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'Let me help you with that,' Willis said, reaching for the nozzle. |
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'You're all black! What the hell kind of rain . . .?' |
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He yanked the nozzle from her grip. His other hand grabbed the front of her T-shirt. He shoved her, slamming her back against the trunk, holding her down with his first thrust hard against her chest. |
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She opened her mouth to curse him or scream. |
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He shoved the spout inside it. He squeezed the trigger. Gasoline flooded her mouth, splashed out. She thrashed on the trunk, choking, eyes squeezed shut, hands clawing at the nozzle. |
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Willis pulled the spout from her mouth and hosed her face, her T-shirt. He rammed the spout into her belly. She bucked under his straight arm and gasoline exploded from her mouth. |
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Stepping back, he let her slide off the trunk. Her knees hit the concrete. She fell forward and caught herself with her hands. |
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Willis soaked her down some more. |
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Then he dropped the nozzle, fished his match book out of the pocket where it rested beside the Twix bar, and lit a match. |
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His hands and arms flamed, but he managed to toss the match. |
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It blew out on its way toward the woman. |
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So he crouched and touched her hair. |
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Chet Baxter was waiting in line beside his girlfriend, Christie Lord, to buy a ticket for the seven o'clock |
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