Free One Safe Place by Alvin L. A. Horn Page A

who dictated her life with hellish deeds which led to Hell Two, Daddy pushing Evita too close to the ledge, ’til someone pushed Daddy over for good. Hell Three was the drunken rage of another evil man who left her with physical and mental scars—mutilations that ended with Psalms Black sending the evil man to hell. These hells, the ones she lived, and the ones men died because of her, haunted her soul. Another part of her soul seemed to sleep well, knowing she had power to create demise.
    Evita walked through the glass doors into an instant social scene. Glasses clinked, and laughter rose to the mirrored ceiling. TVs replayed old Supersonics game highlights in honor of the NBA team that would hopefully come back to Seattle. Suits and skirts played themselves sexy and the “Hey what’s up, girl?” game was in effect. It was the weekend, and folks were here for the potential hook-up.
    Ex-pros fronted like they were still relevant with a few current bench-sitting players. Skirts batted their eyes and pursed their lips at men built to destroy other men in games. Everyone else came to have a good time after work, and to watch the expensive sleaze and tease. Hip folks!
    Evita checked her coat and walked past the bar. She recognizeda few faces in the crowd, some welcomed and a few best to ignore. She spotted her coworker at a bay window booth overlooking the Lake Union moored yachts. Time to unwind, have some laughs, and sip on a Chocolate Cream martini: 1 oz. Vodka or Vanilla Vodka, 1 oz. Chocolate Liqueur and 1 oz. Irish Cream.
    As she got to the table, a man patted her ass. Her streetwise peripheral vision triggered action. Evita didn’t turn around. Instead, she lifted her boot high off the ground and angled backward and downward. The thin heel ripped down the leg of the man, and in quick succession Evita grabbed a table napkin, then turned and stuffed it in the man’s wide open mouth. Before a wounded dog sound left him, she beat back his howl by almost choking him with the table napkin. Almost in that same move, Evita slipped her hand behind the man and acted as if she were hugging him to fool those who might have looked up, but it was actually the point of her nails he felt, like a knife about to push through his skin. The man had double trouble. Evita was getting high on the torture she was putting on him.
    The man and Evita had exchanged long glances when she walked in, but apparently in his head he thought he had hooked her. The sound that squeaked through his stuffed mouth sounded like a weak seal wanting fish to eat. Evita released her fake hug and the man turned quickly, and headed outside to hide his embarrassment. Evita’s co-worker wasn’t sure what had happened, yet knew well enough that Evita was dangerous if provoked. Living the street life and growing up in foulness, you learn to live and survive by being ugly when needed. The problem is, sometimes you go over the thin line.
    â€œLet’s drink. Whoever he was, he had to leave and look for another party. Some people shouldn’t drink and be around others.” Evita sounded calm, but she wasn’t. Her coworker, Jamie BubbleBooty, walked her out to the patio. Despite a few others being out there, Jamie fired a joint up, and Evita took a long, burning drag. She held her mouth open in a circle as she ran her tongue around her lips while holding the smoke in her lungs. She exhaled after the charge of bud altered her cerebral stream; she pursed her lips and whistled the smoke out. Shortly thereafter her drink came to the table. She relaxed for real then, and told Jamie what happened.
    â€œYou’re so hard and sweet, like rock candy,” Jamie teased. “I always have to deal with men putting their hands on my butt. It protrudes into two rooms when I come through the door, so men see my ass as a playground for their ignorant shit. They think I’m okay with them putting their hands on it. I wish I was a