to start incorporating more humor into my lesson plans.
I get back to my teaching, but the whole time I feel the Italian’s eyes on me. His beady eyes don’t fit in his face properly. They go back and forth as I walk around the front of class, never leaving me. I get the uneasy feeling that something bad is going to happen.
Which, unfortunately, is a feeling I am all too familiar with.
“You let me know if you want me to orchestrate that pendejo,” Lucille says with plenty of finger wagging.
We are standing outside the rec center, the sun long gone now. The parking lot is pitch-dark in its absence, since several of the street lamps are broken. Johnny, Max, and Sofiya have already left, but the Italians are taking their sweet time. The thin man is ushering them into a black minivan like they’re headed out on a field trip, almost invisible in the night.
“Orchestrate?” I ask, confused.
She makes a snip-snip motion with her fingers by way of explanation.
“Oh, castrate.”
“Cut his balls off,” she says. “That clear enough? You want me to stay?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be okay.”
“Too tough for your own good,” Lucille tuts, giving me a hug. “See you next week.”
She struts away and I return to the rec center, winding my way through back to the classroom. I normally hang around for a little while to prepare for the next class. If I’m feeling particularly charged up, I’ll sometimes sketch a little. But tonight, I just want to get my things and go home. I throw my handbag strap over my shoulder, lock the door behind me, and head back towards the lobby to leave.
No such luck.
He’s waiting for me in front of the glass double doors—Mr. Lung Cancer, with a nasty gleam in his eye.
“Rude lady,” he says, clearly trying hard to find the words. “Slut lady.”
I reach slowly for my purse, which contains my pepper spray. I think, not for the first time, that I need to get a gun. Nothing drastic; a small caliber, something for defense. He sees me reaching for the flap of the bag and he waggles an eyebrow at me knowingly. He expects me to open it, and he wants me to know that he knows what I’m trying to do.
So I do the exact opposite. I stride to the left, shove open the side door, and walk out into the night. That jerk can wait in there until the sun rises for all I care.
“Rude lady,” I hear from behind me. He moves way too quickly for an ogre. In a flash, I’m somehow backed up against the exterior wall of the building, his bulk a shield I can’t get past. Thankfully, he’s not touching me. Yet. “Teach some respect.”
I assess my options: a knee to the gonads, spit in his eye, rake his cheek with my fingernails. All viable, but I need to make sure it’s effective enough so that I can duck and run. And he looks intent.
“Women need respect,” he goes on, sounding like a sexist caveman. Tarzan love Jane. Jane grovel for Tarzan. “I teach.”
“No, what you’ll do is back the fuck off before I make you regret it,” I hiss. Miraculously, I sound calm. “I mean it. Back. Off.”
Over his shoulder, I see a limo pull up. Wait, a limo? The sight is so strange in this rundown part of town that for a second, everything seems to stop. Mr. Lung Cancer glances at it. Something in him changes, melts.
Who is in there?
The back door swings open. The man who steps out and strides over to us is jaw-droppingly handsome. Over six feet, muscled, his thick arms filling out his steel-gray suit. Even in the low light, I can make out the glinting blue-green of his eyes, sharp and intelligent.
As he exchanges words with the thin, scarred man, he barely glances at him. He stands like a man used to being in control. The only thing that moves is his hand, a tiny twitch in his fingers, as though he’s strumming an invisible guitar. He’s clean-shaven, with slightly smirking lips. A proud sneer in the set of his jaw. He must be thirty, maybe a little older.
I turn away from him, a little unnerved by how flustered I’ve gotten. This is not the time to be swooning over good-looking strangers.
“You have five seconds,” I tell the big Italian, “or I’m going to make you regret it.”