Someone had tried to push her down the stairwell.  Knees twisting, shoulders wrenched as she tumbled forward, if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab the rail with both hands as she teetered on the top step, she would have plunged headlong down those stairs.  Could have been killed or immobilized, and who would have known?  No one would have noticed her missing for some time.

Damn it!

Raven inhaled deeply.

Oh-kay.

She needed to get a grip and calm down.  Her thought processes were running rampant with potty language, as her parents used to call it.  Hell.  Even at her age, she still had that internal conflict thing going on -- upbringing versus environment -- so she did try to control her foul mouth.  She snorted.  Hadn’t she come a long way?

When she had first met then married Marcus, he used to tease her because she didn’t know how to cuss.  She didn’t even know vernacular like cuss, said stupid-ass crap like curse.  Her parents didn’t cuss, per se, at least not in front of her, and the words they did use when frustrated, no one had considered real cussing.  Then, if you combined her home life with thirteen years of catholic school, K through twelfth grades, where everyone regarded cursing as a sin, what did you have?  Her so-called cuss words had consisted of family standards like shoot, darn, heck, and Marcus’s all time favorite...what the devil.

In addition, back in the day, people had respected people, and she rarely heard foul language out on the street.  She had been a blank slate, hadn’t known diddly about the real-deal cussing, but she’d soon had a wake-up call.

Her first time outside her community, when she had started traveling with her husband and the Marine Corps, she had learned quite a few people harbored inflexible ideas about who or what she was supposed to be.  You would have thought she’d had a speech impediment when she first left Philadelphia, with the ‘folkes’ constantly asking, “Where are you from, or why do you talk funny?”  Inferring what?  Her home planet wasn’t earth.

She’d tell them that she had come from Philadelphia.  They would smile, nod their heads, and say, “Oh, that explains it”, as if Philly wasn’t part of the contiguous forty-eight, but the innuendo didn’t stop there.  More often than not, it became insulting and there had to be that one individual who would force her to get ‘ghetto’ on him or her.  So damn skippy, to even the playing field, she had set out to arm herself with the appropriate tools, but getting the phonetics of cussing correct became an issue.

With her background, she had sounded all proper English, white folksy, adding all those i-n-g’s to the ends of her cuss words.  It had taken some practice, but she had learned to articulate on the folkes’ level, using the foulest language -- clearly a universal dialect understood by all.  The folkes soon realized outward appearances definitely had deceived, and contrary to popular belief, for Raven, ghetto was a state of mind, not a lifestyle.  She had hated going there, because beneath her multi-layered persona lingered the heart, the soul, and the background of a closet gang banger.  So having perfected her cussing, she really did try to control her foul mouth because it was the precursor to her impulsive propensity toward violence.

Damn.  She thought she had left the necessity for that type of behavior behind her.  But there you go.  Eons later, it’s the same old, same old.  She’s minding her own damn business, trying to relax and enjoy herself, while attempting to behave like a rational adult.  She meets a handsome young black man, and they get busy, then…

Wait a minute.

Her pace hiccupped.  She paused midstride and gripped the handrail.  Eyes narrowing, she nibbled the inside of her bottom lip and tried to recall what she had seen, what she had done—shit!  A slight noise had her jerking to attention.  She peered down the corridor gauging the distance she still had to cover.  With her lame gait, she was only halfway there, and stopping only made her a stationary target.

She resumed her painful trek.

What was it she couldn’t remember about the man?  He…something about him had freaked her out.  Senior moment.  It would come to her.

Nevertheless, she had tried to be polite.  Told the man in her most lady-like manner that she wasn’t feeling a connection and she didn’t want to hook up again.  Holy hell!  You would have thought she had said something derogatory about his mother, the way the bastard went ballistic on her.  His attitude had forced her to retaliate in kind.  So yeah, alligator mouth had overloaded hummingbird ass, she developed diarrhea of the lips, and she had gone off on his dumb behind.

