"What do you want, Virgil?"
"What I've always wanted." Another step. Then another. "What you owe me."
I back up, my heart hammering. "I don't owe you anything."
"No?" He laughs—a cold, ugly sound. "Sweetheart, you owe me thousands. All those years I kept you high. All those times I fronted you when you couldn't pay. You think that was charity?"
"I'm done with that life. I'm clean now."
"Clean." He spits the word like it's poison. "You think getting clean erases your debts? You think you can just walk away?"
He moves fast—faster than I expect.
One moment he's five feet away, the next, he's got me slammed against the brick wall, his hand wrapped around my throat.
The back of my head cracks against the brick, and stars explode behind my eyes.
"Let me go," I gasp.
"Shut the fuck up." His fingers tighten, cutting off my air. "You don't get to make demands. Not anymore. Not ever again."
His other hand slides down my body, over my breast, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
I whimper, trying to twist away, but he pins me tighter against the wall.
"Thought you could just disappear, didn't you?" His voice is a low hiss against my ear. "Thought you could run off to some fancy rehab, get yourself cleaned up, and forget all about the money you owe me."
"I don't—I don't owe you?—"
He slaps me. Hard.
My head snaps to the side, and I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
"Don't fucking lie to me." He grabs my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "You owe me three years of freebies. All those times I gave you a taste just to keep you coming back. All those times you paid in other ways." His eyes drag down my body. "Remember that, Vanna? Remember what you used to do on your knees to get your fix?"
Shame floods through me, hot and bitter.
I remember.
God help me, I remember all of it.
His hand moves lower, over my stomach.
When he feels the small swell there, his eyes widen with cruel delight.
"Well, well. What's this?" He presses harder, his palm flat against my belly. "The junkie whore went and got herself knocked up. How sweet. How fucking precious."
"Don't—" I try to push him away, but he's too strong.
His hand moves lower, between my thighs, groping roughly through my jeans.
I cry out, but he clamps his other hand over my mouth.
"Shh, shh, shh." His voice is almost gentle now, which makes it worse. "Don't want anyone to hear, do we? Don't want your biker husband to come running. Although..." He squeezes, hard, and I sob against his palm. "Might be fun to let him watch. Let him see what his precious wife used to be."
Tears stream down my face. I can't breathe.
Can't think.
