Kissy crawls away from us.
He starts flopping like a fish, and it hurts. But he’s struggling to breathe too. Which is the point. The man is rocking back and forth, but he can’t hit me good or flail. Not with a broken arm. Not with the angle.
I feel Kissy at my side. I’m going to tell her not to help, but the man’s strength and gusto is finally ebbing away.
He stops fighting as much.
Then he’s slack.
I don’t let go for a few moments.
Kissy’s voice floats to my ear. “I-I have the knife now.”
It’s what I need to hear.
The weapon is in our control not his.
I let go of the man’s neck. He’s a heavy guy, and it takes a few seconds to get him off me.
After that, I sit on the floor between him and Kissy. I have to secure him before I can look at her. He has a pulse. He’s definitely out, though.
The knocking on the front door is still going.
I wonder how long the fight was. It can’t have been more than a minute.
Wordlessly, I look at Kissy.
Her wrists are tied, there’s duct tape on her legs, and her face is bruising in spots that shouldn’t be bruising. She has a busted lip too. There’s blood, but not as much as on her cheek. True enough, she’s managed to grab the knife and is holding it with a white-knuckled grip.
I almost say a lot.
Instead, I stand and help her do the same. “Is there anyone else here?”
Kissy is staring holes into the man. She shakes her head and flinches. “Not that I know of.”
Her words are stiff.
She’s not crying at all.
“I need to get the door,” I tell her. “Then I’ll get these off.”
She nods, and I stand her next to the couch. She stares at the man again.
I run to the front door and unlock it. “It’s Beau,” I yell before I open it.
Thankfully, Damien isn’t wielding any weapon. He stands there waiting for me to say it’s okay.
I’m not going to sit there and hold his hand.
I go back to Kissy and take the knife from her. She watches me with wide eyes while I cut her tie first. My leg catches as I bend down to work on the duct tape.
“My God, Kissy,” Damien says, walking in.
I peek up to see Kissy react to him.
Unlike the locals at the bar, there’s no reverence from her here. No wordlessly following his every move. Instead, she looks down into my eyes. “You’re with him?”
It feels like an accusation tied with genuine confusion.
