For all my sisters who have known the terror and indignity of an assault, and there are far too many of us.

The young woman walked slowly to the bar, took a napkin from the holder and held it to her abused lip. Pulling it away, she stared at the dirt and blood. Tears stung her eyes, tears of pain and fury. She swallowed hard against the emotional reaction and signaled the bartender.

"Could I get a Jim Beam on the rocks and a glass of ice water please." There was the faintest tremor in her voice.

Josh looked at the disheveled hair, the cut lip and the bruising that was beginning to darken the left cheek. "Sure honey. You all right? You look a little roughed up."

She touched her lip with the napkin again. "You should see the other guy."

He set a tumbler of amber liquid and ice in front of her on a bar napkin and followed it with a large glass of ice water. "I could call someone."

"Naw. I just need to relax for a minute. But thanks." She looked into the kind brown eyes and the open face of the burly bartender. The concern in his eyes nearly started the tears again. She blinked hard and took a long swallow of the JB.

Of its own bidding, the terror of the assault flashed into her mind. The rough hands tearing at her jeans, the big fist connecting with blinding accuracy against her cheek. She hadn't been able to see his face in the dark alley he had pulled her into, but he had smelled of cigarettes, beer and cheap cologne. The memory triggered her gag reflex. She took another hit at the whiskey. Her hand trembled as she set the glass carefully back onto the square of napkin.

Looking at her hand, she saw the streaked splatters of blood. A grim smile tugged at her swollen lip and she went to the restroom to wash up. In the white, overly bright bathroom, she looked at her face. God, no wonder the bartender had looked worried. Her face looked like it had been used as a battering ram. She ran cool water over her hands and wrists, scrubbing away the sticky, drying blood. Hands cleaned, she splashed the purifying water over her face, rubbing hard enough to cause pain to the abused flesh but feeling the need to erase the indignity of the attack.

The attack. She had walked into it so blindly. How many times had Daddy told her to be prepared for anything? How many times had she boasted that she'd never get caught off guard? She was always alert for signs of trouble. Except for tonight of all nights. She had parked her new Deuce under the streetlight and stepped back for a minute to admire the sweet lines, polished chrome and gleaming purple paint. She had been grinning like an idiot all day, her first new bike. She had been riding a rusting Shovelhead for so long she thought bone rattling vibrations were a fact of life, until she allowed herself the luxury of test riding the Deuce. She had always considered love at first sight to be an idiotic concept, now she knew better. She would have sold her own mother to finance that bike. Fortunately all she had had to do was sign away the next six years of her life. Worth every minute.

Unfortunately, her infatuation with the new bike had held her attention to the exclusion of all else, including the asshole lurking in the alley behind her. He had grabbed her with a strong gloved hand over her mouth. She bit, but the leather prevented her from drawing the blood she wanted. She fought with every ounce of strength she could muster from her 5-foot-8-inch frame, but her attacker had her by a good hundred pounds.

Her eyes refocused and saw a slack, pale face staring back at her in the mirror. At least the smudges of dirt were gone now, as well as the blood on her hands and lips. She turned off the water, wondering how long she had stood staring. Grabbing a handful of the coarse brown paper towels, she rubbed her face vigorously, returning a little of the color to her cheeks. She arranged her clothes, tucked in her shirt, checked her pockets and returned to the bar.

Another sip of Jim Beam. Her hands had stopped shaking. The bartender was polishing the wood bar with a soft white cloth, casting an occasional glance at the battered woman. He wanted to help, but knew there was little he could do for someone who wanted nothing.

His attention was pulled from the woman to the two uniforms that had just entered through the double door. They made a slow procession through the room, eyes scanning every barstool and booth. They approached the bartender.

"Can I help you officers?" he asked, ever helpful.

"Have you heard or seen any disturbances this evening?"

"No. Been real quiet."

"Have you had any customers in here acting suspicious?"

"You mean more so than usual? Nope. Can I ask why? If I knew what you were trolling for I might be able to help."

"A body was found in the alley next to your building. Big guy. Looks like he took a point blank shot to the face and another to the chest."

"Huh. Haven't heard a thing."

"Has anyone come or gone in the last half hour or so?"

"No. These are all my regulars, been here all night."

"All right. If you hear of anything, let us know. OK?"

"Sure thing, fellas." He returned to his meticulous polishing and the uniforms left.

She looked up when the big bartender stepped in front of her, setting down a second drink. "On the house," he smiled warmly.

Her hand touched the warm steel held snug against her chest in its custom holster, a bit of her confidence reasserted itself. Daddy had always told her to be prepared. She returned the smile and accepted the drink.