When he’d finally passed out from all the booze, she boot-kicked him hard, dead-center in his crotch. He came-to vomiting, gurgling a scream, lunged at her, missed, hit the floor, cutting his face on the cat dish.
You’ll die, bitch!
Break his head with a baseball bat? No, just get out. He’s getting up. Out the door. Shit! My purse? Where? Shit!
He’s crawling through the kitchen. Run up the street.
Who’s that? Matt?
Stop Matt! Goddammit, stop and help me!
What’s going on, Ann? Is that blood?. Where’s Kyle?
She flipped a bone in the direction of the house. Kyle was stumbling out the front door.
No, I can’t get involved. He would kill me. Go back to him Ann. He needs you. You guys . . .
Screw you, Matt! The bastard’s beat me for the last time. Get out of your damn car now! Show some guts. Tell him I had a gun and forced you. And tell him I’ll shoot him if he comes after me. I gotta pick up the girls at the Wong’s place. Your car, Matt. Right now, before he gets here!
You’ll regret this Ann. You know you love him. Shit — it’s Valentines Day.
Happy fucking Valentines day, Matt, said Ann, as she drove off in his car.