Glamorama

Glamorama Page 215

Bobby stops cowering, looks up, first at the empty gun I'm holding and then at my face.

"Fuck you!" he screams, rocketing forward.

He grabs my collar, then clumsily attempts to get me into a headlock. I shove the hand that's holding the gun under his chin, pushing him away. He moves his head back, my hand slipping off. I try again, this time with the other hand and harder, and my fist connects with his chin. When Bobby lets go he tears my shirt open and he lunges forward again, grabbing my shoulders and bringing my face up to his.

"You... are... dead," he says, his voice low and hoarse.

It's like we're dancing, colliding with each other before we crash into a wall, almost knocking over the cameraman.

We keep hugging each other until Bobby maneuvers around and smashes my face against a wall-length mirror, once, twice, my head impacting against it until the mirror cracks and I fall to my knees, something warm spreading across my face.

Bobby staggers away, looking for his gun.

I lurch up, blinking blood out of my eyes.

A gaffer tosses me a clip to reload with.

I catch it and then slam Bobby back against a stall door. I duck as his fist comes flying toward me, Bobby leaping on me like we're in a mosh pit, his face completely tensed up, and he's slapping at me madly, out of control.

He slams my head against a urinal and then grabs my scalp and shoves my head down as he brings his knee up into it, my forehead connecting, my neck snapping violently.

Bobby pulls me back and starts dragging me across the tiled floor to where his gun rests, now next to the trash can.

"Get it-get his gun," I'm screaming at the crew as Bobby keeps hauling me across the floor.

Desperately, I grab for a stall door handle, hanging on to it.

Bobby grunts, reaches down and grabs the waistband of the Prada slacks I'm wearing and pulls me up until I'm standing with him and then both of us are tumbling backward.

I land on top of him, then roll over, get on one knee and stand up, then run into a stall, slamming and locking the door so I can slip the new clip into the gun but Bobby tears the door off its hinges and throws me out, hurling me against a sink, my hand trying to block the force of impact, and then I'm smashing into the mirror above the sink, shattering it, the clip slipping from my gun.

I shove away from him but Bobby's scratching at my face now and I'm lashing out blindly. Again we both fall, sprawling, the gun knocked out of my hand, skidding along the icy floor, and when I spot Bobby's gun under the sink I reach out but his boot is suddenly on my hand, crushing it, and a giant bolt of pain causes me to become more alert.

Then another boot is on my head, grinding into my temple, and I flip over and grab Bobby's foot, twisting until he loses his balance and slips, falling on his back.

Staggering to my feet, I regain my footing and reach for his gun.

I point the barrel where he's lying on the floor but Bobby kicks out a leg, knocking the gun from my hand.

He lunges up and knocks me back, slamming into my side, and I'm not prepared for the ferocity of Bobby's fist connecting with the side of my head and there's a cracking sound and as he lurches toward me he grabs my throat with both hands, pushing me to the floor.

He's straddling me, shutting off my windpipe, and I'm making choking sounds, both of Bobby's hands clamping my throat even tighter.

And he's grinning, his teeth stained red with blood.

I shove one hand under his chin, trying to push him off.

With one hand crushing my neck, he easily reaches over and grabs his gun.

I'm kicking out, unable to move, my hands pounding the tiled floor.

Bobby holds the gun at chest level, riding me, the barrel tilted toward my face.

I try to scream, lashing my head back and forth.

He pulls the trigger.

I close my eyes.

Nothing.

He pulls it again.

Nothing. For a second we're both still.

And then I spring up yelling and I hit Bobby hard, knocking him backward.

He goes sprawling, blood jetting from his nostrils.

I'm sitting on the floor, looking around madly for my gun and the new clip.

I spot them under the sink, a few feet away.

I start crawling toward them.

Standing, turning in a circle, Bobby reaches into his jacket for a new clip and quickly reloads.

I reach under the sink and slip in the clip, tensing up, closing my eyes.

Bobby fires. A bullet splinters another mirror above me.

He fires again, missing, the bullet thudding into the wall behind me. Tile explodes next to my face as he keeps firing.

I roll over onto my side, aiming at him.