She frowned.  Was that what had instigated the sudden drama?  Could her mishaps have something to do with refusing to see that asshole again?  The concept boggled the mind unless…  Did this dumb shit view her as the clichéd older woman on the prowl?  Did he think she deserved reprisal because she’d had the nerve to rebuff him, which in turn, what?  She had become disposable.  Hell.  What was wrong with people?  Did it never end?  Evidently, just as before, her demeanor had presented this dummy with the usual misleading impression of her.

Sure, her background consisted of a regular weekday regimen -- eight hours of confinement in classrooms with well-educated white nuns.  Not only did these pious women serve up correct proper English, they gratuitously force-fed credulous students a side order of gloom and doom -- mortal sin and venial sin.  So she knew all the right and wrong behavioral propaganda, supplemented by the familial school of social decorum.

Conversely, her neighborhood had been reputed to be one of the toughest in North Philly.  In that environment, beyond the confines of religious rhetoric, she had learned, nurtured, tested, and perfected survival skills.

Then on the eve of her wedding, she had become mobility-impaired, in an accident that should have taken her life.  Left with a feeling vulnerability had prompted her to enhance her street skills.  Next, if you factored in the training provided by the Marine Corps via her husband, the bastard dogging her behind needed to understand he had picked the wrong victim.

To paraphrase an old adage -- take the girl out of the city -- after so many years, it still held true for her.  She had kept her skills up to date, she would not go down easily, and she would defend herself.  Damn.  Clearly, this life-in-jeopardy crap was beginning to work her last nerve, if it had her reverting to her back-in-the-day personality.  At fifty-two, a half step away from senior citizenry, she was too old for this shit.

Over the years, no matter how heated some of her confrontational situations had become, she had managed to avoid physical violence.  Of course, this was different.  Her previous encounters probably left her combatants wanting to kill her, but they had never followed through.  This time, someone had tried to kill her.  Her usual aggressive verbosity wasn’t going to be a practical defensive tool.  Hell.  If her only protection meant jumping into thug mode, she was so there.

But then, this coward was ambushing her, so maybe the skills cultivated by her husband and his friends would be more effective.

Celer, Silens, Mortalis…hoo-rah…Semper Fi!

A door slammed and Raven pulled up short.  She peered nervously over her shoulder and listened, straining to identify the direction of the sound.  Shivering, she pulled her beige shawl around her shoulders, crossed her arms over her chest with the material clutched in her fists, and picked up her lumbering pace.  Another few yards and she’d reach the safety of her room and she’d call Jolene, tell her what had happened.

Raven smiled.

Jolene Rogers, a relatively new friend and confidant, was a fifty-five-year-old, part African-American, part Puerto Rican schoolteacher from New York.  She had met Jolene on Maui at the Writers Retreat and Conference a few years ago, and they had hit it off instantly.

A widow of seven years, Jolene was tall and lean with just the right amount of curves, and her classically attractive features touted her mixed heritage.  She had smooth, rich chocolate skin, kept her salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, and her large, dark brown eyes reminded Raven of doe caught-in-the-headlights.  Jolene had style.  On Jolene, even casual and sporty outfits took on a look of elegance.

Whereas, at fifty-two and a widow of two years, Raven sported a totally laid-back style.  Always too much of a tomboy, she had refused to go for what she called the ‘frou-frou’ look.  Yet, despite that quirk, her ass could profile with the best dressed on formal occasions.  For a career choice, she had chosen to be an accountant, and it still amazed her that she had lasted fifteen years in the financial arena.  She wouldn’t deny being a hothead.

Although complete opposites, she and Jolene complemented each other.  Jolene being the even-tempered one.

Raven couldn’t have been happier when Jolene had managed to get time off during the school term for the cruise.  In her current predicament, she needed Jolene’s calm rationale.  Together, maybe they could make sense of the unexpected drama dogging Raven’s life.  Except this time, she wasn’t falling for any bullshit about the instability of the ship’s movement and her mobility issues.

