1. Getting Away

Mari’s POV

I swing my knee upwards, hitting him squarely in his junk. He yells a profanity and releases my hair to grab his precious man jewels.

While he is bent over in pain, I take the opportunity to grab the pan sitting on the counter. Swinging it, I get him good in the back of his head. That sends him sprawling on the floor.

He isn’t out yet, but I have incapacitated him enough to give me a headshot to get away.

Grabbing my bag from the floor near the kitchen table, I step around his body and gun for the door. He tries to reach for my leg, but I’m too quick for him.

“I’ll kill you, stupid bitch!” He swears, trying to get his body up. “You can’t run away from me!”

I know that’s not an empty threat. I would likely be dead on the kitchen floor right now if I had never learned to defend myself from a young age. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I make a dash for the front door.

I open the door and hurry outside, then open my bag, searching for my car keys. Panic sets in when I can’t find them. I’m now standing by my car in the street outside the house, my attention split between looking for the key and checking that he doesn’t rush out of the door.

Panicking, I turn my bag inside out and pour everything onto the asphalt. A pair of heels, tampons, a purse, a scarf, a phone, and finally, a pair of keys, tumble out of the bag. I shove the rest of the items back into the bag and grab the keys. Just then, the front door to the house flies open.

I look up, my eyes widening in horror when he emerges, a gun in his hand.

“Get back here, you little bitch!” he roars, pointing the muzzle at me.

I swallow, my heart racing. He is not going to shoot me, is he? While it isn’t broad daylight, it's still evening, and anybody walking by wouldn’t miss this.

I look up and down the street.

Nobody is walking by at the moment, it appears.

But… Surely, our neighbours have heard the commotion? They are always nosy, where are they when I need them to be nosy?

Shouldering my bag and glaring at him defiantly, I move to the door. I stick the key in and twist.

“I said get back here!” he yells, now walking down the porch stairs.

If I go back, I'll be dead anyway.

So why not take the small chance I have of getting out of here alive?

Quickly, I pull the door open and dive into the car.

The first shot rings into the air with a loud bang.

My panic level shoots to a new high, but that doesn’t stop me. Inserting the key into the ignition, I start the car. The engine roars to life instantly, and I drive out of there like the devil himself is after me.

He is.

As I speed down the street, I catch sight of a few of my neighbours scrambling out of their front doors, drawn by the sound of the gunshot. Finally.

Not that they can be of any help anymore.

My usual 30-minute ride to work takes me a record 25 minutes today. I’m not hurrying because I’m late—which I am—but because I know he’s going to come after me. The only reason he wasn’t on my tail the moment I left is because he crashed his motorcycle two weeks ago, and it’s still at the mechanic’s. I can imagine he has already borrowed a ride from a friend at this point and is on his way here.

And when he gets here, I cannot afford to let him find me. Because if he does?

I’ll be done for.

Right now, there are three things I need to do.

Quit my job, ask for my due payment, and then get the hell out of here.

Parking my car in the nightclub’s lot, I rush towards the back entrance. Inside, I head straight for my boss’s office. After a single knock, he invites me in.

“What do you want, Mari?” he asks, his voice gruff as he looks down at some papers. It’s obvious he isn’t in a good mood. Is he going to allow my request? He better. Because if he doesn’t? I'm royally screwed.

“I want to quit,” I blurt.

Joseph’s gaze switches from his papers to me. “Excuse me?”

Rubbing my palms nervously together, I repeat, “I want to quit. Can you pay me the share of the days I’ve worked this month?”

“Are you kidding right now, Marianne?” he bellows. “You cannot just walk in here, late, decide to quit, then demand pay! I need a fucking notice!”

Knitting my hands together, I nod. “I know, boss. I’m sorry. It’s an emergency. I really need the money.”

Because if he decides to not pay me, I will have no cent to my name. Nothing to get me on the road and to the farthest place from the murderous man I barely got away from.

That douchebag Connor just took away every last cent I’ve been saving for the better part of the past year. Those savings were my escape plan. But now that they are gone, I could use any cent I can find. What I'm asking of my boss is only twenty days' worth of work, but it will have to suffice.

At the moment, all I need is money enough for a full gas tank to take me as far away from here as possible. Once I get somewhere safe, I can look for a new job.

“You girls think I run a charity here, don’t you?” he complains. I suppose I’m not the only employee to come asking for a salary advance tonight.

“Please, boss,” I beg.

“I cannot just allow you to quit, Marianne. You’ll have to find me your replacement first. Besides,” he flips his papers. “You couldn’t have chosen a worse day to pull this shit on me. It’s Friday. It’s going to be packed.”

I chew on my lips nervously. I know he’s right. The club is usually packed throughout the weekend.

But my life is in danger.

If he doesn’t let me go right now, he might just have to be dealing with a dead waitress instead of a missing one.

I'm on the verge of falling to my knees to beg. “Please, sir. I need to get out of here quickly. Please.”

He sighs heavily and rests his heavy arms on his desk, looking up at me. “Your boyfriend do that?” he asks, pointing at my face.

I know what he is seeing. Bruises all over my face. A cut on my lips. Nail marks on my cheeks. I don’t know if he can make out the strangle marks on my neck, but they are there.

I swallow hard. “I have to get away,” I insist.

He waves his hand, as if suddenly tired of the entire thing. “Fine!”

“Thank you, boss!”

“But you need to work tonight.”

“If I stay longer, he’ll find me…”

“I’ll let security know to kick him as far away from my club as possible if he shows up.” He flicks his wrist, dismissing me. “Come get your money at the end of the night.”

Relief and gratitude wash over me. “Thank you, boss. Thank you.”

His attention turns back to his papers. “Go on.”

I turn around and open the door, walking out of the office. I take a moment to take a deep breath before proceeding to the changing room.

I can’t wait for this night to end.

Sitting at my station, I carefully dab concealer on my face and neck, hiding the bruises. They are fresh, which means they are easy to hide. A day in and they will darken, and it will take more makeup to cover them up. The cut on my lips blends in with my red lipstick, and nobody will be any the wiser about it.

After fixing my face, next, I do my hair, holding it high.

Done with makeup and hair, I put on my work outfit. A white, body-fitting button-down shirt, and a black skirt that has just enough material to keep my butt from the public eye. Then I retrieve the heels from my bag and put them on, setting my sneakers aside.

Finally, I'm done, and ready to go serve drinks.

For one last night.