TW: Brief reference to sexual assault.

———

The one thing—probably the only thing—I actually like about working at Quick Mart is that it’s right down the street. And since I’m a broke-ass bitch with no car, I love a short walk home. Especially with all the creeps in my apartment complex lurking around like it’s their full-time job.

I’m just about to turn onto my street when—like clockwork—the new guy from upstairs hollers down.

“Lookin’ good, baby!”

Ugh. I fight the urge to gag out loud, duck my head, and speed-walk toward my door. God, I wish I had a boyfriend. Or a big-ass dog. Hell, anything to keep these assholes off my nuts.

The second I swing the door shut behind me, the blast of cold air from the AC hits me. I shiver, switch it off, and head straight for the bathroom. In the mirror, I look like hell. I grab a washcloth, turn on the faucet—and that’s when I hear it.

Voices. Coming through the vent.

And wouldn’t you know it? It’s that same crusty bastard from upstairs. Awesome. I didn’t even realize he lived right above me.

Rolling my eyes, I start scrubbing my face. But I quickly pause as the words floating into the bathroom become more clear.

“That girl downstairs, man…” the first guy says. He whistles. “I’d like to get me a piece of that.”

Their laughter echoes through the vent—gross and sleazy.

“Fuck yeah,” the second guy says. “I bet that shit’s golden.”

I freeze. Muscles tight. These dudes are disgusting. I step up on the toilet, ready to close the vent, but then I hear something that makes my blood run cold.

“I’ve been watching her since I moved in, bro. Chick ain’t Gotta man. Nobody ever comes to her place.”

A chair scrapes.

“You serious?”

Then silence. Heavy silence. The kind that says shit is about to get real.

“What the fuck are we waiting for?” the second guy finally says. “It wouldn’t be hard to just go down there and take that shit. She can’t weigh more than 115 pounds soaking wet.”

Another pause. Then, with way too much excitement:

“You still got that .45?”

“Nah, man. Sold it. But I got a big-ass hunting knife. And duct tape. We don’t really need much more than that.”

My heart practically punches through my ribs. I slap a hand over my mouth and leap down from the toilet. Sprint out of the bathroom. Nearly eat shit on the rug in the hall. I make it to the front door, lock the knob, throw the deadbolt, shove the chain across—and then I push the kitchen table up against it for good measure.

My hands are shaking as I yank my phone out of my jeans and hit 911.

“Please hold,” a robotic voice says.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The knocks start. Soft at first. Then harder. They’re pounding now. And so is my heart. Almost loud enough to drown it all out, and I think for a second that it might burst right through my chest.

Finally, the operator comes on.

“911, what is your emergency?”

I suck in a shaky breath, whisper into the phone, “There are two men trying to break into my apartment. They have knives. Please come quick.”

“ you’ll have to speak up, ma’am. I can barely hear you.”

I hiss into the phone, “ I can’t fucking speak up! There are two rapists at my door! 1945 Melrose Lane, apartment 7. Just send fucking help!”

Instead of giving the clearly incompetent lady time to ask more questions, I simply hang up, squeeze my eyes shut, and wait.