High-Heeled Alibi

She screwed up her lips and spat at him. Blood colored the saliva that dripped down his cheek.

The fist that hit her square in the face and knocked her out cold again was almost a relief.

When she came to, she was uncertain how much time had passed, but didn’t think much. The blood was still damp on her skin, the pain fresh where the fist had met her face. The ache in her shoulders had not yet escalated from a throb, but her wrists and ankles burned where the wire cut into the thin skin.

She kept her eyes closed, hoping the cover of unconsciousness would give her captors a false sense of security, perhaps cause them to talk more freely, reveal something useful. Something that could save her.

The car was moving fast. There was no slowing down for intersections or ninety-degree turns. They must be on the highway.

“Is she all right?” she heard the driver ask.

The seat shifted as the heavy man guarding her in the back leaned toward her. She forced her body to involuntarily tip toward the man’s weight. Fresh anger rose inside her as his hateful odor filled her nostrils. She fought to keep her breathing steady.

“She’s breathing,” the man reported in a bored voice.

A fingertip scraped down Bitsy’s left breast. Her entire body stiffened.

“She’s awake.”

She opened her eyes. An inch away was the man’s oily smile.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

She instructed him to perform a technically physically impossible act on himself.

The driver gave a pitchy laugh. A savage deadness moved into the other man’s eyes, made even eerier by the low, amused rumble that rose from him. The tip of his tongue wet his lips as he moved in even closer. “Soon, sugar pie. And thanks to you, it’ll be even sweeter.” He gave her breast a squeeze, blatant satisfaction filling his fleshy features as he leaned back and lit a cigarette.

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