Warning: A Bit of Bad Language . . .
Note: Just for clarification, this chapter occurs approximately three weeks after the previous chapter.
"I can't believe you're quitting! That is just so sad," Jasmine told her.
Elle wiped her eyes again. She had done nothing but cry for nearly three weeks, but she had made her decision. For what purpose was she continuing to work when she could barely make it through a song and the audience . . . The audience appeared to pick up on her moods; weeping with her or, oddly enough, having several fights break out. That was something that had never happened before.
"I told Brian that I'd come back whenever he needed someone to fill in, but until I can get my life straightened out, it will be better if I go," she said.
Her following, which had become rather substantial, had withered a bit in the last few of weeks. She didn't blame them. Who wanted to come and listen to a woman sing sad songs? Even the ones that weren't supposed to be sad seemed to end up sounding that way. She needed to go while Chez Donovan still had customers.
"Thanks for helping me pack up some of this stuff," Elle told her friend and backup singer. "I'll drop you off so you don't have to catch a cab."
Jasmine smiled. "Always happy to help," she said. "And you don't have to if it's out of your way."
"Nonsense," Elle assured her. "The least I can do is save you cab fare."
Elle shuffled the box of clothing onto her hip as she fished out her keys. The clothes were ones she kept in the dressing room for her performances. Jasmine carried her accessories and shoes. She opened the back of her new used car and placed the last of her items in.
She could have gotten a new one, but that would have meant touching the money in the account her father had set up for her. This way Elle could pay for the car out of money that she had earned herself, and buying used meant she could pay cash. It gave her a level of independence that she had previously lacked.
Elle adjusted her scarf. It was cold tonight, but still milder than it had been for several days. Balmy for this time of year this far north. She opened the passenger door for Jasmine because it tended to stick a little, and Elle recently learned the secret to it; lift the handle and bump it with your hip, and then lift up as you pull. Some people would have either chosen a different car or would have already taken it to the shop to get it fixed, but Elle kind of liked it. It gave the car character, she thought, and she loved the idea that only she could get it open easily . . . 'Easily' being a relative term. It could be a little difficult from the inside, but it just meant you needed to use your shoulder instead of your hip.
She ran around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. It still carried the slightest scent of cigarette smoke, but that would eventually go away. She put the key into the ignition and . . . Nothing happened. She frowned, and tried it again.
"What's wrong," Jasmine asked.
"It's not starting," Elle complained, as the third time failed as well.
"It never rains, but it pours, eh?"
"Sh! Next thing you know we'll be walking home in the rain," Elle warned her.
Jasmine laughed. "I'd have never pegged you as being superstitious!"
Elle pooh-poohed that idea. "I don't believe in superstitions, but I do believe in irony. And having it rain in the middle of my walk home after my car breaks down would definitely be ironic."
"We can call a cab, you know," Jasmine reminded her. It was nine-thirty at night. Not a good idea to walk home this late even in the decent part of town.
"I know, but the weather is supposed to take a turn for the worse in a couple of days. This might be our last chance to walk in reasonably mild temperatures." Elle loved to walk. It was one of the reasons she had waited so long to purchase a car. Also, it annoyed the hell out of her bodyguards which was always entertaining.
Or it would have annoyed the hell out of her bodyguards had they still been following her about day in and day out. But after her father had met Dick and approved of him, he had pulled the men back to Chicago. A lump rose up in her throat just thinking his name! Elle bit her lip and swallowed her tears. She would not cry over him again this evening . . . At least not until she was in the privacy of her apartment anyway.
Her stuff couldn't be seen in the trunk, so she wasn't worried about anyone trying to steal it. The car didn't look like it was worth anything, and so it was likely no one would suspect there was anything of value in it. It was why she had chosen the eighteen year old Yugo in a rather festive aquamarine frost paint rather than something fresh off the lot. She would call someone to tow it to the garage tomorrow.