After that first episode -- it had happened earlier that day in the narrow hallway just beyond her cabin.  On her way out to the fore deck, she had opened the door, raised her leg to step over the threshold—wham!  Propelled forward, foot catching on the doorjamb, her knee had caved, and she had landed on her hands and knees, ass in the air.  Jolene’s arguments had convinced her that no one would believe it wasn’t an accident caused by her mobility awkwardness.  So she had gaffed the incident off as just that, even though the feeling of the shove between her shoulder blades remained real.  But two such mishaps occurring on the same day…oh, hell no.

Raven stopped in front of her suite.  With her head cocked to one side, she listened.  The only distinguishable sound was the creaking of the ship’s bumpy progress.  Pulling her key card from her bra, she slipped it into the slot then pushed against the door.  After a final glance down the corridor, she ducked inside.

She leaned back against the door, took two deep steadying breaths in an attempt to calm her racing pulse, then jerked away, hobbled over to the sofa, and dropped down on the seat.  After kicking off her shoes, she picked them up and surveyed the damage to her brand new beige satin pumps.

The right shoe had a badly scuffed heel with the smooth satin material across the toe shredded.  While the heel of her left shoe -- completely sheared off.  Shit.  Her shoes were beyond repair.  As much as those bad-boys cost her, if nothing else, somebody owed her a hundred and fifty bucks.

Tossing her shoes aside, Raven removed her shawl and examined her chocolate brown peachskin sheath because she had felt the delicate material snag on the wrought iron railing.  She ran her hands down the sides of her dress while her eyes skimmed along the bottom edge where she noticed a small tear in the hem.  The modest side-slit had ripped in a zigzag pattern all the way up to her thigh.  Probably not repairable, damn it!

Anger finally trumped her fear.

She reached for the phone, pressed 0-6128, and waited.  Earlier, she had left Jolene and some of the group in the Ambassador Lounge to go off by herself.  She hoped Jolene had returned to her room.

* * *

The door closed behind him with a subtle click.  He stormed across the room, and in a fit of temper, he swept everything off the table.  Books, pens, and magazines went flying.

“Bitch!  Bitch!  Bitch!” he hissed as he paced the confined space, finally coming to a stop in front of the vanity mirror.  He stared at his reflection and the cold fury etched into his features.

Damn.  He’d gone after her twice and she kept bouncing back, hardly a scratch on her.  The first time had been a test run to check out her vulnerability, and to see if she warranted her alleged handicap status.  She had gone down easily enough, which had led him to believe the steps would do the deed.  She wasn’t supposed to have that much strength in her arms, but the bitch had held on.

If it hadn’t been for the fear of someone seeing him, he would have finished her off out on deck.  Fuck!  He banged his head with his fist.  What a wuss.  Couldn’t do one woman, half his size.  For godssake, she was a damn cripple!

With a look of disgust, he whirled away from the mirror, kicked off his shoes and sauntered over to the bed, then threw himself down across it.  Hell.  It wasn’t as if he had a plan.  He was improvising, so why beat himself up.  With the bitch and her nosy-ass friend in separate groups, he still had eight days and ample opportunities to catch her on her own, and to get it right.

Tomorrow, he’d give it a rest.  He couldn’t make another move on her so soon after the first two mishaps, so the day after would work.  When they docked in Costa Rico, if he planned it right, with most of the passengers going ashore, it would be the perfect arena for another shot at her.  A slow smile eased the tension in his jaw.  End game.  Then he could get on with enjoying the cruise.  He had his eye on several viable prospects for his customary indulgences so the trip wouldn’t be a total waste.

Writers -- so anxious to indoctrinate the newbie -- easy prey.  If he had started working the writer’s conference venue years ago, he would have met the bitch sooner and she would have been history.  Of course, he only had himself to blame for letting her slip out of his reach when their paths had crossed the first time.  He’d made the mistake of thinking she was different from the others, he had wanted her for keeps, and he’d been willing to change for her.  He shook his head.  She quickly disillusioned him on that score, turning out to be exactly like the others -- an arrogant, autonomous bitch who thought she was all that.

He started chuckling.

She should pay more attention to her surroundings.