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When your job includes killing people for money, the first lesson you learn is: sleep lightly. You never know when you might have to make a fast escape.
Apparently that lesson didn't take with me, because I didn't know someone had broken into my apartment until a hand clamped over my mouth, pressing my head into the pillow.
I couldn't see much in the dim light coming from my alarm clock. Tall, muscular. His hand was callused and very strong. He stank of stale sweat and beer, and his nasally voice reminded me of an acquaintance whose nose has been broken a few times.
"Looks like he was right about you being a sweet piece of ass," the intruder growled. Flecks of spit landed on my face and I had to fight back nausea. He ripped aside my comforter and snaked a hand under my t-shirt, easily overcoming my attempts to push him away.
I was pissed. Pissed at my landlord for the cheap electronic locks on my front door, pissed that I lived in a building that didn't have an alarm system, but mostly pissed at myself for forgetting the first lesson. That sort of thing could get you killed.
My Corizil nine millimeter was on the bedside table, but I couldn't reach it with him holding me down. I usually keep my Dunston under my pillow, but I stupidly left it on the kitchen table last night to finish cleaning it. That sort of thing could get you killed, too.
He grabbed my breast and fondled it roughly, pinching and twisting until I had to bite my cheek to keep from crying out in pain.
"Never let 'em see they got to you," my father always told me. Then he walked out on us when I was twelve.
I guess we got to him.
"He said you was a real ballbuster. Bitches don't know their place these days. Good thing you got me to teach you." He removed his hand from my breast and started fumbling with his belt.
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