"Come on," Elle urged her. "You only live six blocks away compared to my eight. I'll buy you a cup of coffee or hot chocolate along the way to keep you warm."
Jasmine looked at her doubtfully even as she reluctantly gave in. "Okay, fine," she groused. "But you have to get your ass over here and open my door for me first. I bruise easily."
That got a small laugh out of her, and made Jasmine smiled happily. She opened the door, locked everything up tight, and threaded her arm through that of her ex-backup singer. They were wearing comfortable shoes and warm clothing; perfect for a walk home.
Four blocks and two cups of coffee between them later, Jasmine's nervous chatter had slowly died away. Elle usually kept up her end of the conversation, but just didn't have it in her tonight. She might have managed it had they driven, but walking took too long and she wasn't able to keep up the pretense for any length of time.
"You should totally stay the night," Jasmine was saying. "I can loan you some pajamas and we can stay up late eating my mother's peach pie and male bashing. It'll be fun!"
Jasmine's mother did make a mean peach pie, but Elle just wanted to soak in the tub and wallow in her misery in her own bed. She had chocolate ice cream and marshmallow cream topping, an electric blanket, and three brand-new boxes of tissues. She didn't think she'd be up for a good round of male bashing for another month or so despite Jasmine's assurances of its therapeutic value.
Voices in the alleyway they were passing had the two women glancing in curiously. What they saw made them gasp and dart past it. Someone was holding up an elderly couple! Elle and Jasmine paused, leaning up against the brick building.
"Oh my God! That poor, old couple," Jasmine moaned in an urgent whisper.
"Call 911," Elle ordered as she slid along the wall in order to glance back in.
Jasmine already had her cell phone in hand, but didn't dial the number because she was busy grabbing Elle's coat sleeve. "What the hell are you doing," she hissed.
Elle waved her away; pointing intently at the other woman's phone. She peeked around the corner. The old woman was moaning and clinging to her husband. The elderly man was trying his best to balance himself with his cane, support his wife, and pull out his wallet before the young tough got too impatient. The younger man waved his gun at them threateningly.
"Hurry up, old man, or I'll shoot your wife and beat you both to death with your cane," the young man growled at them. He looked in his early twenties, possibly Elle's age. "What's in the bag," he asked, pointing at the paper bag clutched in the woman's hand.
"That's just my medicine," the old man told him. "You don't want that."
The mugger grinned. "Oh, yeah, I do. Hand it over."
The woman protested. "No, my husband needs that for his heart! You can't get high on them. They could even kill you if you take them and don't have a heart condition!"
"Hand them over," the young man told her. "I can sell them. It don't matter what kind of pills they are; someone will be willing to pay for them."
Elle glanced behind her. Jasmine had walked away so she could speak to the 911 dispatcher without the mugger overhearing her. The police would never get here on time. She looked back to see the guy push the elderly woman down and yank the bag out of her hand. Her husband used his cane to whack the mugger on his back in a valiant effort to defend her. The young man jerked the cane out of the old man's hands and threw it behind him.
"You are going to regret that," he snarled at them.
He was going to kill them! Elle knew it in the very fiber of her being. He was going to shoot them. She glanced back at her friend, but Jasmine was turned away from her talking urgently into her phone, as if somehow she could speed the police by force of will alone. But the couple would be dead long before anyone could arrive.
The mugger's back was to her. She put her finger to her lips as she slid around the corner into the alley. She didn't want the couple to give her away. She eased down and picked up a metal trashcan lid from the ground. She didn't even realize people still used these anymore with all the plastic bins and dumpsters that were used nowadays. The old man saw her and shook his head but said nothing.
Elle threw the metal lid like a Frisbee and it clanged into the back of the guy's head. He staggered and the gun went off, but his aim went wide and the bullet struck the brick wall. She bent down quickly and picked up the cane. Running forward with a yell, she brought the heavy wooden cane down onto his hand; knocking the gun to the ground. She swung it again and hit the guy in the stomach, and again in the face. Blood splattered from his broken nose as he staggered backward under her attack.
