He had nearly two feet and at least one hundred fifty pounds on her. The heft of an entire second human being existed inside of his hulking body.
Scratch him? Bite him? Pull out his hair? Die with his blood in her mouth?
“Whatcha gonna do, little bit?” He kept his fists at the ready. “I’m giving you a chance here. You gonna come at me or are you gonna fold?”
The hallway?
She couldn’t risk leading him to Trevor.
The front door?
Too far away .
The kitchen door?
Callie could see the gold doorknob out of the corner of her eye.
Gleaming. Waiting. Unlocked.
She walked herself through the motions—turn, left-foot-right-foot, grab the knob, twist, run through the carport, out into the street, scream her head off the whole way.
Who was she kidding?
All she had to do was turn and Buddy would be on her. He wasn’t fast, but he didn’t need to be. In one long stride, his hand would be around her neck again.
Callie stared all of her hatred into him.
He shrugged, because it didn’t matter.
“Why did you do it?” she asked. “Why did you show them our private stuff?”
“Money.” He sounded disappointed that she was so stupid. “Why the hell else?”
Callie couldn’t let herself think about all those grown men watching her do stuff she did not want to do with a man who had promised he would always, no matter what, protect her.
“Bring it.” Buddy punched a lazy right hook into the air, then a slow-motion uppercut. “Come on, Rocky. Gimme whatcha got.”
She let her gaze ping-pong around the kitchen.
Fridge. Oven. Cabinets. Drawers. Cookie plate. NyQuil. Drying rack.
Buddy smirked. “You gonna hit me with a frying pan, Daffy Duck?”
Callie sprinted straight toward him, full out, like a bullet exploding from the muzzle of a gun. Buddy’s hands were up near his face. She tucked her body down low so that when he finally managed to drop his fists, she was already out of his reach.
She crashed into the kitchen sink.
Grabbed the knife out of the drying rack.
Spun around with the blade slicing out in front of her.
Buddy grinned at the steak knife, which looked like something Linda had bought at the grocery store in a six-piece set made in Taiwan. Cracked wooden handle. Serrated blade so thin that it bent three different ways before straightening out at the end. Callie had used it to cut Trevor’s hot dog into pieces because otherwise he would try to shove the whole thing in his mouth and start to choke.
Callie could see she’d missed some ketchup.
A thin streak of red ran along the serrated teeth.
“Oh.” Buddy sounded surprised. “Oh, Jesus.”
They both looked down at the same time.
The knife had slashed open the leg of his pants. Left upper thigh, a few inches down from his crotch.
She watched the khaki material slowly turn crimson.
Callie had been involved in competitive gymnastics from the age of five. She had an intimate understanding of all the ways that you could hurt yourself. An awkward twist could tear the ligaments in your back. A sloppy dismount could wreck the tendons in your knee. A piece of metal—even a cheap piece of metal—that cut across your inner thigh could open your femoral artery, the major pipeline that supplied blood to the lower part of your body.
“Cal.” Buddy’s hand clamped down on his leg. Blood seeped through his clenched fingers. “Get a—Christ, Callie. Get a towel or—”
He started to fall, broad shoulders banging into the cabinets, head cracking off the edge of the countertop. The room shook from his weight as he dropped down.
“Cal?” Buddy’s throat worked. Sweat dripped down his face. “Callie?”
Her body was still tensed. Her hand was still gripping the knife. She felt enveloped by a cold darkness, like she’d somehow stepped back into her own shadow.
“Callie. Baby, you gotta—” His lips had lost their color. His teeth began to chatter as if her coldness was seeping into him, too. “C-call an ambulance, baby. Call an—”
Callie slowly turned her head. She looked at the phone on the wall. The receiver was off the hook. Slivers of multi-colored wires stuck out where Buddy had ripped away the springy cord. She found the other end, following it like a clue, and located the receiver underneath the kitchen table.
“Callie, leave that—leave that there, honey. I need you to—”
She got down on her knees. Reached under the table. Picked up the receiver. Placed it to her ear. She was still holding the knife. Why was she still holding the knife?