Selena shot him. She put a bullet into his gut.
She jerked herself out of his lap and wiped her mouth against her shirt and wedged herself against the passenger door, putting as much space between her and the man as she could. She was still holding the gun, aiming it at him, her arm shaking.
He doubled over, grabbing for the place that hurt. Then he reached for her, his red face twisted in rage, his eyes bulging. He was going for her neck. She pointed the gun at his face. She pushed it up against his nose and the barrel stopped shaking. She said, “Stop or you die, motherfucker.” Her voice had a tremor on motherfucker.
He stopped his hand. He put it down. He leaned back and grabbed for his shot belly. He rocked back and forth. Blood oozed from his wound. It was covering his white shirt, soaking it dark red. He cried out in aching pain. “You shot me, you dumb bitch. You fucking shot me. Look what you did.” He moved his hand so she could see the red stain soaking his white shirt. He looked at her.
“Make a move and I swear to God I'll shoot you in the face.” Her gun hand was shaking again. She reached for the door handle behind her without looking and opened it. She kept the gun trained on him and got out of the car.
She stood and looked at this bleeding man with the passenger door still open. She could leave him and run. But what if he lived? What then? That would mean it wasn't over. It would mean he might spend every waking minute of every day of his sick, perverted life trying to track her down. It would mean she'd have to live the rest of her life looking back over her shoulder, because she'd have no way of knowing what he was up to. That was no way to live.
She knew what she had to do.