She kicked the gun away as she helped the elderly woman up, and then the old man. She handed him his cane and pushed them toward the sidewalk.
"Go, go, go," she yelled. "Run, and don't look back!"
"You stupid cunt," the mugger screamed at her.
Elle spun around to see him lurch in the direction of his gun. Her breath caught. Everyone was still in danger of being shot! He was definitely angry enough to chase them down the street if he had to unless she could reach the gun first. He was closer, but he was hurt. Elle ran for the gun!
The man was reaching for it as Elle barreled into him, throwing him off balance. As he tried to catch himself, Elle kicked the gun under the heavy dumpster and out of his reach. She spun around to run when the mugger's grabbed a handful of her hair; nearly yanking her off of her feet.
She yelped in surprise. It probably should have hurt, but with the amount of adrenaline pumping through her veins, Elle didn't feel a thing; not even when he punched her in the face. She would have fallen, but he still had a hold of her hair and was keeping her upright by it. He hit her again, splitting her cheek below her left eye.
Elle's knees buckled, but her assailant wouldn't let her fall. He shook her violently, and Elle finally landed on her knees. Letting go of her hair, the man backhanded her across the face. She caught herself. When Elle glanced up, the mugger was swinging at her with a switchblade. She brought up her arm defensively, and the blade sliced through her coat and glanced off of her forearm. As he moved to stab at her again, Elle slammed her heel into his crotch. The man screamed and fell forward; landing on her.
She was struggling to shove him off when hands grabbed the guy's jacket and helped her to push him away. When her attacker attempted to climb to his feet, while clutching his crotch with one hand, her savior smacked him in the side of his head with a vaguely familiar looking cane. The mugger fell over, stunned.
Dazed, Elle looked up, blinking owlishly at the elderly man. He was standing over the young punk and brandishing his cane like a baseball bat.
"Are you all right, young lady," he asked her.
Her ears were ringing so loudly, he'd had to repeat himself before she understood. She nodded. Her voice seemed to have failed her at the moment. She rolled to her hands and knees, pausing as a wave of dizziness almost sent her down onto her face. Her eyes landed on the knife. It was only inches from the criminal's hand. She reached out and slapped it away.
Her palms were stinging now, and it was only then that she realized she had landed on a broken beer bottle at some point. There were embedded bits of glass in the cuts that decorated her palms, and there was blood dripping from her left hand that came from the gash on her arm.
As sound returned to her, Elle heard shrieking and yelling. She looked around and saw Jasmine, phone still in hand, kicking the downed mugger. Jasmine was yelling and it was the mugger who was shrieking. For some reason, Elle began to laugh. Everyone stared at her, but she couldn't stop laughing until abruptly she found herself sitting in the middle of the filthy alleyway sobbing hysterically.
By the time the police showed up with an ambulance, the elderly woman was patting Elle in a vain effort to sooth her while Jasmine and the old man stood guard over the defeated mugger. To their surprise, everyone in the alley was weeping, including the criminal.
When the two paramedics attempted to help Elle to stand up, she passed out. Thirty minutes later she awoke to find herself on her way to the emergency room. It was then that she discovered that the mugger had stabbed her when he had fallen on top of her. Although the wound was low and far enough to the side that no important organs had been injured, she had apparently lost a lot of blood.
Groaning, Elle closed her eyes. She wanted Dick, which only made fresh tears leak from the corners of her eyes. For some reason she was still unaware of, he no longer seemed to want her. When one of the paramedics asked her for an emergency contact number, her first thought was Dick's number. Instead, Elle took a shuddered breath and gave the man her father's emergency number; praying that she didn't wake up from this in her old bedroom in Chicago.
REACTIONS?
Where is Nightwing when you need him, Damn It!