Free Trainwreck 2 (Trainwreck #2) by Nelle L'Amour Page B

the ground. It all happened so fast.
    On my next harsh breath, someone was gripping me by the neck and pinning me to the ground. Dazed, I gazed up at my assailant. He was a greasy, pimply-faced thug with bad teeth.
    “Bitch!” he growled, pulling out a pocket knife. My eyes grew wide as he flicked open the blade and pointed it at my chest.
    “What do you want?” My voice shook.
    “Back off, you little cunt.”
    He lowered the knife closer to my heart. I wanted to scream, but my vocal chords were frozen.
    Still holding the blade two inches above me, he grabbed my messenger bag and dumped the contents onto the pavement. He snatched my wallet and my cell phone, and with a bang of my head to the concrete, he ran off.
    I lay there stunned, my head ringing.
    “Honey, are you okay?” The words whirled around in my head. After blinking my eyes several times, things came back into focus. A buxom African American woman was crouching beside me. I sat up slowly and rubbed my sore head with one hand. My other hand was a bloody mess; my skirt was torn, and I ached all over. I looked down at my stinging knee. There was a huge gash on it, and blood was dripping down to my ankle.
    The kindly woman helped me gather the contents of my bag. My sketchpad…little book of sayings…keys…and some pens and pencils. And the bag of Mrs. Blumberg’s rugelach, which I’d forgotten to give to my mom. Tears stung my eyes.
    “Do you want me to take you to the emergency room?” asked the woman.
    I shook my head. “Do you have a cell phone I can borrow?” I asked, my voice shaky and desperate.
    She whipped out an iPhone from her large purse and handed it to me. I googled two words and handed her back the phone. Tears were streaming down my face.
    “Honey, are you sure you’re okay?”
    The expression on her face was one of genuine concern. After my vicious assault, it was reassuring there were still good Samaritans in this world. Philadelphia was still, after all, the “City of Brotherly Love.”
    I nodded. “Could you please tell me how to get to Center City?”
    “That’s a couple of miles downtown,” she replied. “My car’s parked across the street, and I’m headed that way. Can I give you a ride?”
    I was touched by this stranger’s kindness. With my head throbbing and body aching, I accepted her offer. She also handed me a tissue so that I could clean up my bloody hand and knee. The wounds bled right through it.
    Ten painful minutes later, the woman dropped me off in front of an imposing glass-and-steel tower. I thanked her for the lift, and after insisting she accept Mrs. Blumberg’s homemade pastries as a small token of my appreciation, l let myself out of her SUV.
    Barely able to push the revolving doors, I dragged myself into the building. Shaking, I was vaguely aware of people staring at me. Some gaped while others cupped a hand to their mouths. I must have looked beyond terrible…frightening. A bloody, disheveled, torn-up mess. I staggered up to the alphabetically listed tenant board. My eyes scrolled down the listings until they landed on the “G” section. Golden International—36th floor.
    The elevator ride to his office felt like an eternity. Why did he have to be the last stop? I tried to hide in a corner, but couldn’t avoid the horrified faces of people who boarded along the way. I felt faint.
    At last, the elevator reached my destination. The doors slid open, and I stumbled into a sky-high palace of sparkling glass, shiny marble, and sleek black leather. Several suits were seated in the lobby, but were too engrossed in magazines or their digital devices to notice me. I staggered up to the receptionist’s desk, a streamlined console behind which “Golden International” in gold and black letters blazed on the stark white wall.
    The receptionist, an attractive blonde in her late twenties, wearing earphones, took one look at me and gasped. I thought she would call security had I not managed the words, “I