The Broken Heel

The Broken Heel

Natalie didn’t see where she was going as she rushed from the restaurant. Break up in public so they won’t make a scene; that’s what they say, isn’t it? She cursed herself for not seeing it coming. They always seemed like nice guys, then when she opened up… it always ended the same. It shouldn’t have hurt any more, but every rejection was more bitter.

She felt relived that she had gotten out of the restaurant before the tears had started, but as she looked around the darkened city street she wasn’t sure where she was anymore. The garage where she parked was on Charles Street, and Charles Street should have been only a block or two away to the East, and if she walked a few blocks and didn’t find the right street she could turn around and try the other way.

The plan gave Natalie a sense of relief and purpose, but just for a moment. That moment came and went as Natalie wiped away her tears, smeared her mascara and took one step east toward Charles Street, the garage, her car, her home, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. With that one step, one of the high spiked heels of her best shoes slipped neatly into the little hole on a manhole cover, the heel snapped and she tumbled to her knees.

She didn’t cry; she chuckled. Her life was a joke. Every time she tried to take one step toward happiness God laughed at her. She heard the low, guttural rumble of a motorcycle slowing to a stop beside her. She turned her head enough to see the bike’s spoked front wheel and chromed pipes, but then cast her gaze to the ground, chuckling louder at the joke of her life. She dared to wonder how her fucked up life could get any worse, and then along came a biker to rape and rob her.

With a bit of shame, Natalie had to admit to herself that getting raped would probably go a long way to cheering her up, though she couldn’t imagine a rapist would be any happier with what she was than any of her boyfriends had been.

“Are you laughin’ sugar?” the ‘rapist’ purred in a sultry southern drawl — a very feminine southern drawl.

Natalie looked up, mascara streaks where her tears had been, and got a better look at the motorcyclist. For some reason the sultry voice lead Natalie to expect the woman would be in a set of sexy high-heeled boots, but instead the biker-chick was in high, black boots with almost-flat soles. There’d be no chance of her catching a heel in anything and winding up on the ground crying.

The footwear made the biker’s already impressive height even more impressive; she must have been nearly six-feet tall even when barefoot. The biker’s jeans were loose, and her black leather jacket was bulky with protective plates, but Natalie could tell the woman had an impressive figure underneath it all, with curvy hips and breasts that seemed a bit large even compared to her tall frame, and even when concealed by an armored riding jacket. Und

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