I’m not ready for anything they’ll do to me.
The bathroom door swings open, drawing a triangle of light onto the thin carpet. Byron. I never thought I’d be relieved to see him. But instead of coming to the bed, he goes and takes one of the empty chairs at the table. He crosses one leg over the other, settling in. His Italian shoes shine even in the dim light. His suit is custom-tailored.
From across the room he smirks at me. He speaks to his men but never breaks eye contact with me. “Find out where her sister went. I don’t care what you have to do to get her to talk.”
The man sitting beside me nods in greedy assent. His hands grow rougher. They aren’t torture, except the emotional kind. The same kind of shame I lived every night on that stage. I get the sense he wants to fuck me more than hurt me, though I’m sure he’ll do both before the night is up.
The sound of a zipper rends the air. The man by the wall hasn’t moved from his position except to lower his fly and take out his cock. He’s stroking himself, watching.
You were going to be my consolation prize.
I brace myself, trying to clear my mind. Like in the moments behind the curtain, waiting to go onstage. Like the moments when I hid outside my father’s study, listening to him order a hit, dying a little inside.
There’s no escape. Even death is closed off to me on this bed.
A knock comes at the door. I close my eyes, wondering how many minutes this will buy me. It will be one of Byron’s men, of course, maybe with a perimeter-check update. Or maybe they’re delivering coffee. The men in his employ are nothing more than lackeys on steroids.
The man by the wall doesn’t stop watching me, doesn’t stop stroking.
Of course Byron wouldn’t bother himself to get up, not when someone else could do it. That leaves the man touching me. He looks disgruntled to have to stop, but he’s not going to complain out loud. With one regretful pinch of my nipple, he stands and goes to the door. He’s not afraid here, surrounded by his own men, protected by a goddamn battalion’s worth of firepower in one tiny broke-down motel. He doesn’t check the peephole, he just swings the door open—and takes a bullet to the chest.
I stare at him, unable to comprehend what happened. Byron stares too, frozen for one sweet moment of victory. But from his position he can see out the door, and whatever he sees makes him snarl. He pulls out his gun and dives for the bathroom, taking cover as the shooting starts.
The man by the wall is the slowest to react. I guess stroking your hard-on can slow a guy down.
But he is also the most lethal. The least human.
When he realizes they’re under attack, he doesn’t even bother putting his dick away. He just whips out his gun and starts shooting, without a visual, his erection waving, unprotected. I yank at the straps tying me down. This is my chance to get away. I don’t know what’s happening—if this is some kind of fighting within the ranks—but I have to use this.
The bonds are too tight. No matter how I pull them, they only get tighter.
My muscles burn under the strain. Every yank makes the bruises and welts on my stomach and breasts ache. I’m trapped here in the middle of a fucking gunfight, completely naked. Even more exposed than the guy edging along the wall, gun at the ready, dick out.
He steps out to make his shot and takes a hit. His body ricochets back, falling to the ground. He’s been clipped at the side. Blood sprays. The attacker steps into the room and gives him another shot—this one to the knee.
The man steps forward, and the light from the bathroom hits his face. Kip.
His eyes are wild. He’s a goddamn gladiator like this, more animal than human, more fierce than merciful. He takes in my nakedness on the bed. Then he looks at the man writhing and gurgling on the floor at his feet. It’s not hard to see what’s happening here, and Kip reacts quickly—faster than I could have. He shoves his boot against the man’s exposed, limp dick and turns his heel. There is an awful, high-pitched primal sound of pain that is abruptly cut off by a final gunshot to the head.
My mind can barely catch up with what he’s done. He’s taken on two of Byron’s men—and won. No, he must have taken on even more of them, the ones patrolling outside. The ones who had been incapacitated, or dead, when he strolled up and knocked on the door, catching these men unaware.
He’s incredible. He’s a monster. I’m going to throw up. And with nowhere to go, no way to move, I’d choke on my own vomit.
Kip isn’t safe yet though. I try to tell him. “Bathroom,” I yell, but it only comes out as a wheeze.
It’s all right though. He seems to already know. His gun is pointed toward the open door, waiting to take his shot. But Byron didn’t get to be where he is by accident. He’s not only a fucking good criminal. He’s also a cop. “You don’t want to do this, Kip,” he calls. “Turn yourself in now and it will go easier for you.”