Zoe studied the exterior of the apartment building. The utilitarian architecture was blocky and unattractive, but it served Brett’s needs and suited his life style. She climbed the front steps and inserted a key into the locked front door, twisted it, then pulled it open. Her soft-soled shoes squeaked on the industrial gray tile as she limped to the elevator in the lobby. Stepping inside, she pushed the button for the third floor.
Her tear ravaged reflection stared back at her from the polished metal door. She bit her lip and looked away. It did no good to cry. What was done, was done. She refused to be one of those weak willed women with no pride, who begged for love.
She couldn’t return to Hawk’s house. If he didn’t love her, wouldn’t allow himself to love her, she couldn’t stay there anymore. At least she had some place to go.
She should have seen it coming, had seen it coming that day at the hospital, she just hadn’t wanted to face it.
The elevator door opened and she stepped out into the hall. The florescent lighting overhead appeared dim as she turned left and walked down to apartment three-fourteen. Her hand shook and she shoved the key in with more force than necessary. The door swung inward and the hall light fell in a large rectangle on the floor. It touched the shiny surface of a row of picture frames on a bookcase. The pulled drapes blocked the outside streetlight’s glow. The living room stretched like a black void before her. She ran her fingers along the wall just inside the door, searching for the light switch.
Fingers grasped her wrist and jerked. A high-pitched yelp tore from her as she stumbled forward. The door slammed shut cutting off the light. She breathed in the distinct smell of latex as a gloved palm cut off her scream. Fear rocketed through her. She kicked and squealed beneath the pressure as a muscular arm held her back against a tall male body.
She clawed at the hand covering her mouth. The words don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me jetted through her mind in a scream. Her feet struck a piece of furniture. She braced them and pushed. The man grunted as he staggered and hit the wall. His hand dislodged for a second.
Before she could draw breath to scream, he shoved her. Zoe hit the back of a waist high chair or couch, the momentum thrusting her over it in a flip. Her cheek skidded across the fabric of the cushions. She threw up an arm to protect her head as she rolled off into the floor. Her weak leg crashed into something wood. Pain shot through the limb, stealing her breath. White spots swam in her vision. The apartment door was jerked open. The florescent bulbs in the hall speared the room with light then the door slammed shut again.
Running feet pounded in the hall, then retreated into silence.
Nausea rolled over her with a force of a tsunami. A cold sweat misted her skin and she retched, one, two, three times. Nothing came up, her stomach too empty to produce anything but dry heaves. Her leg throbbed like an abscessed tooth making every movement agony. She curled into herself and shivered in reaction.
“Please God, don’t let it be broken,” she moaned as she pushed herself up to a sitting position and leaned back against the chair she had flipped over. She swallowed as a fresh wave of nausea made her stomach pitch.
The door shook as someone pounded on it from outside.
“Hello--” A male voice came through the barrier. “Is everything all right in there?” The knob turned and the door swung open as though in slow motion. The hall lights illuminated a dark silhouette in the opening. A man.
Where was he when I needed him?
“Please call 911,” she said, her voice shaky and weak.
“Jesus Christ!” The light flashed on and she blinked at the familiar face. Bracing a hand on the back of the couch Bowie leaped over it and came to kneel beside her.