time the police were there.

“Why the hell would you take a loaded gun from him?” he snapped at me.

I blinked at him, "excuse me?!" I moved in, closing the distance between us.

He stepped closer, pointing toward where the gun had been, “do you understand how many ways that could have gone wrong? He could have pulled the trigger. You could have pulled the trigger. It could have gone off while you were fighting him. You could have been shot.”

I raked my fingers through my hair and let out a mocking laugh.

I didn't know if it was the adrenaline of the alcohol in my system but I was filled with so much rage.

I pushed at his chest and he didn't budge, "where the fucking hell did you even come from?! Are you stalking me? Were you watching me the whole time!"

He stared at me with a blank face, watching my breathing pick up faster and faster. I stared back, waiting for a response.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.

I furrowed my brows, totally thrown, “what?!”

He grabbed my wrist instead and started pulling me down the sidewalk.

I yanked back hard, trying to twist free, “Art, where the hell are you taking me? Let go right now!”

My heart slammed against my ribs with anger. I pulled again but he was way stronger.

I dug my heels in, raising my voice, “Art seriously what is your problem right now?"

He didn’t answer, he just kept pulling me along, with his jaw tight.

We reached his car. He opened the passenger door and shoved me inside. I landed on the seat, my purse tumbling to the floor mats. “Art!” I snapped, lunging for the handle.

He blocked the door with his body, his eyes locked on mine, “you’re sleeping at my place tonight.”