Hummingbird Lane by Brown, Carolyn (ebook reader for comics .txt) 📗

the rain, and if you look out there, you can see it headed this way.”

Arty put lids on the plastic containers of food, stacked them up, and started for his trailer. “Temperature is dropping, so we might even get some hail.”

Filly re-covered the cobbler with foil, set the relish tray on top of it, and hurried off to her trailer. “Y’all hunker down until it’s over. If it’s rainin’ tomorrow night, we’ll have supper at Arty’s place.”

Josh jogged across the yard, but he didn’t make it inside before enormous drops of rain began to fall, and the wind picked up. He hurried inside, took time to wipe the water from his glasses, and then opened the door to the back porch. He loved the smell of rain and the sound of it beating on the metal roof. For the first time, though, he wished it would only be a passing storm, not one that lasted through the night. He didn’t mind walking in the rain or getting wet, but he wasn’t brave enough to go out when there was lightning.

He sat down on the sofa in his living room and glanced over at the easel where he’d set his latest work. He refused to be nervous about the next day. He had to calm himself or else he would have insomnia. Only one thing ever got rid of the jitters, and that was work, so he moved from the sofa to the easel and began to put the tiny lines into the eagle’s feathers that would give them life and movement.

“We’re all afraid of something,” he muttered. “Even someone as pretty as Em has fears. I’ll have to take it easy with her if she’s ever going to be my friend.”

In Emma’s mind the dream was real.

Emma couldn’t move. She kept thinking that if only she had been the girl who wore a flouncy skirt, she would have the strength to fight that guy off. She’d gone willingly to his apartment. Dallas was one of her fellow art students, after all. He had said that Terrance had a painting he wanted her to critique. It was an unusual abstract painting, and Emma told both guys that she had no expertise in that kind of art. Then they had offered her a glass of champagne to celebrate Terrance winning the picture in an online auction. She told them she didn’t drink, but they assured her that one or two sips of champagne wouldn’t hurt, and it would be rude not to celebrate with them. She didn’t want to be a nerd, so she’d drank maybe half of what was in the glass.

Dallas and Terrance were talking about something on the television in the living room, but they sounded as if they were in a tunnel. Everything appeared to be covered by a thick gray fog, and then Dallas took her by the arm and led her into a bedroom that opened off the living room. “You should lie down and take a little nap,” he said.

“Take. Me. Home.” Words, even that much, came out slow and labored.

Suddenly, it was as if Emma left her body and was watching everything take place. She yelled at herself to get up and run. Climb out a window. Lock herself in the bathroom. Nothing worked. Her body was only semiconscious and couldn’t move.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.” Dallas kissed her on the neck and whispered, “But I owe him a lot of money that I don’t have. He’ll forgive every dime of it for a virgin.”

Dallas laid her on the bed that had black satin sheets on it. She remembered a white fur–looking rug beside the bed and the thought had gone through her mind that everything wasn’t black and white. Sometimes, things were a gray fog, like her mind was in that night. She raised her voice—or thought she did—and told him again to take her home. Then Terrance, the star football player for another college nearby, came into the room, patted Dallas on the back, and told him he’d done a good job. Dallas closed the door as he left the room. Then Terrance jerked her jeans down around her ankles. She fought and clawed at the six-foot, beefed-up guy. She yelled at him to stop, but she was helpless in her semidrugged state. The last thing she remembered before she passed out was excruciating pain and a heavy weight on her whole body.

Then she was back in her body, and it wasn’t a dream. Her stomach lurched, and she leaned over the side of the bed and threw up on the white fur rug. Pain radiated through her female parts, and her legs ached where Terrance had forced them apart with his strong hands. There was blood on the sheets. When she pulled up her underpants and jeans, even more blood stained them. She was still wobbly when she eased the door open and pulled a small pistol from the side pocket of her purse. Terrance and Dallas were sprawled out on a nearby sofa, playing a video game, drinking beer and laughing, but the apartment went quiet after she put a bullet in the back of each of their heads. She staggered out into a long hallway and held on to the walls to get to the front door. When she made it outside, a hard, cold wind slapped her in the face, and that helped to steady her so that she could get into her car. She drove straight to the hospital.

“I’ve been raped, and I killed the both of them,” she had told the nurse. “My mother can’t know.”

“How old are you?” the nurse asked.

“I’m eighteen,” Emma answered.

“We don’t have to call your parents if you don’t want us to, but, honey, we should call the police,” the woman said. “You take off all your clothes and put on these scrubs. I’ll be back to process you for evidence, and then we’ll make some phone calls. And