and panties, prying her flailing legs apart with his body. Crying out, she squirmed and fought beneath him, but the smooth, polished wood of the desk worked against her. She could gain no purchase. There was no escape. Don Wolf was stronger than she was.
When it was all over, when Latty lay nearly naked and sobbing on the desk, the indifferent caption on the screen said 12:01. The entire incident, from beginning to end, had taken less than fifteen minutes.
It seemed much longer.
Five
M y collar was too tight. There wasn't enough air to breathe in Bill Whitten's darkened office. "Damn!" I said. "What a good-for-nothing shit!"
"Pretty rough, isn't it," Whitten said.
I had seen worse, but still…"Is that it?" I asked.
Whitten shook his head. "No, wait."
"You mean there's more?"
Back on the screen, Latty was sobbing and struggling to sit up. "I'm going to leave now," she gasped. Her lower lip was bleeding and starting to swell.
"Oh, my God, Latty," Don Wolf said, as though waking from a stupor at the sight of the blood. "What have I done?"
He reached out one hand as if to help her. She cringed away from him. "Don't touch me," she screeched. "Get away."
"But, baby," he whined. "Please. I never meant to hurt you, I swear. I just got carried away and—"
"Shut up!" she hissed furiously. "I'm going to walk out of here and you're not going to stop me."
"Latty, I can't believe I did this to you. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please don't go. Please say you'll forgive me."
"I'm going to walk out," Latty continued, as if he hadn't said a word. She stumbled to her feet. When she did so, her torn dress fell away from her body. She grabbed the frayed edges of material and tried to hold them together. Swaying unsteadily on her feet, she finally located her shoes and slipped them on. Then she reached out, snagged Don Wolf's jacket off the desk, and wrapped it around her shoulders. I could see the reflexive chattering of her teeth, but somehow, she wasn't crying any longer. In fact, considering what had just happened, she seemed astoundingly calm. And cold sober.
By then, Don Wolf had moved across the room so he was standing between her and the door; between her and the lens of the camera as well. He was tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants.
"Don't go, Latty. Not like this."
"Call me a cab," she returned doggedly.
"I'll take you home, Latty. I promise I won't touch you again. Honest."
He moved toward her, but she recoiled, stopping only when the desk was safely interposed between them.
"I told you, don't touch me! Don't you ever come near me again!" she commanded. "Call a cab."
Shrugging, he picked up the phone and punched out a number from memory. "My name's Don Wolf," he said. "I need a cab at thirty-three hundred Western." He waited for a moment, listening. "That's right," he said. "It's an office building, not an apartment. Just pull up by the front door. We'll be waiting in the lobby."
He put down the phone. "The cab should be here within fifteen minutes."
" I'll be waiting in the lobby," Latty corrected, struggling to keep her voice under control. "You stay right here until after I've gone."
"But Latty," he objected, "I—"
"Just shut up!" she seethed. "Don't you say another word. I never want to hear your voice again, not ever!"
"But I have to ride downstairs with you," Don wheedled, sounding both apologetic and conciliatory. "The elevator is locked. You need me to run the keypad."
Sometimes, in situations like that, in the minutes after something awful happens, anger is the only force capable of holding hysterics at bay. Or maybe anger is just another form of hysterics—one that allows people to function for a time before they fall apart. I wondered how long Latty's anger would carry her.
Wolf stepped aside, clearing a path to the office door. Latty stood leaning against the desk, seeming to gather strength even as she clutched Don Wolf's oversized jacket closed around her. Finally, she straightened and lurched
When it was all over, when Latty lay nearly naked and sobbing on the desk, the indifferent caption on the screen said 12:01. The entire incident, from beginning to end, had taken less than fifteen minutes.
It seemed much longer.
Five
M y collar was too tight. There wasn't enough air to breathe in Bill Whitten's darkened office. "Damn!" I said. "What a good-for-nothing shit!"
"Pretty rough, isn't it," Whitten said.
I had seen worse, but still…"Is that it?" I asked.
Whitten shook his head. "No, wait."
"You mean there's more?"
Back on the screen, Latty was sobbing and struggling to sit up. "I'm going to leave now," she gasped. Her lower lip was bleeding and starting to swell.
"Oh, my God, Latty," Don Wolf said, as though waking from a stupor at the sight of the blood. "What have I done?"
He reached out one hand as if to help her. She cringed away from him. "Don't touch me," she screeched. "Get away."
"But, baby," he whined. "Please. I never meant to hurt you, I swear. I just got carried away and—"
"Shut up!" she hissed furiously. "I'm going to walk out of here and you're not going to stop me."
"Latty, I can't believe I did this to you. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please don't go. Please say you'll forgive me."
"I'm going to walk out," Latty continued, as if he hadn't said a word. She stumbled to her feet. When she did so, her torn dress fell away from her body. She grabbed the frayed edges of material and tried to hold them together. Swaying unsteadily on her feet, she finally located her shoes and slipped them on. Then she reached out, snagged Don Wolf's jacket off the desk, and wrapped it around her shoulders. I could see the reflexive chattering of her teeth, but somehow, she wasn't crying any longer. In fact, considering what had just happened, she seemed astoundingly calm. And cold sober.
By then, Don Wolf had moved across the room so he was standing between her and the door; between her and the lens of the camera as well. He was tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants.
"Don't go, Latty. Not like this."
"Call me a cab," she returned doggedly.
"I'll take you home, Latty. I promise I won't touch you again. Honest."
He moved toward her, but she recoiled, stopping only when the desk was safely interposed between them.
"I told you, don't touch me! Don't you ever come near me again!" she commanded. "Call a cab."
Shrugging, he picked up the phone and punched out a number from memory. "My name's Don Wolf," he said. "I need a cab at thirty-three hundred Western." He waited for a moment, listening. "That's right," he said. "It's an office building, not an apartment. Just pull up by the front door. We'll be waiting in the lobby."
He put down the phone. "The cab should be here within fifteen minutes."
" I'll be waiting in the lobby," Latty corrected, struggling to keep her voice under control. "You stay right here until after I've gone."
"But Latty," he objected, "I—"
"Just shut up!" she seethed. "Don't you say another word. I never want to hear your voice again, not ever!"
"But I have to ride downstairs with you," Don wheedled, sounding both apologetic and conciliatory. "The elevator is locked. You need me to run the keypad."
Sometimes, in situations like that, in the minutes after something awful happens, anger is the only force capable of holding hysterics at bay. Or maybe anger is just another form of hysterics—one that allows people to function for a time before they fall apart. I wondered how long Latty's anger would carry her.
Wolf stepped aside, clearing a path to the office door. Latty stood leaning against the desk, seeming to gather strength even as she clutched Don Wolf's oversized jacket closed around her. Finally, she straightened and lurched
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