I twisted his wrist hard. The sound of snapping bones gave me some measure of relief, but even with the son of a bitch begging for mercy at my feet, it wasn't enough. I pulled back my right arm and let my fist fly. Warm blood sprayed across my face, but the sounds of the woman's sobs were still ringing in my ear. So I punched the guy again, and then a third time. Fortunately, the man was still conscious, so I had a reason to go for a fourth punch. But the sound of a gunshot going off behind me had me freezing in place.
There was an eerie silence as I held completely still and only turned my head. I opened my mouth to explain to whatever police officer had stumbled upon the encounter that I was unarmed, but there was no officer, no police car. There was no one but the woman.
The woman and the gun she had pointed directly at me.
"Let him go," the woman said shakily. Blood trickled down her cheek and onto the slinky white dress she was wearing, but she didn't seem to notice.
I unceremoniously dropped the guy who was moaning incoherently in my hold. I turned to face the woman with both my hands up in the air. I couldn't help but be disappointed, though I didn't really understand why. It wasn’t like I’d never seen this same thing time and time again… a woman treated like shit at the hands of a man but never failing to stay by his side. My mother had been one of those women until she'd surprised us all when she finally found a way to escape her tormentor for good.
I took in the sight of the woman before me. She was closer to my age, which put her in her early to mid-thirties. My guess that she was petite had been only half right. Had she been standing closer, the top of her head would have only reached my shoulder. But it was definitely the bulk of the man still moaning on the ground that had made her look smaller than she was. She was slim but still had curves in all the places a woman should. Her dark hair was well past her shoulders and I could see some kind of dainty-looking clip dangling from some of the strands, which meant she’d probably had her hair in some kind of pretty updo when the assault had started. The knowledge that the guy had torn her hair was just another nail in his coffin as far as I was concerned, but the small revolver she was holding in her hand made it impossible for me to put the guy six feet under.
"Step away from him," the woman demanded. Her voice sounded rough and scratchy, and I wondered if it was because of how loudly she'd been screaming for help beneath the weight of his hand.
I did what she said and moved away from him. I didn't bother trying to defend myself because I knew women like her were too far gone when it came to the men who made them believe that what they had between them was love. It was anything but. It was ownership, it was a power play, it was…
I didn't finish the thought because I didn't have the heart to. The very reason I was in the too-small town of Eden, Wyoming was to escape thoughts like that for a while.
I watched as the woman approached her boyfriend or husband or lover or whatever he was to her. I wanted to warn her not to let him get his hands on the gun when she dropped to her knees next to him or hovered over him or began whispering apologies for upsetting him or whatever else she would do to get back on his good side. I knew my warning wouldn't be welcome, so I kept my mouth shut.
The woman stepped closer to the man, but there was no kneeling or apologizing. In fact, she looked downright dead in the eyes as she stood over the man and whispered, "Stay away from me, Ted. Do you hear me? Stay away from me."
I was shocked, to say the least, but even more shocked at what happened next. The asshole on the ground had the nerve to start his response with, "Bitch, I'll do whatever I want—"
That was all he got out before the woman aimed the gun between his legs and pulled the trigger. The blast of the gun was deafening, but the young woman barely flinched and the recoil of the weapon didn't knock on her ass like I would've expected. Asshole was surprised too because he began screaming. The bullet hadn’t hit his balls, though it had been pretty damn close. I was beginning to suspect that had been intentional.